Post by: elysepopplewell on February 05, 2016, 08:37:16 am
Hey everyone!! Welcome to the English Creative Writing Marking Thread. This thread is here for you to get feedback on your creative pieces from a Band 6 student. This resource exists to help you guys make huge improvements on your writing... Too often, teachers just write "good" or "needs more creativity" or "expand on this idea". SUPER. FRUSTRATING. This is a place to properly improve :) :) :)
Before posting, please read the essay marking rules/rationale here.
Post away, and happy studies!! ;D ;D
Post by: rachelle1 on February 06, 2016, 12:20:42 pm
thanks
SECTION 3- “Discoveries are often evoked by curiosity and wonder, offering up new understandings of ourselves and the world we live in” Discuss this statement in relation to your prescribed text and one other text of your choosing.
Curiosity and Wonder act as catalysts for discoveries, allowing both the persona and the responder to witness ideas about themselves, others and the world around them. [EXPAND ON THESIS] These notions are explored in Robert Frosts poems “Tuft of Flowers” and “Stopping by woods on a snowy evening. They allow the responder to gain knowledge on how the use of curiosity and wonder can evoke existential and physical discoveries that offer new perceptions about themselves and the world around them. Similarly, these concepts are explored in Shawn Tan’s 2001 picture book The Red Tree. It explores how curiosity and wonder can effect one’s journey of self discovery, allowing both the viewer and persona to gain knowledge about themselves and their surroundings. Thus, the process of discovering ourselves and the world is catalysed by curiosity and wonder.
Robert Frost’s Stopping by woods on a snowy evening, explores how the use of curiosity and wonder, can evoke discoveries and allow individuals to understand themselves and the world they live in. Frost allows the viewers to witness the personas entrapment within two worlds. This is portrayed through the oxymoron used to describe the woods as “lovely, dark and deep.” and the restrictions of society. These differing environments are used to emphasise the interest within the woods; acting as a foundation for discovery, and entailing the persona’s challenge’s between life and death. This is made evident as the persona is drawn to the beauty of nature on “the darkest evening of the year.” The metaphorical use of the darkness in the woods, cleverly implies that the persona has reached a point of troubles and adversity in his life. He must ponder on his past,present and future in-order to uncover the truth about himself and his surroundings. In contrast to this the persona’s ability to resist the urge to “stop” in the woods is witnessed in the last stanza, through the repetition of “and miles to go before I sleep.” It refers to his physical discovery, as he must return to life’s journey. It indicates a change in the persona’s attitude towards his life, as he rediscover’s that he has “promises to keep.” In his moment of isolation in the pervious stanza he rediscovers his obligations towards society. It is through the symbolism of the horse as it shakes it’s “bells,” interrupting the quietness of the woods and reminding him of his sense of duty towards humanity. Frost cleverly revels how the use of curiosity and wonder can induce the discovery of ourselves and our surrounding world, causing adjustments to our lives; just as the persona is drawn back to reality by his responsibilities and leaves the temptation of death behind.
Similarly, The Tuft of Flower explores the way and individual can utilise wonder and inquisitiveness to uncover ideas relating to themselves and the world they live in. Frost utilises the style of a dramatic monologue to portray to the viewers that the persona is alone and is reminiscing. It is through his recollection of thoughts that he identifies the mower as “one.” Portraying to individuals that he does not know the mower and has no connection to him, other than the commonality of their work. By doing this he accentuates the reality that he is “-alone” and in a place of isolation. The adjective ‘-alone,’ shows how physically and mentally isolated the persona perceives himself to be. Together with the hyphen, the mans isolation is emphasised, as he seeks to find a companion but is unsuccessful in his efforts, providing a sense of tension, as the reader must pause in order to redefine and emphasise the phrase following the break. This concept of seclusion is put to a halt when the persona signals a change in his attitude, through the conjunction “but.” This transition is brought about by the motif of the “bewildered butterfly,” which acts as a stimulant for the narrator’s discovery, as physically he is no longer alone. His fascination with the butterfly has allowed him to uncover the existential power of nature,as being the key to his self discovery, allowing him to truly understand himself, others and the world around him. The alliteration of the letter B highlights the insects disorientated state, as it flies through life, discovering the importance of curiosity and wonder, in the process of uncovering truths. The continuing portrayal that the butterfly is “seeking” its usual routine, reflects the persona’s search for the mower. This common attentiveness has united both parts, humanity and nature, allowing both the viewer and persona to uncover the notion, that although humans go through life individually they are intertwined in each others lives. Through this relationship which was evoked by curiosity and wonder, responders are able to witness the narrator’s change in perspective, as he discovers himself as part of the world, ultimately allowing him to bring light to the fact that he is not in a world of isolation but a world where “men work together.”
Furthermore, The Red Tree examines how the discovery of ones self and their world, is portrayed through the use of interest and wonder. Shaun Tan utilises harsh, monotone representations of the world and minimal language to reflect a nameless girls journey of self discovery. This is explored through her curiosity, as she continues to pass through the disconnected world she lives in. Searching for a sense of hope and uncovered truths, similar to the mowers journey in tuft of flowers. Unknown to her, there is always a sense of hope that is depicted through the motif of the single red leaf, shown on each page. This is emphasised through the contrast between the vivid leaf and it's bleak monotone surroundings. It suggests that although “darkness overcomes” there is always a sense of inquisitiveness for hope. Moreover, the salient image of the oversized fish accompanied with the low lighting it provides, contradicts the red leafs message. It is symbolic of the girls entrapment to a world she does not belong in, just as the fish is out of place. This sense of the girls individuality is portrayed through the low angle shot of the girl and the accompanying metaphor, “the world is a deaf machine.” These aspects of the image, allow the viewer to witness the worlds value of conformity through the use of identical costuming and the denial of individuality, as the protagonist must hide the light bulb; a symbol of hope within her. The repetition of her sorrowful facial expressions and fatigued posture, point at her insecurity and depressive nature, portraying her as a weak and inferior character. This is juxtaposed to the last scene where she has witnessed the growth of the red tree, and given hope. Her face simplistically drawn depicts a contented character. This is further emphasised by the light that shines on her, revealing that through her constant inquisitiveness she has witnessed an act of wonder. Hence, allowing her to discover herself apart of the world. Tan successfully explores how curiosity and wonder can cause the discovery of one’s self and their world.
Overall, it is evident that through curiosity and wonder, an individual is able to completely understand themselves and the world around them. Robert Frosts poems Tuft of Flower, and Stopping by woods on a snowy evening together with Shaun Tan’s picture book The Red Tree. Allows the viewers to recognise, that with the use of interest and fascination; existential,physical and self discoveries are obtainable. Hence, providing a new knowledge of themselves,others and the world. By undertaking the process of discovery, both the viewers and protagonists are able to mature as a result of revealing hidden truths.
CREATIVE WRITING- 2ND ATTEMPT
It had been years since she accepted the homely embrace of the town she once lived in. Everything was as it was when she first left. The aged cottages still stood as they were, and the lake was still suffocated by a wreath of leaves. Everything was there, even the laughter of children and the playfulness of the earth, as it sustained all those who lived among it.
She wore a grey suit. Her shoes scuffed with mud. The warm breeze floated around her slim figure, seeping through her bony fingers, onto the exposed skin of her book.
It was laced with lavender flowers and tacky love hearts, reminiscential of her past life. Where the world acted as an empty canvas for all children, to be filled with their innocent, imaginative insights. No cares where given, while they played till their fragile bodies ached with pain. These were the moments where true happiness could be seen. Their eyes would sparkle with the reflection of the burning sun. Their bodies held tall, by the caring souls of their friends. And their minds filled with nonsense that one day would would hold no place in their world. These memories are what where contained in the book.
The portraits inside the album, smirked and looked up at her, with prosperous curls that met their rosy cheeks, revealing an array of pearly white teeth. Their smiles wide with happiness, formed creases at the edge of her eyes. They looked up at her as if she was a prominent character in the world. Someone that could create change, in a world stuck in the past.
As she flicked through the paper thin pages, leaving no trace of ever being there, she wished that she could return to her past, where everything was simpler. The blue sky never failed to be reflected by the old lake beyond her house, the grass was luxurious, accepting each step as it wriggled between the tiny forest of wonder. She would roll in the grass for hours, acting as if she had no care in the world. The fresh scent of cut grass along with the warmth of the burning sun, complimented each other, creating a warm embrace, that never failed to suppress.
These days she sits glued to her chair in the lifeless room she calls an office. She seems as if she's had no sleep, her body dropping with despair, laying lifeless on her wooden desk. Her body as pale as the faint greys that decorate the walls.
A sense of agitation continues to surround her as she grinds her teeth and tenses her time-worn hands, while she finishes her work. Her thoughts constantly drift off to moments of her youth. Moments when uncovering new concepts was always around the corner. The thought of her youth, which was always filled with inquisitiveness and wonder, creates a throbbing sensation that tickles her neck and hammer’s at her head, creating temporary discomfort. While uttering to herself she declares “How such freedom could drastically change her, as she grew with age.”
It was not the realisation that she had changed, but her perception that everything stayed the same, that caused her such pain. Her perception of everything with aged eyes, caused her to recognise that she can not return to her childhood; where life was so simplistic and brought happiness. But must continue to endure the concrete jungle she now lives and works in.
Post by: daaviddd on February 06, 2016, 09:55:09 pm
**********
The delectable taste of the vanilla ice cream enraptured my senses, cooling my body under the intense heat of a cloudless sapphire sky. Beneath the shade of the sprawling eucalyptus, i sat relishing my ice cream, quietly observing the myriad of impish peers that eagerly ascended the pirate boat
I didn’t understand what they achieved from rushing up and down the structure; running, pushing, laughing, in their bid to be fierce little imitations of diabolical pirates. Their intentions seemed annoyingly aimless to me, and I added to my forlorn state by refusing to fulfil mother’s parting request to ‘make friends’.
“I have the o-only friend i-i-i need,” I protested, sulking “He’ll be… waiting for me when i-i’d get home.” This drew a puzzled look from mother as she kissed me goodbye. I realised she hadn’t met Damien yet.
Devouring the remaining ice-cream in my hands I heard the demented wailing of the school bell as it pierced the courtyard. Sweaty and ebullient bodies surrounded me as i shuffled into the classroom. A cacophony of words engulfed me. It was like being immersed in a foreign world.
“Damien?” I whispered from the darkness enthusiastically. The shrouded moonlight revealed his slender figure as he climbed in from the open window. I had become accustomed to his midnight showings. Instead of calling for mother whenever i was unable to sleep, i’d wait for my friend to arrive.
In the stillness of the night, Damien and I would converse, with only the occasional groans of the house against the wind resonating in the eerie silence. The darkness somehow seemed to conceal our voices. I longed for these conversations. Damien understood me. He did not chase the elusive and senseless physical thrills my peers desired. But rather, we would imagine worlds, vivid utopias where we would rule. Our conversations would last till I eventually slept, or till the deep orange of the sunrise would permeate the room. I didn’t mind, Damien was my friend.
Delighting in the exquisite vanilla ice cream under the canopy of the giant eucalyptus, I watched the all too common scene of aimless kids running about. This was my territory. I caught a familiar, slender figure approach me out of the corner of my eye. A small bubble of anticipation swelled within me as i realised it was Damien.
We commenced our usual conversations, entering our eclectic realm. Damien could describe the world in a way i could never understand. He painted a surreal picture, the school was lifted high above the clouds, the spirited children transformed into gothic-like pirates encircling the world in the heavens in their enchanted zeppelins.
“Oliver?” a familiar voice broke our conversation “Who are you talking to?”
A sheet of glass shattered in my mind. Chaos.
Agonising thoughts invaded me. Who was this? What was happening? I felt the violation of her words. Struggling to control the panic that cascaded over me as i was ripped from the secure dimension of my mind into a cold, stark, reality, i sought in vain to defend Damien.
“Its Damien, he’s my friend. He’s right here, can’t you see?”
Her response was terse and unsympathetic. “Stop this! You need to stop now!” she insisted with a glaring tone. I turned, it was my mother, her face was aghast in a perplexed frown. I felt a jolt of pain as she grabbed my shoulders like a vice.
“Who are you talking to?” she demanded, her piercing eyes boring through me.
Hysteria enveloped me, why couldn’t she understand? He is right here! Next to me! Can’t you see? It’s Damien!
I broke free of her grasp, scrambling away from her. She was a demon! She chased my friend away!
The aromatic vanilla fragrance from the Cherry Pie hedges stopped me. I found myself in the school’s garden, gulping for air as my frantic dash took its toll on me.
A diverse collection of small shrubs thrived cohesively, with a multitude of flowers sporadically blossoming against the canvas of emerald foliage that covered the garden beds. Marvelling at the array of brilliant colours that punctuated the underlying tone of monotonous green, my eye latched upon a peculiar flower that stood in contrast from the dynamic tones that surrounded it.
The flower boasted two petal colours, a variegation of bright crimson and blanched white, which intertwined. I stared, hypnotised by the unique beauty of the flower. Why did it captivate me? Compared to the impeccable hue of the other flowers, it was flawed. But its imperfections augmented its beauty. Its existence that held a distinctive allure.
It bloomed magnificently along with the other flowers. It basked in its divergent beauty, individualising itself from the other flowers. However, despite thriving and flourishing together, it emerged differently, regardless of how much one looked, the duality of its nature segregated it.
Why couldn’t it grow like the others? Why did it have to be different? Why did it exist to be isolated?
Its beauty set it apart from the rest, Why? What hampered it from being a part of the harmonious spectrum of colour? A deluge of questions overcame my consciousness, aggravating me.
I reached for it, and began frantically picking the bloodied petals away, leaving only the alabaster ones.
Despairingly, I retreated, Damien did not exist.
The solitude consumed me.
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 07, 2016, 03:20:30 pm
Hi could you please read my essay and creative for paper 1 discovery. My response is still in its draft stages but i would love some suggestions to make them better and achieve the best possible marks[/size]
thanks
SECTION 3- “Discoveries are often evoked by curiosity and wonder, offering up new understandings of ourselves and the world we live in” Discuss this statement in relation to your prescribed text and one other text of your choosing.
Curiosity and Wonder act as catalysts for discoveries, allowing both the persona and the responder to witness ideas about themselves, others and the world around them. [EXPAND ON THESIS] My teacher always taught me as a general rule, it is best to write your thesis in low modality. This is because discovery is such a large concept, that it is almost difficult to be definitive about! Also, sitting in low modality means that your argument is flexible to the essay question. So I would say "...wonder can/may act as catalysts..." This is such a small critique. Otherwise, I love where this is going already. However, before you start talking about the text, I want you to flesh this out more. So, go into your essay with a thesis that isn't actually readily adjusted to the essay question. I mean, what do you truly believe about discovery? How about you use the thesis saying that "Discoveries may lead to individuals being transformed in their perspectives." Then, when you walk into an exam and see this question, you use that as your second sentence. So then you say "curiosity and wonder..." because otherwise you are only just agreeing with the question and not bringing your own insight to the party!These notions expand here. What notions? rephrase the above with new terminology so that you set yourself up with some established terms for the rest of the essay.are explored in Robert Frosts poems “Tuft of Flowers” and “Stopping by woods on a snowy evening. They allow the responder to gain knowledge on how the use of curiosity and wonder can evoke existential and physical discoveries that offer new perceptions about themselves and the world around them. Similarly, these concepts are explored in Shawn Tan’s 2001 picture book The Red Tree. It explores how curiosity and wonder can effect one’s journey of self discovery, allowing both the viewer and persona to gain knowledge about themselves and their surroundings. Thus, the process of discovering ourselves and the world is catalysed by curiosity and wonder. Awesome ORT, some of my friends chose this one and loved it. Catalysed is an awkward word and a lot of people receive it differently. Talk to your teacher, but consider substitutes like "accelerated".
Start every paragraph non-text related. Add a spin to your thesis here, then commence the text).Robert Frost’s Stopping by woods on a snowy evening, explores how the use of curiosity and wonder, can evoke discoveries and allow individuals to understand themselves and the world they live in. Frost allows the viewers to witness the personas entrapment within two worlds. This is portrayed through the oxymoron used to describe the woods as “lovely, dark and deep.” and the restrictions of society. Good use of an embedded quote.These differing environments are used to emphasise the interest within the woods; acting as a foundation for discovery, and entailing the persona’s challenge’s between life and death. This is made evident as the persona is drawn to the beauty of nature on “the darkest evening of the year.” The metaphorical use of the darkness in the woods, cleverlyadverb = love it! implies that the persona has reached a point of troubles and adversity in his life. He must ponder on his past,present and future in-order to uncover the truth about himself and his surroundings. In contrast to this the persona’s ability to resist the urge to “stop” in the woods is witnessed in the last stanza, through the repetition of “and miles to go before I sleep.” It refers to his physical discovery, as he must return to life’s journey. It indicates a change in the persona’s attitude towards his life, as he rediscover’s that he has “promises to keep.” In his moment of isolation in the pervious stanza he rediscovers his obligations towards society. It is through the symbolism of the horse as it shakes it’s “bells,” interrupting the quietness of the woods and reminding him of his sense of duty towards humanity. Frost cleverly revels how the use of curiosity and wonder can induce the discovery of ourselves and our surrounding world, causing adjustments to our lives; just as the persona is drawn back to reality by his responsibilities and leaves the temptation of death behind.
Similarly, The Tuft of Flower explores the way and individual can utilise wonder and inquisitivenessGood synonym to uncover ideas relating to themselves and the world they live in. Frost utilises the style of a dramatic monologue to portray to the viewers that the persona is alone and is reminiscing. It is through his recollection of thoughts that he identifies the mower as “one.” Portraying to individuals that he does not know the mower and has no connection to him, other than the commonality of their work. By doing this he accentuates the reality that he is “-alone” and in a place of isolation. The adjective ‘-alone,’ shows how physically and mentally isolated the persona perceives himself to be. Together with the hyphen, the mans isolation is emphasised, as he seeks to find a companion but is unsuccessful in his efforts, providing a sense of tension, as the reader must pause in order to redefine and emphasise the phrase following the break. This concept of seclusion is put to a halt when the persona signals a change in his attitude, through the conjunction “but.” This transition is brought about by the motif of the “bewildered butterfly,” which acts as a stimulant for the narrator’s discovery, as physically he is no longer alone. His fascination with the butterfly has allowed him to uncover the existential power of nature,as being the key to his self discovery, allowing him to truly understand himself, others and the world around him. The alliteration of the letter B highlights the insects disorientated state, as it flies through life, discovering the importance of curiosity and wonder, in the process of uncovering truths. The continuing portrayal that the butterfly is “seeking” its usual routine, reflects the persona’s search for the mower. This common attentiveness has united both parts, humanity and nature, allowing both the viewer and persona to uncover the notion, that although humans go through life individually they are intertwined in each others lives. Through this relationship which was evoked by curiosity and wonder, responders are able to witness the narrator’s change in perspective, as he discovers himself as part of the world, ultimately allowing him to bring light to the fact that he is not in a world of isolation but a world where “men work together.”
Furthermore, The Red Tree examines how the discovery of ones self and their world, is portrayed through the use of interest and wonder. Shaun Tan utilises harsh, monotone representations of the world and minimal language to reflect a nameless girls journey of self discovery. This is explored through her curiosity, as she continues to pass through the disconnected world she lives in. Searching for a sense of hope and uncovered truths, similar to the mowers journey in tuft of flowers. Unknown to her, there is always a sense of hope that is depicted through the motif of the single red leaf, shown on each page. This is emphasised through the contrast between the vivid leaf and it's bleak monotone surroundings. It suggests that although “darkness overcomes” there is always a sense of inquisitiveness for hope. Moreover, the salient image of the oversized fish accompanied with the low lighting it provides, contradicts the red leafs message. It is symbolic of the girls entrapment to a world she does not belong in, just as the fish is out of place. This sense of the girls individuality is portrayed through the low angle shot of the girl and the accompanying metaphor, “the world is a deaf machine.” These aspects of the image, allow the viewer to witness the worlds value of conformity through the use of identical costuming and the denial of individuality, as the protagonist must hide the light bulb; a symbol of hope within her. The repetition of her sorrowful facial expressions and fatigued posture, point at her insecurity and depressive nature, portraying her as a weak and inferior character. This is juxtaposed to the last scene where she has witnessed the growth of the red tree, and given hope. Her face simplistically drawn depicts a contented character. This is further emphasised by the light that shines on her, revealing that through her constant inquisitiveness she has witnessed an act of wonder. Hence, allowing her to discover herself apart of the world. Tan successfully explores how curiosity and wonder can cause the discovery of one’s self and their world. Although I could always see where you were going, I think it is important to relate each bit back to discovery more often than what you have in this paragraph.
I'd open my conclusion non-text related as well.Overall, it is evident that through curiosity and wonder, an individual is able to completely understand themselves and the world around them. Robert Frosts poems Tuft of Flower, and Stopping by woods on a snowy evening together with Shaun Tan’s picture book The Red Tree. Allows the viewers to recognise, that with the use of interest and fascination; existential,physical and self discoveries are obtainable. Hence, providing a new knowledge of themselves,others and the world. By undertaking the process of discovery, both the viewers and protagonists are able to mature as a result of revealing hidden truths. I think you mention some different types of discoveries here than what is actually found in your essay. There isn't much fleshing out of these types of discoveries in the body of the essay which is a shame because it could give your essay a lot of strength and new perspective! The reason I say to start paragraphs non-text related is because you aren't doing a textual study, you're doing a conceptual study. So the texts are only supporting the concepts! :)
CREATIVE WRITING- 2ND ATTEMPT
It had been years since she accepted the homely embrace of the town she once lived in. Everything was as it was when she first left. The aged cottages still stood as they were, and the lake was still suffocated by a wreath of leaves. Everything was there, even the laughter of children and the playfulness of the earth, as it sustained all those who lived among it. I really enjoy this opening but I think you can do more with it. Be more specific than the "playfulness of the Earth" and give some depth to the reader's senses. Talk about the temperature, the smells, the tastes. Your description here is good, but touching the senses would make it great.
She wore a grey suit. Her shoes scuffed with mud. The warm breeze floated around her slim figure, seeping through her bony fingers, onto the exposed skin of her book.
It was laced with lavender flowers and tacky love hearts, reminiscential of her past life. Where the world acted as an empty canvas for all children, to be filled with their innocent, imaginative insights.I know what you're saying here, but you want to avoid cliches. The empty canvas notion will be in a lot of people's writing. No cares where given, while they played till their fragile bodies ached with pain. These were the moments where true happiness could be seen. Their eyes would sparkle with the reflection of the burning sun. Their bodies held tall, by the caring souls of their friends. And their minds filled with nonsense that one day would would hold no place in their world. These memories are what where contained in the book.
The portraits inside the album, smirked and looked up at her, with prosperous curls that met their rosy cheeks, revealing an array of pearly white teeth. I absolutely LOVE that the portraits in her book are smirking at her. That is brilliant!Their smiles wide with happiness, formed creases at the edge of her eyes. They looked up at her as if she was a prominent character in the world. Someone that could create change, in a world stuck in the past. The description of the portraits is borderline "too much." I recommend that you rake it back, and talk about the actual style of the drawings. Are they lead? Are they colourful? Water colour? Rushed? Sketchy? Incomplete? You've mentioned the smirk, the white teeth, rosy cheeks and the smiles - we know they are happy. Which is good because now I'm wondering why?? You've left me wanting more! But, you could have the same effect, if not stronger, by leaving it with the smirk and maybe one other choice of smile description. It's the notion of less is more here. Because you've described a really beautiful scene, so leave it stark and short, so I'm left thinking about the crisp paragraph you wrote.
As she flicked through the paper thin pages,I think this description is a little awkward because if the book is made of paper, of course the pages are paper thin. Think about whispy pages, delicate pages, or even, just thin pages. leaving no trace of ever being there, she wished that she could return to her past, where everything was simpler. The blue sky never failed to be reflected by the old lake beyond her house, the grass was luxurious, accepting each step as it wriggled between the tiny forest of wonder.Let's think about the technique pathetic fallacy. You've used the weather as a reflection of the circumstances well. Let's take it beyond 'blue' sky and take it to warm, predictable, unfailing, constant, light, clear, sunny, welcoming, calming...take it beyond colour now :) She would roll in the grass for hours, acting as if she had no care in the world. The fresh scent of cut grass along with the warmth of the burning sun, complimented each other, creating a warm embrace, that never failed to suppress. I'm really feeling the imagery here!
These days she sits glued to her chair in the lifeless room she calls an office.Let's show not tell her. Rather than saying it is an office, describe it as a box or as a cell or something, and then describe that it is where she is bound to a chair and computer, or something to the affect. You need to say to your reader "I know how smart you are to know this is an office without me saying it, so enjoy this wonderful imagery instead." She seems as if she's had no sleep, her body dropping with despair, laying lifeless on her wooden desk. Her body as pale as the faint greys that decorate the walls. Just keep in mind that you've used lifeless twice in the paragraph :)
A sense of agitation continues to surround her as she grinds her teeth and tenses her time-worn hands, while she finishes her work.At this stage I'm curious about her work. You could also add a time into this. Is she at her computer? Or is this in the olden days where she was at a type writer? Use these small details to build a new world. Her thoughts constantly drift off to moments of her youth. Moments when uncovering new concepts was always around the corner. The thought of her youth, which was always filled with inquisitiveness and wonder, creates a throbbing sensation that tickles her neck and hammer’s at her head, creating temporary discomfort. While uttering to herself she declares “How such freedom could drastically change her, as she grew with age.” Is she speaking about herself in the third person?
It was not the realisation that she had changed, but her perception that everything stayed the same, that caused her such pain. Her perception of everything with aged eyes, caused her to recognise that she can not return to her childhood; where life was so simplistic and brought happiness. But must continue to endure the concrete jungle she now lives and works in. Concrete jungle is another cliche to avoid
In terms of discovery I'm totally seeing this. Such a simplistic story line and it's a discovery that a lot of people have. You need to apply it to the rubric though. If your exam question asked you to write about a discovery that was transformative of opinion, how would you go about that? Or if it asked you about an intellectual discovery? This doesn't necessarily mean that you have to prepare these into your essay, but possibly prepare some "alternate endings" or extra bits for the middle incase you need them. Just because the discovery is definitely there, but the exam question asks more of you in terms of being specific! Feel free to toy around with it, edit a little, and post again!
Post by: Neutron on February 07, 2016, 04:45:38 pm
Post by: heids on February 07, 2016, 04:57:19 pm
Hi, if I posted my creative here, won't it appear on turn it in and won't my teachers accuse me of plagiarising? haha :'(
I guess you can show your teacher that you wrote it by showing them you posted it from your AN account :P (as in, like, log in to your account in front of their eyes and show that that's your username) But yes, it's a tricky issue; this.may (or may not, can't remember what it says haha) be helpful.
Plus, I think plagiarism is often obvious just because of how something's written, so if you actually wrote it, your teachers shouldn't be too suspicious.
Post by: literally lauren on February 07, 2016, 05:00:15 pm
Hi, if I posted my creative here, won't it appear on turn it in and won't my teachers accuse me of plagiarising? haha :'(If your teachers do pull you up for 'cheating,' you can try to explain to them that you were the one who posted the original essay to get a bit of online help (as bangali mentioned above), in which case they'll hopefully just check your name/school on your profile and confirm it, or, if they're still giving you trouble, you can send me a message and I'll be happy to email the school on your behalf. This has happened a couple of time over on the VCE section of the forums, and teachers will usually realise their mistake once they get confirmation from an outside source. I've just got a default template I send to concerned schools nowadays, so it should be fairly easy to sort out if there's a problem :)
Post by: Neutron on February 07, 2016, 10:27:11 pm
Post by: literally lauren on February 07, 2016, 10:39:42 pm
Yeah but I don't think online help/marking is allowed within the Board of Studies guidelines anyway so..I don't believe that's the case.
Section 5 of the official guidelines stipulates that you shouldn't submit work that another person has added to substantially, which is as close as they get to talking about external assistance, but receiving essay feedback is not the same as having a piece entirely modified. You'll notice that most of the comments Elyse has made have been explanations of how to tackle the task, maximise the potential of your writing, and how to improve in the future; not straight out changes to make the piece an instant 10/10 standard.
This is no different to seeking a friend, tutor, or teacher's advice regarding how to improve your piece, though AN's help tends to be a tad more prolific :P Correct me if I'm wrong though - there may be some rule you've heard from your school about which I'm unaware.
What the Board of Studies do make clear is that someone else plagiarising your work from these forums would be very frowned upon and possibly punishable score-wise, so let that serve as a warning to anyone considering copying these pieces or bits of them :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 08, 2016, 10:29:13 am
Hi! i was hoping you could help me take a look at the creative i put together, i was told to choose an image out a few chosen images as my designated stimulus, i picked one, (which i can't find right now), but it is of a floating steam punk city surrounded by a number of flying ships, anyway, was hoping you could give me some feedback on what i could improve upon in this creative, thanks![/size]
(That is one interesting stimulus!)
**********
The delectable taste of the vanilla ice cream enraptured my senses, cooling my body under the intense heat of a cloudless sapphire sky. (I'm just going to pull you up right here and take note of the adjectives, delectable, intense, cloudless, sapphire. I love each of these on their own but together it is too much. I'd swap delectable for a lower-range word, like welcomed, crisp, creamy. "...cooling my body in the intense heat of a cloudless sapphire sky." This reads better in my opinion. The "under" makes it sound oppressive, when really, you are describing a wonderful sky. It is difficult for a reader to appreciate the wonderful sky imagery when they are feeling oppressed by the heat in the initial description.Beneath the shade of the sprawling eucalyptus, i sat relishing my ice cream, quietly observing the myriad of impish peers that eagerly ascended the pirate boat. (I LOVE this bit!)
I didn’t understand what they achieved from rushing up and down the structure; running, pushing, laughing, in their bid to be fierce little imitations of diabolical pirates. Their intentions seemed annoyingly aimless to me, and I added to my forlorn state by refusing to fulfil mother’s parting request to ‘make friends’.(Parting request = LOVE!!!)
“I have the o-only friend i-i-i need,” I protested, sulking “He’ll be… waiting for me when i-i’d get home.” This drew a puzzled look from mother as she kissed me goodbye. I realised she hadn’t met Damien yet.
Devouring the remaining ice-cream in my hands (I'd love if you added to this imagery. Let's be a little more quirky. Maybe say that the ice cream was dripping over his hands? Or that he licked it from his upper lip? Or he wiped his mouth on his sleeve? Your imagery in this piece so far is awesome, now we just need to enhance it by bringing out some really real and non-cliche descriptions.) I heard the demented wailing of the school bell as it pierced the courtyard. Sweaty and ebullient bodies surrounded me as i shuffled into the classroom. A cacophony of words engulfed me. It was like being immersed in a foreign world.
(Okay, I've read down and I've come back to this bit because you've lost me a little. We are in the classroom and then we are in moonlight? Is this a mythical world where class is at night or is this coming up to a flashback/background info on Damien?)
“Damien?” I whispered from the darkness enthusiastically. The shrouded moonlight revealed his slender figure as he climbed in from the open window. I had become accustomed to his midnight showings. Instead of calling for mother whenever i was unable to sleep, i’d wait for my friend to arrive.
In the stillness of the night, Damien and I would converse, with only the occasional groans of the house against the wind resonating in the eerie silence. The darkness somehow seemed to conceal our voices. I longed for these conversations. Damien understood me. He did not chase the elusive and senseless physical thrills my peers desired. But rather, we would imagine worlds, vivid utopias where we would rule. Our conversations would last till I eventually slept, or till the deep orange of the sunrise would permeate the room. I didn’t mind, Damien was my friend.
Delighting in the exquisite vanilla ice cream under the canopy of the giant eucalyptus, I watched the all too common scene of aimless kids running about. This was my territory. I caught a familiar, slender figure approach me out of the corner of my eye. A small bubble of anticipation swelled within me as i realised it was Damien.
We commenced our usual conversations, entering our eclectic realm. Damien could describe the world in a way i could never understand. He painted a surreal picture, the school was lifted high above the clouds, the spirited children transformed into gothic-like pirates encircling the world in the heavens in their enchanted zeppelins. (Based on what you have described about your stimulus, this sounds like a really magical incorporation of it, and I like it!)
“Oliver?” a familiar voice broke our conversation “Who are you talking to?”
A sheet of glass shattered in my mind. Chaos.
Agonising thoughts invaded me. Who was this? What was happening? I felt the violation of her words. Struggling to control the panic that cascaded over me as i was ripped from the secure dimension of my mind into a cold, stark, reality, i sought in vain to defend Damien.
“Its Damien, he’s my friend. He’s right here, can’t you see?”
Her response was terse and unsympathetic. “Stop this! You need to stop now!” she insisted with a glaring tone. I turned, it was my mother, her face was aghast in a perplexed frown. I felt a jolt of pain as she grabbed my shoulders like a vice.
“Who are you talking to?” she demanded, her piercing eyes boring through me.
Hysteria enveloped me, why couldn’t she understand? He is right here! Next to me! Can’t you see? It’s Damien! I really feel the urgency and panic in these internal thoughts.
I broke free of her grasp, scrambling away from her. She was a demon! She chased my friend away!
The aromatic vanilla fragrance from the Cherry Pie hedges stopped me. I found myself in the school’s garden, gulping for air as my frantic dash took its toll on me.
A diverse collection of small shrubs thrived cohesively, with a multitude of flowers sporadically blossoming against the canvas of emerald foliage that covered the garden beds. Marvelling at the array of brilliant colours that punctuated the underlying tone of monotonous green, my eye latched upon a peculiar flower that stood in contrast from the dynamic tones that surrounded it.
The flower boasted two petal colours, a variegation of bright crimson and blanched white, which intertwined. I stared, hypnotised by the unique beauty of the flower. Why did it captivate me? Compared to the impeccable hue of the other flowers, it was flawed. But its imperfections augmented its beauty. Its existence that held a distinctive allure.
It bloomed magnificently along with the other flowers. It basked in its divergent beauty, individualising itself from the other flowers. However, despite thriving and flourishing together, it emerged differently, regardless of how much one looked, the duality of its nature segregated it. (I feel an awesome metaphor coming on!)
Why couldn’t it grow like the others? Why did it have to be different? Why did it exist to be isolated?
Its beauty set it apart from the rest, Why? What hampered it from being a part of the harmonious spectrum of colour? A deluge of questions overcame my consciousness, aggravating me.
I reached for it, and began frantically picking the bloodied petals away, leaving only the alabaster ones.
Despairingly, I retreated, Damien did not exist.
The solitude consumed me.
Wow! I'm left loving this story. As a whole, it works well. Your vocabulary is consistent, your next step is to hone in on some of the descriptions and see if you can enhance them. The way I think of it when I'm writing is, you want to avoid cliches, but you want to describe something so perfectly and realistically that a reader will think "wow, I know exactly what they are talking about and I've never considered it in that way!" So that is your next step. Even though I bet you love the way the words have come together by now - because I was the same. When I wrote a sentence, phrase, paragraph that I loved I'd sit back and be like "ahh...I never want to change this, I'm so proud." So I hope you have some of these in there because you deserve to feel the pride!
The other thing is, I was a little confused when we transitioned from the school, to the night, back to school, then to mum, and back to the school? The way I kind of connected it in my head was that you were at school, then you had a flashback to night time chatting with your friend, then you were pulled back into reality where you were at school...then somehow you were with your mum, then you ran back to school. So, I'm now really wishing I knew what has happened because I love this story and I want to know more! I suggest, maybe, if you are flashing back or otherwise, use a big paragraph space or three *** in the middle of a line during an exam to show time elapsing or your timeshift. Let me know what you think about this? I'm curious!!! :) :) I hope this helps. Feel free to make changes only where you think it is best, show your teacher, show your peers, then post back again when you want more thoughts and I will contact you back! :)
Post by: Vk2652 on February 15, 2016, 05:51:01 pm
Would you mind giving me some feedback on this creative? I feel as though the writing may be too simple/ doesn't convey discovery broadly enough.
A buzz of excitement raced through the Robinson’s living room as the curtains rose. The bright rays shot through the windows as all five pairs of eyes cloaked the Christmas tree. The bristles were a dazzling white,harmonising with the wrapping that hugged the mountain of presents below. The three children, Harry, Josie and Miranda, tumbled over each other in their eagerness to tear open their gifts.
“Oh dear” their mother chuckled fondly to herself . “They’re growing up to be such a lively bunch”.
Their father smiled from his armchair-a captain overlooking his ship. He fished his Iphone from his deep pocket and focused the camera sensor- framing his family like a treasured artwork. Christmas had not always felt this way.
Harry lay on his stomach, fiercely manipulating his new Xbox controller . A high pile of gleaming games towered over him. He imagined the holidays unfolding;The curtains would be hurled shut, the surround sound would thunder, and he would be mesmerized in a frenzied abyss. There would be no need to visit the bay so frequently- could it ever amount to the relentless delight of demolishing an enemy? His eyes closed as his mind soaked into the grandiose realm.
Meanwhile, Miranda rushed to find a pair of scissors, adamant to free her packaged doll. Her racing feet plunged into the sea of wrapping paper. The scissors next Harry tantalized her gaze until suddenly her feet landed on a coral-sharp object. She folded. Squeals of pain erupted from her tiny throat as the pain shot through her leg. Harry’s eyes flipped open. A looked of horror flashed over his pretty face.
“Miranda you absolute moron” he yelled furiously, his holiday utopia crumbling before his very eyes.
His new headset lie dead, flattened like a squashed beetle.
Hearing the rising agitation, their mother hurried from the kitchen. “Harry! Please don’t speak to little Miranda like that!” she exclaimed, and moved quickly to stroke Miranda- tranquilizing her small kitten. Maneuvering Harry’s temper was a delicate task.
“If you ask Dad kindly, he might buy you a new one” She offered, and then added airily, “But please, calm down. Your father can fix everything!”.
Jovially, their father agreed. It was Christmas Day, and the happiness of his beautiful children was paramount to him.
On Boxing Day, Harry and his Father made their way to JB-Hi Fi. Harry passed a boy from school.
“Dad”, he snickered, “guess what Victor asked his parents for Christmas!”
His father flicked Harry a smile; he was always eager to listen to Harry’s clever remarks. Harry announced how Victor wanted books about the Cold War and the Chinese Revolution so that could know more about his family's history. “Imaging reading all day” Harry snorted haughtily, but he swiftly changed the topic as the pressing question of which football game they would attend next arose in his mind.
Hearing Harry, his father’s mouth moved to respond. The words formed and died on his lips. Like a wave, his stomach bulged as his own terrifying escape from Romania’s iron communism twisted before him. Swiftly, his mind enslaved the uprising monster deep into its cave. On their way home his sweaty palms gripped the wheel. The traffic sweeping past in a blur as he accelerated his car.
Several weeks later school resumed. A chorus of yells swelled from the bathroom as each child pushed and shoved to preen the mirror. Appearances were everything. Finally, after all three were satisfied with themself, they lumbered down the steep, spiralling staircase and dissolved into their spacious Audi Q7.
Harry arrived home first. He passed his mother in the kitchen, who was humming lightly over a steaming pot of Sarmale- An aromatic Romanian dish of bacon and cabbage. Harry wrinkled his nose and proceeded to the cupboard for a box of Tiny Teddies. On his way out he tossed a crinkled pamphlet onto the marble bench. In his boredom, he had scribbled all through the pages.
Their father Eugene strode smoothly through the heavy doors. He paused for a moment, admiring the view before him. The living room’s wide windows peaked into a relaxed bay; the stereo lulled pleasantly; the heavenly sapidity of the cooking Sarmale danced about. Freedom’s scent percolated in his nostrils. He moved to kitchen. It was empty. His eyes lingered over the scrunched pamphlet on the bench-a donation advertisement. Idly, he flipped through pages. From one stared a young boy. “What if this was your brother? Or son?” …”the wide eyes pleaded desperately. Eugene quickly skipped a page. His stomach winced at what he saw next. It was a pretty girl. Her tiny freckled nose and wide grin sparked an image of Eugene’s younger sister. The younger sister who had not been so lucky in their escape from Romania. He took a sharp, stinging breath. Etched harshly all over the girl were rude signs and disgusting comments. Eugene sat down at the bench.His heart pounded inside his burning ears. In the corner of his eye a tiny tear formed. What had become of his beloved son? Like a rising dawn a hot anger crescendoed within him.
Eugene thundered toward his office. He hurled opened his filing cabinet- the doors hit the wall with a satisfying thud. Under a pile of papers was a file. ‘Is Your Child Interested in Discovering a New World? Choose Our Excellent Exchange Programs’. Eugene clicked awake his silver pen and ran his fingers through his hair in satisfaction. Perhaps Europe’s harsh winters would warm Harry’s heart.
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 17, 2016, 09:48:32 am
Hi Elyse!
Would you mind giving me some feedback on this creative? I feel as though the writing may be too simple/ doesn't convey discovery broadly enough.
Hey!! I've read your story and really enjoyed it. I'll start with some beginning notes before working through and discussing how to enhance the story in the technical ways: language manipulation. The discoveries that I'm seeing are: The reader discovers that the sister has died, the father discovers in the way of a slow but sure epiphany that his son is kind of an ignorant monster, removed from all sensitivity. Is there another form of discovery in there that you would suggest, that I haven't quite picked up on?
I really like that there is this historical and cultural aspect of the text that isn't a cliche. The aromatic cabbage and bacon dish actually sounds totally delicious. So let's work on enhancing the cultural difference. The other thing is: this family is very affluent, I'm left wondering why? This isn't a question that you need to answer, but I'm giving you feedback on a reader feeling like she wants to know the answer. It could be as simple as enhancing the dad as a hard working man - saying he is tired, he works long hours, he enjoyed christmas because he wasn't in the office, etc. But again, as a composer you decide if you want to write that in or not. It won't mark you down discovery wise - it's just about fulfilling curiosity. Some of the best texts leave questions unanswered, of course!
A buzz of excitement raced through the Robinson’s living room as the curtains rose. I was confused by this imagery. The curtain rising? On a christmas tree?The bright rays shot through the windows as all five pairs of eyes cloaked the Christmas tree. The bristles were a dazzling white,harmonising with the wrapping that hugged the mountain of presents below. (If you are suggesting that the tree is white - I'm curious if the tree is white or if it is an outdoor tree so it is covered in snow? This is an opportunity for you to build up the wealth of the family so that when I read about the Audi later I'm not so surprised. Try imagery of thick bushy tinsel, hand-painted baubles, that kind of thing.)The three children, Harry, Josie and Miranda, tumbled over each other in their eagerness to tear open their gifts.
“Oh dear” their mother chuckled fondly to herself . “They’re growing up to be such a lively bunch”.
Their father smiled from his armchair-a captain overlooking his ship. He fished his Iphone from his deep pocket and focused the camera sensor- framing his family like a treasured artwork. Christmas had not always felt this way.
(Is there a time elapsement here? I'm confused about when the daughter dies. Or is the daughter that died not Josie or Miranda?)
Harry lay on his stomach, fiercely manipulating his new Xbox controller . A high pile of gleaming games towered over him. He imagined the holidays unfolding;The curtains would be hurled shut, the surround sound would thunder, and he would be mesmerized in a frenzied abyss. There would be no need to visit the bay so frequently- could it ever amount to the relentless delight of demolishing an enemy?(Being picky, I'd swap the syntax to be "to the delight of relentlessly demolishing...") His eyes closed as his mind soaked into the grandiose realm.
Meanwhile, Miranda rushed to find a pair of scissors, adamant to free her packaged doll. Her racing feet plunged into the sea of wrapping paper. The scissors next (next to?) Harry tantalized her gaze until suddenly her feet landed on a coral-sharp object.(Coral sharp to me doesn't quite say scissors...only because coral is prickly in all kinds of areas and can cut you in several places at once, but scissors will give you one big slice. Admittedly, upon my first reading it's not something I noticed. But on my second reading, I know your story is good so I'm looking for the small ways to improve it!) She folded. (I absolutely love this short sentence. THe shortest sentence in the Bible is "Jesus wept" which is just so powerful in a literary sense - "she folded" has a very similar effect, I love it!!!!) Squeals of pain erupted from her tiny throat as the pain shot through her leg. Harry’s eyes flipped open. A looked of horror flashed over his pretty face.
“Miranda you absolute moron” he yelled furiously, his holiday utopia crumbling before his very eyes.
His new headset lie dead, flattened like a squashed beetle.
Hearing the rising agitation, their mother hurried from the kitchen.(It doesn't make sense to me that she's in the kitchen - shouldn't she be watching the kids open presents? Or is the present opening over and they are just playing with the toys now?) “Harry! Please don’t speak to little Miranda like that!” she exclaimed, and moved quickly to stroke Miranda- tranquilizing her small kitten. Maneuvering Harry’s temper was a delicate task.
“If you ask Dad kindly, he might buy you a new one” She offered, and then added airily, “But please, calm down. Your father can fix everything!”.
Jovially, their father agreed. It was Christmas Day, and the happiness of his beautiful children was paramount to him.
On Boxing Day, Harry and his Father made their way to JB-Hi Fi. Harry passed a boy from school.
“Dad”, he snickered, “guess what Victor asked his parents for Christmas!”
His father flicked Harry a smile; he was always eager to listen to Harry’s clever remarks. Harry announced how Victor wanted books about the Cold War and the Chinese Revolution so that could know more about his family's history. “Imaging reading all day” Harry snorted haughtily, but he swiftly changed the topic as the pressing question of which football game they would attend next arose in his mind. (This is a really awesome scene here - it really suits your purpose)
Hearing Harry, his father’s mouth moved to respond. The words formed and died on his lips. Like a wave, his stomach bulged as his own terrifying escape from Romania’s iron communism twisted before him. Swiftly, his mind enslaved the uprising monster deep into its cave. On their way home his sweaty palms gripped the wheel. The traffic sweeping past in a blur as he accelerated his car.
Several weeks later school resumed. A chorus of yells swelled from the bathroom as each child pushed and shoved to preen the mirror. Appearances were everything. Finally, after all three were satisfied with themself, they lumbered down the steep, spiralling staircase and dissolved into their spacious Audi Q7. (Note: Before I asked if the two girls had died yet - I'm guessing they haven't, I've worked that out now haha!)
Harry arrived home first. He passed his mother in the kitchen, who was humming lightly over a steaming pot of Sarmale- An aromatic Romanian dish of bacon and cabbage. Harry wrinkled his nose and proceeded to the cupboard for a box of Tiny Teddies. On his way out he tossed a crinkled pamphlet onto the marble bench. In his boredom, he had scribbled all through the pages.
Their father Eugene strode smoothly through the heavy doors. He paused for a moment, admiring the view before him. The living room’s wide windows peaked into a relaxed bay; the stereo lulled pleasantly; the heavenly sapidity of the cooking Sarmale danced about. Freedom’s scent percolated in his nostrils. He moved to kitchen. It was empty. His eyes lingered over the scrunched pamphlet on the bench-a donation advertisement. Idly, he flipped through pages. From one stared a young boy. “What if this was your brother? Or son?” …”the wide eyes pleaded desperately. Eugene quickly skipped a page. His stomach winced at what he saw next. It was a pretty girl. Her tiny freckled nose and wide grin sparked an image of Eugene’s younger sister. The younger sister who had not been so lucky in their escape from Romania. He took a sharp, stinging breath. Etched harshly all over the girl were rude signs and disgusting comments. Eugene sat down at the bench.His heart pounded inside his burning ears. In the corner of his eye a tiny tear formed. What had become of his beloved son? Like a rising dawn a hot anger crescendoed within him.
Eugene thundered toward his office. He hurled opened his filing cabinet- the doors hit the wall with a satisfying thud. Under a pile of papers was a file. ‘Is Your Child Interested in Discovering a New World? Choose Our Excellent Exchange Programs’. Eugene clicked awake his silver pen and ran his fingers through his hair in satisfaction. Perhaps Europe’s harsh winters would warm Harry’s heart. Awesome last sentence.)
I think I'm still confused about the girl. It would make sense if the Christmas day was a flashback. Having two girls already - I'm wondering why they aren't so insensitive? I don't know anything about them other than that once had a gash with scissors and broke the headset, and they both think appearances are important. So when a new daughter, a not so lucky daughter, is brought up, it's a little confusing and detracts from the big "ohhhhh" moment of the discovery. As I said earlier, the Romanian touch is wonderful, it will set you a part from other works easily. The flick between the meal and the tiny teddies is great. But to me, that and the ignorance for reading books on history are the only two signs of the ignorance. I think, as a reader, I want to see one more to make it stand out the most. I think the easiest way to do that would be to enhance the dad's display of sadness over his son loving the senseless killing on his xbox.
You're a talented writer - this is coming together well. Hopefully what I've said makes sense to you! If you have any questions, shoot back and ask again. Or perhaps you want to do some editing and then re-post - that's fine too! You don't have to take on everything I say because this is YOUR work - not mine! I'm just giving you a reader's opinion so that you can consider the opinion of someone totally unrelated to your work!
Happy studying :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 18, 2016, 12:27:21 pm
Sure you can have feedback! Thanks for posting.
So your original story is here:
Spoiler
When the world came to a halt
Bland smiles and lone figures encapsulated in monochrome pictures stretched across the flaky, grey wall. Without holding onto the worn hand rail, he descended and inadvertently missed a step which he forgot that was left unfixed. He staggered and unintentionally pressed his back against the wall imprinted with smudges of filthy, small fingerprints. Feeling agitated with his repeated blunder, he sprung away immediately with clenched jaw. Without a second thought, he took off his wife’s random hand-picked exclusive suit and flung it over the couch that was plastered with a layer of dust and peppered with scars of torn fabric. Next to it was a box of junk containing outdated gramophone and cheap, chipped flowery teacups with a sickened look due to the gathered dusts. Every breath filled him with the lingering, wet smell of decaying wood which sat heavily in his lungs.
He turned his attention sharply to his Rolex watch. 2:50pm.
He texted with furrowed eyebrows. A clean suit to my new house by 3pm.
He was a man of purpose, a man of efficiency and mere obstacles that loomed before him had never halted his decision, but the world was still out of his grasp. By every ticking sound of the watch, the world changed and his heart pounded against his chest like a wild beast. Silence reverberated around the room like a hollow shell of emptiness had sparked his irritation and insecurity. It was time to eradicate and forget.
The sound of his phone tore into the silence. Without checking who it was, he swiftly pulled it out and bluntly answered, “Yes”.
“The removalist will be there within five minutes. You better hurry up and get it done by today. I’ve got heaps to do. Bye”, his wife uttered and hung up.
He glanced at his Rolex watch again. 2.55 pm.
Darkness helped him bury his emotions and thoughts like the ocean concealing the existence of sand. He tugged the pulley string of the rugged curtain. Immediately, light paved way to a new world and his eyes were latched upon a stoic cherrywood body emanating a mysterious aura that made his chest tighten. Its carvings were flawless and explicit which augmented its presence and enhanced the bleakness of the bare wall. He slowly approached it as it hid solemnly in the corner. Then, a sense of familiarity worked its way into his fibres, causing him to be dragged into another world filled with whiteness of uncertainty. Gradually, a swirl of memories poured in his mind like an irrepressible wave with mellow colours.
The usual sound of clanging door chime became muffled twinkles as a wave of nostalgia swept through his mind.
***
The sun shone through the wafer thin white curtains and casted a soft glow onto his grandfather’s face, accentuating the creases at the edge of his smiling eyes which made him look friendlier. The redolent smell of oil emanating from his grandfather overpowered the fresh minty smell of grandmother’s tea, in which she sat drinking on the couch with velvet fabric intertwined with eclectic mix of indigo and violet plush cushions. The boy would stack coloured blocks silently in the corner and take small glimpses of his grandfather, back arched like the shape of the crescent moon, working his golden glow of magic. He was captivated by the spell of his grandfather, unable to divert his attention away from the motion of his grandfather’s hands. Twist, pull, spin. Inadvertently, he nudged the stacked tower which led to its collapse.
His grandfather noticed and beckoned him. “Come here boy”, a deep, dry but affectionate voice escaped from his throat.
His heart pound with excitement and immediately crept over, leaving his collapsed tower abandoned. When he was little, his grandfather had always kept the magical key high upon the shelf. But today, he placed it into the boy’s hands. Was grandpa finally entrusting it to me?, he thought. The magical key manifested a silver glow of power like his grandfather’s fine hair. He slipped it into the hole then his grandfather caressed his small smooth hands with his wrinkled, blackened hands and guided the rotation of the key and minute hand until it reached 7pm. He fumbled with the slippery chains coated with oil and gave it a soft tug. Once again, its pendulum swung back and forth with the sound of tick, tock, tick tock replacing the crystalline silence. Then, the world resumed. He stared at his grandfather with astonishment as his magic worked once again. He was returned with a smile infused with a tinge of proudness. The lingering smell of oil and his darkened fingers from his grandfather’s caress, felt like he now controlled the time. He imagined his friend’s eyes brighten with envy as they discover that the world ticked on according to his grasp.
**
“Would you like us to take that sir?”
He was suddenly yanked back from that world and left entangled with feelings of fuzzy nostalgia and sterile emptiness. Warm memories filled the hollow shell in his mind and drained away his fatigue and comforted his anxious heart. Little did he know that his inner curiosity of his childhood could be brought back and little did he know time could grind down to a halt.
“It’s okay. Just leave that one and take the rest.”
“Got it sir.”
Memories pieced together while he ran his hand along the dusty rough cherrywood. He took out a handkerchief and wiped away the collection of web that obscured its glass. It read, 7pm. Although it could no longer swing with deep solemn strokes, it was able to capture a time that he could never recover but linger faintly in his mind. The gentle smile of his grandfather, the gentle touch of his grandfather’s wrinkled hands and gentle glow of the magical key engraved in his mind. Time melted away, so did his furrowed brow, schedules and deadlines. The world came to a halt once again with the ticking sound of his Rolex watch fading away.
Bland smiles and lone figures encapsulated in monochrome pictures stretched across the flaky, grey wall. Without holding onto the worn hand rail, he descended and inadvertently missed a step which he forgot that was left unfixed. He staggered and unintentionally pressed his back against the wall imprinted with smudges of filthy, small fingerprints. Feeling agitated with his repeated blunder, he sprung away immediately with clenched jaw. Without a second thought, he took off his wife’s random hand-picked exclusive suit and flung it over the couch that was plastered with a layer of dust and peppered with scars of torn fabric. Next to it was a box of junk containing outdated gramophone and cheap, chipped flowery teacups with a sickened look due to the gathered dusts. Every breath filled him with the lingering, wet smell of decaying wood which sat heavily in his lungs.
He turned his attention sharply to his Rolex watch. 2:50pm.
He texted with furrowed eyebrows. A clean suit to my new house by 3pm.
He was a man of purpose, a man of efficiency and mere obstacles that loomed before him had never halted his decision, but the world was still out of his grasp. By every ticking sound of the watch, the world changed and his heart pounded against his chest like a wild beast. Silence reverberated around the room like a hollow shell of emptiness had sparked his irritation and insecurity. It was time to eradicate and forget.
The sound of his phone tore into the silence. Without checking who it was, he swiftly pulled it out and bluntly answered, “Yes”.
“The removalist will be there within five minutes. You better hurry up and get it done by today. I’ve got heaps to do. Bye”, his wife uttered and hung up.
He glanced at his Rolex watch again. 2.55 pm.
Darkness helped him bury his emotions and thoughts like the ocean concealing the existence of sand. He tugged the pulley string of the rugged curtain. Immediately, light paved way to a new world and his eyes were latched upon a stoic cherrywood body emanating a mysterious aura that made his chest tighten. Its carvings were flawless and explicit which augmented its presence and enhanced the bleakness of the bare wall. He slowly approached it as it hid solemnly in the corner. Then, a sense of familiarity worked its way into his fibres, causing him to be dragged into another world filled with whiteness of uncertainty. Gradually, a swirl of memories poured in his mind like an irrepressible wave with mellow colours.
The usual sound of clanging door chime became muffled twinkles as a wave of nostalgia swept through his mind.
***
The sun shone through the wafer thin white curtains and casted a soft glow onto his grandfather’s face, accentuating the creases at the edge of his smiling eyes which made him look friendlier. The redolent smell of oil emanating from his grandfather overpowered the fresh minty smell of grandmother’s tea, in which she sat drinking on the couch with velvet fabric intertwined with eclectic mix of indigo and violet plush cushions. The boy would stack coloured blocks silently in the corner and take small glimpses of his grandfather, back arched like the shape of the crescent moon, working his golden glow of magic. He was captivated by the spell of his grandfather, unable to divert his attention away from the motion of his grandfather’s hands. Twist, pull, spin. Inadvertently, he nudged the stacked tower which led to its collapse.
His grandfather noticed and beckoned him. “Come here boy”, a deep, dry but affectionate voice escaped from his throat.
His heart pound with excitement and immediately crept over, leaving his collapsed tower abandoned. When he was little, his grandfather had always kept the magical key high upon the shelf. But today, he placed it into the boy’s hands. Was grandpa finally entrusting it to me?, he thought. The magical key manifested a silver glow of power like his grandfather’s fine hair. He slipped it into the hole then his grandfather caressed his small smooth hands with his wrinkled, blackened hands and guided the rotation of the key and minute hand until it reached 7pm. He fumbled with the slippery chains coated with oil and gave it a soft tug. Once again, its pendulum swung back and forth with the sound of tick, tock, tick tock replacing the crystalline silence. Then, the world resumed. He stared at his grandfather with astonishment as his magic worked once again. He was returned with a smile infused with a tinge of proudness. The lingering smell of oil and his darkened fingers from his grandfather’s caress, felt like he now controlled the time. He imagined his friend’s eyes brighten with envy as they discover that the world ticked on according to his grasp.
**
“Would you like us to take that sir?”
He was suddenly yanked back from that world and left entangled with feelings of fuzzy nostalgia and sterile emptiness. Warm memories filled the hollow shell in his mind and drained away his fatigue and comforted his anxious heart. Little did he know that his inner curiosity of his childhood could be brought back and little did he know time could grind down to a halt.
“It’s okay. Just leave that one and take the rest.”
“Got it sir.”
Memories pieced together while he ran his hand along the dusty rough cherrywood. He took out a handkerchief and wiped away the collection of web that obscured its glass. It read, 7pm. Although it could no longer swing with deep solemn strokes, it was able to capture a time that he could never recover but linger faintly in his mind. The gentle smile of his grandfather, the gentle touch of his grandfather’s wrinkled hands and gentle glow of the magical key engraved in his mind. Time melted away, so did his furrowed brow, schedules and deadlines. The world came to a halt once again with the ticking sound of his Rolex watch fading away.
My annotations are here:
Spoiler
When the world came to a halt
Bland smiles and lone figures encapsulated in monochrome pictures stretched across the flaky, grey wall. Without holding onto the worn hand rail, he descended and inadvertently missed a step which he forgot that was left unfixed. He staggered and unintentionally pressed his back against the wall imprinted with smudges of filthy, small fingerprints. Feeling agitated with his repeated blunder, he sprung away immediately with clenched jaw. Without a second thought, he took off his wife’s random hand-picked exclusive suit and flung it over the couch that was plastered with a layer of dust and peppered with scars of torn fabric. Next to it was a box of junk containing outdated gramophone and cheap, chipped flowery teacups with a sickened look due to the gathered dusts. Every breath filled him with the lingering, wet smell of decaying wood which sat heavily in his lungs.
You have used some very, very heavy imagery here. I see your message, but I'm digging for it underneath the language. I suggest trying to simplify your sentences. You don't have a single simple sentence in here and often they are the most powerful. Try breaking it up a bit here - you don't want your marker to be exhausted by the end of the paragraph. You've used some wonderful words in here, you just need to decide which ones hold the greatest importance to you, and then work on making the other sentences that are less filled with adjectives, more stark, simple, and consequently, they will resonate deeper.
He turned his attention sharply to his Rolex watch. 2:50pm.
He texted with furrowed eyebrows. A clean suit to my new house by 3pm. I like that these are on two separate lines.
He was a man of purpose, a man of efficiency and mere obstacles that loomed before him had never halted his decision, but the world was still out of his grasp. By every ticking sound of the watch, the world changed and his heart pounded against his chest like a wild beast. Silence reverberated around the room like a hollow shell of emptiness had sparked his irritation and insecurity. It was time to eradicate and forget.
The sound of his phone tore into the silence. Without checking who it was, he swiftly pulled it out and bluntly answered, “Yes”.
“The removalist will be there within five minutes. You better hurry up and get it done by today. I’ve got heaps to do. Bye”, his wife uttered and hung up.
He glanced at his Rolex watch again. 2.55 pm.
Darkness helped him bury his emotions and thoughts like the ocean concealing the existence of sand. He tugged the pulley string of the rugged curtain. Immediately, light paved way to a new world and his eyes were latched upon a stoic cherrywood body emanating a mysterious aura that made his chest tighten. Its carvings were flawless and explicit which augmented its presence and enhanced the bleakness of the bare wall. He slowly approached it as it hid solemnly in the corner. Then, a sense of familiarity worked its way into his fibres, causing him to be dragged into another world filled with whiteness of uncertainty. Gradually, a swirl of memories poured in his mind like an irrepressible wave with mellow colours. At this point, you are doing the same thing you have done in the first paragraph, over-describing. Each sentence on its own is wonderful, but all together it is very overwhelming to read and detracts from the suspense! Even your simplest sentence, "he slowly approached it as it hid solemnly in the corner" has to adverbs - which is quite intense. Don't be afraid to comb it back. There is a difficulty that writers face, deciding where the line is between showing off your great vocabulary but not going too far. So I don't think you should remove all of that great language, just again, pick and choose where you want it to focus.
The usual sound of clanging door chime became muffled twinkles as a wave of nostalgia swept through his mind.
***
The sun shone through the wafer thin white curtains and casted a soft glow onto his grandfather’s face, accentuating the creases at the edge of his smiling eyes which made him look friendlier. The redolent smell of oil emanating from his grandfather overpowered the fresh minty smell of grandmother’s tea, in which she sat drinking on the couch with velvet fabric intertwined with eclectic mix of indigo and violet plush cushions. The boy would stack coloured blocks silently in the corner and take small glimpses of his grandfather, back arched like the shape of the crescent moon, working his golden glow of magic. He was captivated by the spell of his grandfather, unable to divert his attention away from the motion of his grandfather’s hands. Twist, pull, spin. Inadvertently, he nudged the stacked tower which led to its collapse.
His grandfather noticed and beckoned him. “Come here boy”, a deep, dry but affectionate voice escaped from his throat.
His heart pound with excitement and immediately crept over, leaving his collapsed tower abandoned. When he was little, his grandfather had always kept the magical key high upon the shelf. But today, he placed it into the boy’s hands. Was grandpa finally entrusting it to me?, he thought. The magical key manifested a silver glow of power like his grandfather’s fine hair. He slipped it into the hole then his grandfather caressed his small smooth hands with his wrinkled, blackened hands and guided the rotation of the key and minute hand until it reached 7pm. He fumbled with the slippery chains coated with oil and gave it a soft tug. Once again, its pendulum swung back and forth with the sound of tick, tock, tick tock replacing the crystalline silence. Then, the world resumed. He stared at his grandfather with astonishment as his magic worked once again. He was returned with a smile infused with a tinge of proudness. The lingering smell of oil and his darkened fingers from his grandfather’s caress, felt like he now controlled the time. He imagined his friend’s eyes brighten with envy as they discover that the world ticked on according to his grasp.
**
“Would you like us to take that sir?”
He was suddenly yanked back from that world and left entangled with feelings of fuzzy nostalgia and sterile emptiness. Warm memories filled the hollow shell in his mind and drained away his fatigue and comforted his anxious heart. Little did he know that his inner curiosity of his childhood could be brought back and little did he know time could grind down to a halt.
“It’s okay. Just leave that one and take the rest.”
“Got it sir.”
Memories pieced together while he ran his hand along the dusty rough cherrywood. He took out a handkerchief and wiped away the collection of web that obscured its glass. It read, 7pm. Although it could no longer swing with deep solemn strokes, it was able to capture a time that he could never recover but linger faintly in his mind. The gentle smile of his grandfather, the gentle touch of his grandfather’s wrinkled hands and gentle glow of the magical key engraved in his mind. Time melted away, so did his furrowed brow, schedules and deadlines. The world came to a halt once again with the ticking sound of his Rolex watch fading away.
Bland smiles and lone figures encapsulated in monochrome pictures stretched across the flaky, grey wall. Without holding onto the worn hand rail, he descended and inadvertently missed a step which he forgot that was left unfixed. He staggered and unintentionally pressed his back against the wall imprinted with smudges of filthy, small fingerprints. Feeling agitated with his repeated blunder, he sprung away immediately with clenched jaw. Without a second thought, he took off his wife’s random hand-picked exclusive suit and flung it over the couch that was plastered with a layer of dust and peppered with scars of torn fabric. Next to it was a box of junk containing outdated gramophone and cheap, chipped flowery teacups with a sickened look due to the gathered dusts. Every breath filled him with the lingering, wet smell of decaying wood which sat heavily in his lungs.
You have used some very, very heavy imagery here. I see your message, but I'm digging for it underneath the language. I suggest trying to simplify your sentences. You don't have a single simple sentence in here and often they are the most powerful. Try breaking it up a bit here - you don't want your marker to be exhausted by the end of the paragraph. You've used some wonderful words in here, you just need to decide which ones hold the greatest importance to you, and then work on making the other sentences that are less filled with adjectives, more stark, simple, and consequently, they will resonate deeper.
He turned his attention sharply to his Rolex watch. 2:50pm.
He texted with furrowed eyebrows. A clean suit to my new house by 3pm. I like that these are on two separate lines.
He was a man of purpose, a man of efficiency and mere obstacles that loomed before him had never halted his decision, but the world was still out of his grasp. By every ticking sound of the watch, the world changed and his heart pounded against his chest like a wild beast. Silence reverberated around the room like a hollow shell of emptiness had sparked his irritation and insecurity. It was time to eradicate and forget.
The sound of his phone tore into the silence. Without checking who it was, he swiftly pulled it out and bluntly answered, “Yes”.
“The removalist will be there within five minutes. You better hurry up and get it done by today. I’ve got heaps to do. Bye”, his wife uttered and hung up.
He glanced at his Rolex watch again. 2.55 pm.
Darkness helped him bury his emotions and thoughts like the ocean concealing the existence of sand. He tugged the pulley string of the rugged curtain. Immediately, light paved way to a new world and his eyes were latched upon a stoic cherrywood body emanating a mysterious aura that made his chest tighten. Its carvings were flawless and explicit which augmented its presence and enhanced the bleakness of the bare wall. He slowly approached it as it hid solemnly in the corner. Then, a sense of familiarity worked its way into his fibres, causing him to be dragged into another world filled with whiteness of uncertainty. Gradually, a swirl of memories poured in his mind like an irrepressible wave with mellow colours. At this point, you are doing the same thing you have done in the first paragraph, over-describing. Each sentence on its own is wonderful, but all together it is very overwhelming to read and detracts from the suspense! Even your simplest sentence, "he slowly approached it as it hid solemnly in the corner" has to adverbs - which is quite intense. Don't be afraid to comb it back. There is a difficulty that writers face, deciding where the line is between showing off your great vocabulary but not going too far. So I don't think you should remove all of that great language, just again, pick and choose where you want it to focus.
The usual sound of clanging door chime became muffled twinkles as a wave of nostalgia swept through his mind.
***
The sun shone through the wafer thin white curtains and casted a soft glow onto his grandfather’s face, accentuating the creases at the edge of his smiling eyes which made him look friendlier. The redolent smell of oil emanating from his grandfather overpowered the fresh minty smell of grandmother’s tea, in which she sat drinking on the couch with velvet fabric intertwined with eclectic mix of indigo and violet plush cushions. The boy would stack coloured blocks silently in the corner and take small glimpses of his grandfather, back arched like the shape of the crescent moon, working his golden glow of magic. He was captivated by the spell of his grandfather, unable to divert his attention away from the motion of his grandfather’s hands. Twist, pull, spin. Inadvertently, he nudged the stacked tower which led to its collapse.
His grandfather noticed and beckoned him. “Come here boy”, a deep, dry but affectionate voice escaped from his throat.
His heart pound with excitement and immediately crept over, leaving his collapsed tower abandoned. When he was little, his grandfather had always kept the magical key high upon the shelf. But today, he placed it into the boy’s hands. Was grandpa finally entrusting it to me?, he thought. The magical key manifested a silver glow of power like his grandfather’s fine hair. He slipped it into the hole then his grandfather caressed his small smooth hands with his wrinkled, blackened hands and guided the rotation of the key and minute hand until it reached 7pm. He fumbled with the slippery chains coated with oil and gave it a soft tug. Once again, its pendulum swung back and forth with the sound of tick, tock, tick tock replacing the crystalline silence. Then, the world resumed. He stared at his grandfather with astonishment as his magic worked once again. He was returned with a smile infused with a tinge of proudness. The lingering smell of oil and his darkened fingers from his grandfather’s caress, felt like he now controlled the time. He imagined his friend’s eyes brighten with envy as they discover that the world ticked on according to his grasp.
**
“Would you like us to take that sir?”
He was suddenly yanked back from that world and left entangled with feelings of fuzzy nostalgia and sterile emptiness. Warm memories filled the hollow shell in his mind and drained away his fatigue and comforted his anxious heart. Little did he know that his inner curiosity of his childhood could be brought back and little did he know time could grind down to a halt.
“It’s okay. Just leave that one and take the rest.”
“Got it sir.”
Memories pieced together while he ran his hand along the dusty rough cherrywood. He took out a handkerchief and wiped away the collection of web that obscured its glass. It read, 7pm. Although it could no longer swing with deep solemn strokes, it was able to capture a time that he could never recover but linger faintly in his mind. The gentle smile of his grandfather, the gentle touch of his grandfather’s wrinkled hands and gentle glow of the magical key engraved in his mind. Time melted away, so did his furrowed brow, schedules and deadlines. The world came to a halt once again with the ticking sound of his Rolex watch fading away.
So basically, to cut down on your words you should start by simplifying your sentences. You could cut out 100 words like this. It isn't just because you will take out certain adjectives, but you will be forced to rearrange your syntax accordingly.
Unfortunately, the discovery is hard to focus on because of the verbose nature of the language. Don't be let down though, your words are very impressive and this shows that you have put a lot of thought into exactly what you want the reader to imagine. However, it is a great technique to give the audience some, and let them imagine the rest. This way, they can fill in the gaps with their own experiences or memories, and the story jumps out to them as relatable too. Don't get rid of all of your great language!! Please! You just need to be picky about where you strut your stuff and where you make the most simple but often the most important statements. If you are looking for examples of this very maintained writing style, read the work of Tim Winton. He really is the master of that toned work.
Your writing style is distinct and developed - you just need to mould it now to exam conditions, and how to best expose the discovery rather than unconsciously hiding it under language. Once you get tweaking, it won't take you long to realise that words become more powerful when there are fewer of them.
The shortest phrase in the bible is "Jesus wept." How powerful is that? The imagery is so strong, yet there is only a verb and a noun in the sentence? Don't be afraid to undercut language in the name of exposing the discovery more accessibly!
I hope this makes sense to you and you don't think I've burned you! I'm a fan of your writing, absolutely, I'd love to see it pruned a little more. Don't hesitate to post back if you edit the story and I'll look at it again and we can then work on the discovery side to it all :)
Post by: shaniajas on February 18, 2016, 06:12:21 pm
I would be truly grateful if you could direct me with my creative.. :D
I believe that the concept/story line is too basic for a band 6... Do i have to chose a more complicated/unique storyline or are there ways to safe it? And my teacher has told me to change my flashback, but i just have writers block... Could you please suggest some alternate ideas?
He sensed my repulsion, exposing his brown, cavity dominated teeth through his sly grin, his dry jaundiced face and his balding head quickly evolved into a resemblance of the monsters in my nightmares.
**
The waxy emerald leaves glimmered under the sunlight, complementing the ivory patch that blossomed abundantly throughout the bush. She lost herself in the beauty of the jasmine plant; its sweet aroma pleasing her nose. Sam's butterflies settled down as she picked at the flaking paint from the tiny area of the park bench near her thigh. Only in her sour luck to have her bubble burst by shadows that circled over her like a black coat. Why couldn’t he had come alone?
“Child, your time has come to join me”, his voice boomed.
Sam flinched at his words, ducking her head down to stare at her quivering hands, hiding from his piercing gaze.
“Yes, sir,” she timidly answered.
“Girl, you will be protected by my men and if you disobey my orders, you will be punished. I have eyes on you from this day forward,” – psssh what does he mean from this day forward? He had been following Sam since he let her go to university to complete her communications degree.
“As you wish, Father.”
He turned his heel and strutted off towards the lined up black four-wheel drives, leaving Sam to herself.
* **
I wiped the beads of angst away and checked my watch. I waited anxiously on the park bench and looked up at the sea of darkness that now loomed above like a blanket of sequins. The eerie silence of the park told me I was alone despite the distant chatter of the city night – cars running, the bass from the nightclubs and the blabber/conversations from every diner from across the park. I sighed and eyed the package. Convincing myself for the hundredth time that it was what had to be done.
I ran my fingers through my hair, catching the droplets of unease in between them. Glancing at my watch, it amazed me how some people could be so ignorant of time. My eyes shifted to the once lively bush of jasmines. Their sweet scented and velvet faces had disappeared, only to be replaced by shrivelled bruised clumps that engulfed the dying bush,like a mirror of my reality.
My thoughts, interrupted by a sudden movement from behind and my tear strained eyes darted towards the looming figure that grew larger as the footsteps grew louder. A ball of cheap cologne mixed with body odour surrounded him, increasing the antipathy in me that was established by his tardiness. He sensed my repulsion, exposing his brown, cavity dominated teeth through his sly grin, his dry jaundiced face and his balding head quickly evolved into a resemblance of the monsters in my nightmares.
I pressed my brows together,
“You’re late”. Ignoring me he wiped his fat bulb nose on the back of his hand and brought his face right up to mine, “You got it?”. The raspy sound made my tongue feel rough and furry, as if I could taste his words, and the way his eyes glimmered in the dull luminescence of the streetlight instigated an odd sense of unease.
“Obviously”, trying to show my confidence, yet my voice gave way. He howled a merciless laugh,
“This isn’t you love”. I glared at him in disbelief, shoving the package into his grubby arms and wondered if he could really read my mind. He snarled, hugging it to his chest as if his life depended on it before scurrying away off into the shadows. I exhaled a deep long breath that I didn’t realise I was holding. Slowly, shoved my frozen hands into the pockets of my withering jacket and headed to the black van that was supposed to be my solace.
Faint lights of the city shimmered in the horizon, making me freeze. The surreal beauty of the buildings pulled on the strings inside my heart. A gasp escaped as I tried keeping my composure, but one lone regret betrayed me. What on earth had I done?. I shook my head in disbelief; Is this what my life had entailed? The remark of the man was still crystal clear in my mind, “This ain’t you love”.
It didn’t take long for me to work it out and as the bile rose in my throat and the pit in my stomach became endless I knew I had been weak. I cursed myself for being just like the others; a faceless puppet played by the strings of time, ignorant of my ultimate fate and dancing to the tune of society, the tune of money. Defeatedly, I raised my hands and gulped the cool night air, which rushed through my body like fire igniting on oil. I knew that couldn’t live a life like this.
I turned and ran, retracing my footsteps back to park and in the direction of the man. The night air became thick as I gasped, my lungs contracting involuntarily. I floundered in the darkness, searching blindly I realised that it couldn’t be done, the man was long gone. By now he had probably devoured the contents and the brown paper bag would be lying in pieces in some gutter. My conscience urged me to keep looking, yet my body screamed for a stop as the weariness took over. As my qualm hovered above me. I had played my part in destroying society. The drugs were his addiction and now my burden of shame.
Thank you, Shania
Post by: achelray on February 18, 2016, 11:48:50 pm
Unmoving
Thinking back to that time had her eyebrows scrunched together, a familiar feeling in the deepest parts of her stomach arose. Remembering the feeling of being exposed caused her heart to beat a million times per minute, her stomach to tense and her breathing to become short and laboured almost as if being forced out. Not knowing when it will happen again almost everytime, gives her a panic attack. Almost. Seeing the person that you want to disappear and forget everyday is one thing but being related to them is an entirely different level. How desperate does one have to be to do such a thing. How?
Kicking about in her bed, restless, tired, exhausted. She screams internally frustrated, “WE’RE RELATED FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE”, in an attempt to calm the ever persistent thoughts in her mind.
But to no avail. Disgust and anger soar through her veins, leaving nothing but trails of fire spreading destructively throughout her body. The feeling of slight wind from her untamed hair flying wildly across patches of sweat on her forehead and neck, give her a slight sense of satisfaction and ease. Adrenaline continuously pumping in every vessel within her tiny, fragile body adds to the intensity of the burning sensation. Hearing her own heavy breaths, she attempts to calm herself.
‘His actions won’t control you’, she tells herself - but she knew better.
Desperate to distract herself from the daunting memory - even if it is for a short while - she decides to go on her phone. The door swings open,
“Beth have you seen my work clothes?”, he asks.
Blatantly ignoring him, she continues to stare at her phone. Face plastered with the look of utter disdain, disgust and loathe. ‘How dare he’, she thinks. Her body, having just slightly calmed down now burned with a profound heat, spreading uncontrollably like a wild bush fire consuming her very being. Eyebrows scrunched tightly together. Hands clenching the phone scarcely, before slipping due to the sweat emitting from the pores of her hand. Every muscle in her body tense. She could barely hold in her breaths to minimise the heavy sound of her breathing. Suffocation. That’s what it felt like. No that’s what it was.
Seconds later she hears his familiar footsteps faintly disappearing down the hallway, her head perks up to where he stood, the door once again closed. Letting out a relieved sigh, eyebrows slightly less scrunched together, she casually throws her phone to the side whilst mock imitating him. She falls back onto her bed rolling her eyes, exhausted. She can’t bring herself to be normal around him anymore. How could she? He acts as if he did nothing. Her arms cross against her chest, on top of one another, and slowly travels up her arms and enclose in on her shoulders. Rolling on to her side still clutching her shoulders, she curls into a fetal position. What a low life. What scum of the Earth.
‘To think I’m related to him’, the inevitable truth disgusts her to the pits of her stomach. In turn her face morphs into a look of revulsion and her repugnance at the thought, so much so she can’t bare to fathom it. She closes her eyes tightly while clenching her shoulders in a vain attempt to hug herself, whilst simultaneously bringing her legs further up till they could go no further. How? How does one do such a thing. Many times she pondered, yet at the end of each remembrance all that is left are strong, breathing feelings of disgust, anger and hatred.
Hatred for the fact he ruined their relationship. Although they weren’t extremely close, they had their moments when it was pleasant. Hatred for the fact he ruined what family was to her. What he was to her. Family. The one word that was to bring comfort, love and happiness to her, was now tainted with the dark memory that will forever haunt her. And yet here she was, wallowing in her own self-pity. Where was he? Not caring, not showing any remorse. She was overcome with acute nostalgia for the days where everything was normal. Normal. An overused used word. A word she will gladly be part of again.
***
Her alarm blaring its ringtone was what woke her up. When she fell asleep, she had no idea. Looking for her phone, tinges of pain and numbness were felt all across her arms and back as she untangled herself and saw she had not moved from her fetal position. Grabbing her phone while gently massaging her stiff shoulder she sees multiple notifications from Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat and emails that have taken over her notification bar. She scrolls through to find any that seemed urgent. Not finding any she goes through her messages and notifications one by one.
One picture in particular caught her attention. It wasn’t anything special or unique. She stared and she stared, until her eyes teared up. From not blinking or from realising her ultimatum she didn’t know. What she did know was - it was her. She was staring at a reflection of herself. It was a picture of a woman and two boys having a picnic. But while they were having a picnic, cars, people playing rugby, people walking, people talking were in the background seemingly blurred out as if caught by the camera moving. The only constant, unmoving persons was the woman and the two boys. Constant. Living life as a constant involves letting things pass you, letting people get the best of you and getting stuck in the moment. Tears started to fall. They were constants.
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 19, 2016, 11:11:38 am
Hello,
I would be truly grateful if you could direct me with my creative.. :D
I believe that the concept/story line is too basic for a band 6... Do i have to chose a more complicated/unique storyline or are there ways to safe it? And my teacher has told me to change my flashback, but i just have writers block... Could you please suggest some alternate ideas?
Hey Shaniajas! I'm glad you worked out how to post here :)
Here is your story:
Spoiler
He sensed my repulsion, exposing his brown, cavity dominated teeth through his sly grin, his dry jaundiced face and his balding head quickly evolved into a resemblance of the monsters in my nightmares.
**
The waxy emerald leaves glimmered under the sunlight, complementing the ivory patch that blossomed abundantly throughout the bush. She lost herself in the beauty of the jasmine plant; its sweet aroma pleasing her nose. Sam's butterflies settled down as she picked at the flaking paint from the tiny area of the park bench near her thigh. Only in her sour luck to have her bubble burst by shadows that circled over her like a black coat. Why couldn’t he had come alone?
“Child, your time has come to join me”, his voice boomed.
Sam flinched at his words, ducking her head down to stare at her quivering hands, hiding from his piercing gaze.
“Yes, sir,” she timidly answered.
“Girl, you will be protected by my men and if you disobey my orders, you will be punished. I have eyes on you from this day forward,” – psssh what does he mean from this day forward? He had been following Sam since he let her go to university to complete her communications degree.
“As you wish, Father.”
He turned his heel and strutted off towards the lined up black four-wheel drives, leaving Sam to herself.
* **
I wiped the beads of angst away and checked my watch. I waited anxiously on the park bench and looked up at the sea of darkness that now loomed above like a blanket of sequins. The eerie silence of the park told me I was alone despite the distant chatter of the city night – cars running, the bass from the nightclubs and the blabber/conversations from every diner from across the park. I sighed and eyed the package. Convincing myself for the hundredth time that it was what had to be done.
I ran my fingers through my hair, catching the droplets of unease in between them. Glancing at my watch, it amazed me how some people could be so ignorant of time. My eyes shifted to the once lively bush of jasmines. Their sweet scented and velvet faces had disappeared, only to be replaced by shrivelled bruised clumps that engulfed the dying bush,like a mirror of my reality.
My thoughts, interrupted by a sudden movement from behind and my tear strained eyes darted towards the looming figure that grew larger as the footsteps grew louder. A ball of cheap cologne mixed with body odour surrounded him, increasing the antipathy in me that was established by his tardiness. He sensed my repulsion, exposing his brown, cavity dominated teeth through his sly grin, his dry jaundiced face and his balding head quickly evolved into a resemblance of the monsters in my nightmares.
I pressed my brows together,
“You’re late”. Ignoring me he wiped his fat bulb nose on the back of his hand and brought his face right up to mine, “You got it?”. The raspy sound made my tongue feel rough and furry, as if I could taste his words, and the way his eyes glimmered in the dull luminescence of the streetlight instigated an odd sense of unease.
“Obviously”, trying to show my confidence, yet my voice gave way. He howled a merciless laugh,
“This isn’t you love”. I glared at him in disbelief, shoving the package into his grubby arms and wondered if he could really read my mind. He snarled, hugging it to his chest as if his life depended on it before scurrying away off into the shadows. I exhaled a deep long breath that I didn’t realise I was holding. Slowly, shoved my frozen hands into the pockets of my withering jacket and headed to the black van that was supposed to be my solace.
Faint lights of the city shimmered in the horizon, making me freeze. The surreal beauty of the buildings pulled on the strings inside my heart. A gasp escaped as I tried keeping my composure, but one lone regret betrayed me. What on earth had I done?. I shook my head in disbelief; Is this what my life had entailed? The remark of the man was still crystal clear in my mind, “This ain’t you love”.
It didn’t take long for me to work it out and as the bile rose in my throat and the pit in my stomach became endless I knew I had been weak. I cursed myself for being just like the others; a faceless puppet played by the strings of time, ignorant of my ultimate fate and dancing to the tune of society, the tune of money. Defeatedly, I raised my hands and gulped the cool night air, which rushed through my body like fire igniting on oil. I knew that couldn’t live a life like this.
I turned and ran, retracing my footsteps back to park and in the direction of the man. The night air became thick as I gasped, my lungs contracting involuntarily. I floundered in the darkness, searching blindly I realised that it couldn’t be done, the man was long gone. By now he had probably devoured the contents and the brown paper bag would be lying in pieces in some gutter. My conscience urged me to keep looking, yet my body screamed for a stop as the weariness took over. As my qualm hovered above me. I had played my part in destroying society. The drugs were his addiction and now my burden of shame.
**
The waxy emerald leaves glimmered under the sunlight, complementing the ivory patch that blossomed abundantly throughout the bush. She lost herself in the beauty of the jasmine plant; its sweet aroma pleasing her nose. Sam's butterflies settled down as she picked at the flaking paint from the tiny area of the park bench near her thigh. Only in her sour luck to have her bubble burst by shadows that circled over her like a black coat. Why couldn’t he had come alone?
“Child, your time has come to join me”, his voice boomed.
Sam flinched at his words, ducking her head down to stare at her quivering hands, hiding from his piercing gaze.
“Yes, sir,” she timidly answered.
“Girl, you will be protected by my men and if you disobey my orders, you will be punished. I have eyes on you from this day forward,” – psssh what does he mean from this day forward? He had been following Sam since he let her go to university to complete her communications degree.
“As you wish, Father.”
He turned his heel and strutted off towards the lined up black four-wheel drives, leaving Sam to herself.
* **
I wiped the beads of angst away and checked my watch. I waited anxiously on the park bench and looked up at the sea of darkness that now loomed above like a blanket of sequins. The eerie silence of the park told me I was alone despite the distant chatter of the city night – cars running, the bass from the nightclubs and the blabber/conversations from every diner from across the park. I sighed and eyed the package. Convincing myself for the hundredth time that it was what had to be done.
I ran my fingers through my hair, catching the droplets of unease in between them. Glancing at my watch, it amazed me how some people could be so ignorant of time. My eyes shifted to the once lively bush of jasmines. Their sweet scented and velvet faces had disappeared, only to be replaced by shrivelled bruised clumps that engulfed the dying bush,like a mirror of my reality.
My thoughts, interrupted by a sudden movement from behind and my tear strained eyes darted towards the looming figure that grew larger as the footsteps grew louder. A ball of cheap cologne mixed with body odour surrounded him, increasing the antipathy in me that was established by his tardiness. He sensed my repulsion, exposing his brown, cavity dominated teeth through his sly grin, his dry jaundiced face and his balding head quickly evolved into a resemblance of the monsters in my nightmares.
I pressed my brows together,
“You’re late”. Ignoring me he wiped his fat bulb nose on the back of his hand and brought his face right up to mine, “You got it?”. The raspy sound made my tongue feel rough and furry, as if I could taste his words, and the way his eyes glimmered in the dull luminescence of the streetlight instigated an odd sense of unease.
“Obviously”, trying to show my confidence, yet my voice gave way. He howled a merciless laugh,
“This isn’t you love”. I glared at him in disbelief, shoving the package into his grubby arms and wondered if he could really read my mind. He snarled, hugging it to his chest as if his life depended on it before scurrying away off into the shadows. I exhaled a deep long breath that I didn’t realise I was holding. Slowly, shoved my frozen hands into the pockets of my withering jacket and headed to the black van that was supposed to be my solace.
Faint lights of the city shimmered in the horizon, making me freeze. The surreal beauty of the buildings pulled on the strings inside my heart. A gasp escaped as I tried keeping my composure, but one lone regret betrayed me. What on earth had I done?. I shook my head in disbelief; Is this what my life had entailed? The remark of the man was still crystal clear in my mind, “This ain’t you love”.
It didn’t take long for me to work it out and as the bile rose in my throat and the pit in my stomach became endless I knew I had been weak. I cursed myself for being just like the others; a faceless puppet played by the strings of time, ignorant of my ultimate fate and dancing to the tune of society, the tune of money. Defeatedly, I raised my hands and gulped the cool night air, which rushed through my body like fire igniting on oil. I knew that couldn’t live a life like this.
I turned and ran, retracing my footsteps back to park and in the direction of the man. The night air became thick as I gasped, my lungs contracting involuntarily. I floundered in the darkness, searching blindly I realised that it couldn’t be done, the man was long gone. By now he had probably devoured the contents and the brown paper bag would be lying in pieces in some gutter. My conscience urged me to keep looking, yet my body screamed for a stop as the weariness took over. As my qualm hovered above me. I had played my part in destroying society. The drugs were his addiction and now my burden of shame.
Here is what I think:
In terms of the flashback, I think it is a little confusing because it doesn't add to your story in the way that it should. I'm confused about the relationship between her and her father. A suggestion: I think you would benefit from having a look at Humans of New York on facebook or instagram. Just last week they finished a series of interviews with American prison inmates, most who were in there because of drug crimes. Definitely have a look and see the reasons people turn to drug crimes, it is very moving. You can play on this component in your flashback. I think, personally, that your flashback should describe some dire circumstance you were in where you were offerred cash easily so you took it. Or, you were doing really well in life but you fell into the crime as a way of easy money. This goes really well with the part about the tune of money. Definitely have a look at some of those stories and I think it will give you a really good idea for what can go in the flashback. If the story is directed in a way of more, she was desperate, she took the opportunity as a one off, here she is now years later and she's discovered the deep deep regret of what she is doing, then that is far more open to applying to a stimulus because the marker can note more levels of discovery.
Let's look at the rubric, I mean her discovery is unexpected, transformative, emotional, with a little enhancement it could be spiritual, to a degree it is physical, it is directed by her circumstances. I mean, there is definitely a lot in here. I think you just need to play up the back story a bit and I think you need to give more of an insight into what she is thinking in the last bit, what exactly has made her tick?
It's a great story - fear not! I love your work.
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 20, 2016, 06:38:53 pm
Hi, any feedback on my creative writing piece is welcome and needed, advice on how to deepen the discovery of being a 'constant' would be greatly appreciated, Thank you ;D
Hey there!!! Thanks for posting :)
Your creative story is here:
Spoiler
Unmoving
Thinking back to that time had her eyebrows scrunched together, a familiar feeling in the deepest parts of her stomach arose. Remembering the feeling of being exposed caused her heart to beat a million times per minute, her stomach to tense and her breathing to become short and laboured almost as if being forced out. Not knowing when it will happen again almost everytime, gives her a panic attack. Almost. Seeing the person that you want to disappear and forget everyday is one thing but being related to them is an entirely different level. How desperate does one have to be to do such a thing. How?
Kicking about in her bed, restless, tired, exhausted. She screams internally frustrated, “WE’RE RELATED FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE”, in an attempt to calm the ever persistent thoughts in her mind.
But to no avail. Disgust and anger soar through her veins, leaving nothing but trails of fire spreading destructively throughout her body. The feeling of slight wind from her untamed hair flying wildly across patches of sweat on her forehead and neck, give her a slight sense of satisfaction and ease. Adrenaline continuously pumping in every vessel within her tiny, fragile body adds to the intensity of the burning sensation. Hearing her own heavy breaths, she attempts to calm herself.
‘His actions won’t control you’, she tells herself - but she knew better.
Desperate to distract herself from the daunting memory - even if it is for a short while - she decides to go on her phone. The door swings open,
“Beth have you seen my work clothes?”, he asks.
Blatantly ignoring him, she continues to stare at her phone. Face plastered with the look of utter disdain, disgust and loathe. ‘How dare he’, she thinks. Her body, having just slightly calmed down now burned with a profound heat, spreading uncontrollably like a wild bush fire consuming her very being. Eyebrows scrunched tightly together. Hands clenching the phone scarcely, before slipping due to the sweat emitting from the pores of her hand. Every muscle in her body tense. She could barely hold in her breaths to minimise the heavy sound of her breathing. Suffocation. That’s what it felt like. No that’s what it was.
Seconds later she hears his familiar footsteps faintly disappearing down the hallway, her head perks up to where he stood, the door once again closed. Letting out a relieved sigh, eyebrows slightly less scrunched together, she casually throws her phone to the side whilst mock imitating him. She falls back onto her bed rolling her eyes, exhausted. She can’t bring herself to be normal around him anymore. How could she? He acts as if he did nothing. Her arms cross against her chest, on top of one another, and slowly travels up her arms and enclose in on her shoulders. Rolling on to her side still clutching her shoulders, she curls into a fetal position. What a low life. What scum of the Earth.
‘To think I’m related to him’, the inevitable truth disgusts her to the pits of her stomach. In turn her face morphs into a look of revulsion and her repugnance at the thought, so much so she can’t bare to fathom it. She closes her eyes tightly while clenching her shoulders in a vain attempt to hug herself, whilst simultaneously bringing her legs further up till they could go no further. How? How does one do such a thing. Many times she pondered, yet at the end of each remembrance all that is left are strong, breathing feelings of disgust, anger and hatred.
Hatred for the fact he ruined their relationship. Although they weren’t extremely close, they had their moments when it was pleasant. Hatred for the fact he ruined what family was to her. What he was to her. Family. The one word that was to bring comfort, love and happiness to her, was now tainted with the dark memory that will forever haunt her. And yet here she was, wallowing in her own self-pity. Where was he? Not caring, not showing any remorse. She was overcome with acute nostalgia for the days where everything was normal. Normal. An overused used word. A word she will gladly be part of again.
***
Her alarm blaring its ringtone was what woke her up. When she fell asleep, she had no idea. Looking for her phone, tinges of pain and numbness were felt all across her arms and back as she untangled herself and saw she had not moved from her fetal position. Grabbing her phone while gently massaging her stiff shoulder she sees multiple notifications from Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat and emails that have taken over her notification bar. She scrolls through to find any that seemed urgent. Not finding any she goes through her messages and notifications one by one.
One picture in particular caught her attention. It wasn’t anything special or unique. She stared and she stared, until her eyes teared up. From not blinking or from realising her ultimatum she didn’t know. What she did know was - it was her. She was staring at a reflection of herself. It was a picture of a woman and two boys having a picnic. But while they were having a picnic, cars, people playing rugby, people walking, people talking were in the background seemingly blurred out as if caught by the camera moving. The only constant, unmoving persons was the woman and the two boys. Constant. Living life as a constant involves letting things pass you, letting people get the best of you and getting stuck in the moment. Tears started to fall. They were constants.
Thinking back to that time had her eyebrows scrunched together, a familiar feeling in the deepest parts of her stomach arose. Remembering the feeling of being exposed caused her heart to beat a million times per minute, her stomach to tense and her breathing to become short and laboured almost as if being forced out. Not knowing when it will happen again almost everytime, gives her a panic attack. Almost. Seeing the person that you want to disappear and forget everyday is one thing but being related to them is an entirely different level. How desperate does one have to be to do such a thing. How?
Kicking about in her bed, restless, tired, exhausted. She screams internally frustrated, “WE’RE RELATED FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE”, in an attempt to calm the ever persistent thoughts in her mind.
But to no avail. Disgust and anger soar through her veins, leaving nothing but trails of fire spreading destructively throughout her body. The feeling of slight wind from her untamed hair flying wildly across patches of sweat on her forehead and neck, give her a slight sense of satisfaction and ease. Adrenaline continuously pumping in every vessel within her tiny, fragile body adds to the intensity of the burning sensation. Hearing her own heavy breaths, she attempts to calm herself.
‘His actions won’t control you’, she tells herself - but she knew better.
Desperate to distract herself from the daunting memory - even if it is for a short while - she decides to go on her phone. The door swings open,
“Beth have you seen my work clothes?”, he asks.
Blatantly ignoring him, she continues to stare at her phone. Face plastered with the look of utter disdain, disgust and loathe. ‘How dare he’, she thinks. Her body, having just slightly calmed down now burned with a profound heat, spreading uncontrollably like a wild bush fire consuming her very being. Eyebrows scrunched tightly together. Hands clenching the phone scarcely, before slipping due to the sweat emitting from the pores of her hand. Every muscle in her body tense. She could barely hold in her breaths to minimise the heavy sound of her breathing. Suffocation. That’s what it felt like. No that’s what it was.
Seconds later she hears his familiar footsteps faintly disappearing down the hallway, her head perks up to where he stood, the door once again closed. Letting out a relieved sigh, eyebrows slightly less scrunched together, she casually throws her phone to the side whilst mock imitating him. She falls back onto her bed rolling her eyes, exhausted. She can’t bring herself to be normal around him anymore. How could she? He acts as if he did nothing. Her arms cross against her chest, on top of one another, and slowly travels up her arms and enclose in on her shoulders. Rolling on to her side still clutching her shoulders, she curls into a fetal position. What a low life. What scum of the Earth.
‘To think I’m related to him’, the inevitable truth disgusts her to the pits of her stomach. In turn her face morphs into a look of revulsion and her repugnance at the thought, so much so she can’t bare to fathom it. She closes her eyes tightly while clenching her shoulders in a vain attempt to hug herself, whilst simultaneously bringing her legs further up till they could go no further. How? How does one do such a thing. Many times she pondered, yet at the end of each remembrance all that is left are strong, breathing feelings of disgust, anger and hatred.
Hatred for the fact he ruined their relationship. Although they weren’t extremely close, they had their moments when it was pleasant. Hatred for the fact he ruined what family was to her. What he was to her. Family. The one word that was to bring comfort, love and happiness to her, was now tainted with the dark memory that will forever haunt her. And yet here she was, wallowing in her own self-pity. Where was he? Not caring, not showing any remorse. She was overcome with acute nostalgia for the days where everything was normal. Normal. An overused used word. A word she will gladly be part of again.
***
Her alarm blaring its ringtone was what woke her up. When she fell asleep, she had no idea. Looking for her phone, tinges of pain and numbness were felt all across her arms and back as she untangled herself and saw she had not moved from her fetal position. Grabbing her phone while gently massaging her stiff shoulder she sees multiple notifications from Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat and emails that have taken over her notification bar. She scrolls through to find any that seemed urgent. Not finding any she goes through her messages and notifications one by one.
One picture in particular caught her attention. It wasn’t anything special or unique. She stared and she stared, until her eyes teared up. From not blinking or from realising her ultimatum she didn’t know. What she did know was - it was her. She was staring at a reflection of herself. It was a picture of a woman and two boys having a picnic. But while they were having a picnic, cars, people playing rugby, people walking, people talking were in the background seemingly blurred out as if caught by the camera moving. The only constant, unmoving persons was the woman and the two boys. Constant. Living life as a constant involves letting things pass you, letting people get the best of you and getting stuck in the moment. Tears started to fall. They were constants.
Instead of doing a sentence/paragraph breakdown here like I have for others - I want to just write an end comment. The reason being, most people at this stage in the HSC won't necessarily have a tight control of language like you do. No doubt this comes naturally to some, but writing can always be pruned to a great level. Your writing is wonderful that even in the first paragraph, I was seeing superb sentence variation, non-overthetop language, and a really distinct voice.
Unfortunately, while your writing is great, the storyline itself is not so clear to me. I think this is what is obstructing me from appreciating your text as a discovery text. I'll tell you where the gaps are for me:
1. Who is the predator and what did they do exactly?
2. Is the image that the persona sees - actually her? Or is it of other people but she finds a resemblance of her circumstance there??
3. The constant/unmoving. This bit isn't resonating with me - but I feel it could be something brilliant. The reflective, gentle epiphany makes for a great ending to a discovery text - I just can't link it back to the start.
I hope you take this in good faith and know that I'm not trying to pull you down here. I think this story has a lot of potential, I just need a little more information to follow the plotline the way it should be followed. I'm wondering if you are going for a euphemism approach? Not wanting to go into graphic details? This too, is wise. I will just need a little more rope to pull myself into the story.
Please don't be discouraged from re-posting! Like I said, your writing in this is so impressive - I can't even imagine how killer this creative will be when the plot line meets that same level! Next time you post, we can work on the discovery and when that is definitely down pat - we can prune the language to perfection! You're a great writer. Keep on writing!
Post by: MC Latte on February 20, 2016, 09:33:44 pm
Dust and Dreams
The desolate land surrounds him, the curvature of the dry earth clear. He drags his reluctant feet a few more metres, before stopping and leaning on the rusty shovel. Drew can never truly rest. Not until he has found another water source. He glares across the barren moonscape, bereft of moisture. Bereft of life.
Empty wheezing is all his ears register over the insistent wind; it’s a painful melody.
“I really need to do something about this asthma.” The persistent thought echoes in his weary skull. He tightens his light jacket against his face, protection from the incoming gale. His tongue hangs lifelessly in his mouth like a dead fish from the dried riverbed, roasting in the relentless sun. He squints back at his quickly disappearing footprints in the ground, running his calloused fingers vigourously through his patchy grey hair.
The intense heat of the afternoon Charleville sun radiates off the spade, glaring into his tired eyes and bringing him slowly back to his present. A shovel and a hole un-dug. Water, precious water, lies in wait many metres below the rocky ground. He hopes.
“Might as well get on with it,” he mutters wearily.
Drew tightens his weathered grip on the spade and drives it into the dirt. The solidity of the ground jolts through his already aching arms and back, yet he presses on. Another thrust, then another. He perseveres; motivated by the need for water, for the vitality he hopes is there.
It has to be there…
As the hours crawl by, he turns repeatedly in the direction of home, kilometres away. He is puzzled to notice that he can’t see as far back as he could before. The horizon seems to loom in, palming a hidden menace. Spirals of dust dance in the gale, increasingly thick and frenzied.
Finally exhausted, Drew pauses and inhales on his puffer, squinting under a darkening sky. The sun is merely an indistinct smudge on the western horizon. He strains on his tiptoes to peer out of the hole he has made, his eyes almost beaten shut by the amassing wind.
As a black cockatoo screeches loudly in the sky, he begins to contemplate the journey home. Yet, he feels completely drained…
In every sense of the word.
He sighs deeply, pulling himself labouriously from the hole in the torrid earth. Drew surveys his work dismally. A parched two-metre crater in the dirt mocks him from below, as he staggers momentarily against the relentless wind. Absent-mindedly running his hand back and forth on his scalp, Drew decides that the water will have to wait until tomorrow.
“Not that the water’s going anywhere,” he smiles wryly, scratching away the itchy tuft of fallen hair on his wrist, “unless this wind picks up any more.” His smile fades as he feels his windpipe tighten again almost immediately.
He shakily removes his inhaler from his pocket, clumsily sucking on it as he realises how severely the dusty wind is affecting him. Feigning calmness, Drew settles on his safest option. He scuttles back into the hole to wait for the wind to dissipate. However, it soon becomes clear that it is worsening. A feeling of dread slithers up his tense spine like an angry taipan.
The asthmatic’s worst nightmare. A dust storm.
Just breathe Drew.
In the hole with his jacket on his face and puffer in hand, he might be safe. Might be.
The storm, the moaning and coughing, the rocky ground and the taste of sandy defeat assault his senses for hours. Drew focuses on calming his rasping breaths, whilst unconsciously tugging at his hair for comfort. As he does this, his aching legs scrape back and forth on the ground in front of him, wearing two deepening grooves into the earth. The darkness of evening settles in, until Drew can no longer see his trembling hands before him.
Just breathe.
This is how he spends a few perturbed hours in the pitch black, before finally shutting down into a disturbed doze.
* * *
Silence.
Drew slowly drifts back into his painful reality; cramped, dehydrated and disoriented. Carefully, he unfolds his complaining body and sits with his back leaning on the wall. He tilts his neck deliberately into the bright morning, to see that the horrors of last night seem to have passed.
Next, Drew methodically brings himself to a standing position, stretching uncomfortably. His eyes eventually come to rest on the shovel, lying on the ground beneath his feet.
“Well that explains why I’m so damn sore,” he coughs. “I gotta get out of here…” The small remark causes him to grab at his throat, massaging the sharp blades within.
At this point, Drew cautiously pokes his head out into the open. Despite the dust-blanketed landscape, the air is fresh. He slowly removes the jacket from his face and pockets his puffer, releasing the aching stiffness of his fingers around it.
Drew purposefully raises the shovel high into the air, feeling sweet oxygen slowly filling his deflated lungs. He releases a clear, deep breath and plunges the shovel into the soil with refreshed vigour. Ready to pull himself from the earth, Drew positions his hands around the rim of the hole.
Suddenly, a strange bubbling noise spurts from below. He feels his socks moisten, relief spilling in through the top of his filthy boots. In sodden disbelief, Drew casts his gaze downwards.
A shout of delight emanates from his parched lips, as precious water swells around his ankles. Drew sinks to his knees, cupping the water in desiccated palms and tossing handfuls jubilantly over his brow. The liquid continues to rise in the hole as he splashes joyfully, baptised anew by the gushing ground.
And for the first time in a while for Drew, his hair remained comfortably atop his elated head.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 21, 2016, 10:46:32 am
Hi Elese, it would be much appreciated if you could mark this. The context is basically a futuristic view on contempory society, that is of the western and the eastern. The histoically reknown names are just for extra allusion into characters personality. :) :)
Hey Alalamc! Your story is below with a few helpful comments, Elyse may add her own when she gets the chance!
Spoiler
The Tale of Two Directions
“I’ll be fine, I swear, I’m just gone beyond repair”
1958, April 12th, 4:00 am ‘The East’
The first radiant rays settled upon ‘The East’, in the preferential places of its own, complimented with the boisterous, prominent and pure tones of the distant Church Bells, each a different tone of agony. The aura was scented with the immense fragrance of rich alcohol infused tobacco which quite absurdly, seemed to be gorging on the ‘Eastern’ children’s stomachs… or what was the residual.
This morning, I take time to acknowledge God for the victory he has bestowed not just to the expanding ‘West’ but to my beautiful wife; Rose and I with our new born son. I also pledge my deepest sympathies for the waking sun however compensate it with pleasurable nights. Beautiful use of imagery
Joseph.P.Kennedy
1985, January 3rd, 6:00 am ‘The West’.
Reclining in the backseat of MY Maserati A6GCS Berlinetta, I watched the distressed daylight once again rise from its undesirable demanding journey to the luxuriously, comforting arms of ‘The West’, its blood bleached rays regaining the form of silky smooth butter only to once again be deprived the next morning.
‘The West’ as it was known was a modern 1980’s metropolis, its streets always buzzing with competitive cart owners, spanning roads in demand of hungry-shoppers between two never ending walls of majestic sandstone architecture, kneeling either side.
“Sir, shall I continue to drive?” enquired Greer.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out my most cherished possession, reading it religiously like I did so every Sunday every week for the past 18 years. My fathers discarded work entry which I happened upon by accident in 1967 had raised more questions in my apperception than that in your average ‘westerner’, mostly associated with a never before perceived term, ‘East’. All I and Seven billion other westerners knew was that there was just one civilisation and that was ‘The West’.
“Sir?”
“Huh, Oh. Yes Greer, Drive on”
I disembarked MY Maserati once at ‘The Green House’ at 9:00 am ready for General Adolf’s address. Upon entering the ‘Main Hall’ I looked over my first order marines from my designated seat on stage, observing an empty seat in Row 1 Column 2.
“Manoeuvre right soldier” I signalled to the marine on the borderline.
“Good Morning, John. How you doing?”
“Eh, Oh, Wondrously Sir Adolf, Sir.” (Salutes) Avoid using 'stage direction' style verbs unless you are specifically writing a script. Try incorporating it like you have done elsewhere
“That a boy, Marine! Oh, Henry, don’t distress about soldier no.25… just retain your cadets in line!”
“Jarred? Sure Sir Adolf, Sir” I responded to the all too habitual phrase and took my seat for the upcoming address.
“…My dear humanity; ‘The West’, that is why I myself, have and will continue to with great hindrance and predicament revive the world for you, your future and the broader community…Rest assured I will only grant the yellow Dandelions, our nation, to blossom in God’s young garden…Thankyou” This address isn't as powerful as you could make it, because it seems like it lasts 10 seconds. Try adding some character reaction between individual phrases for dramatic effect.
(Audience Applauds) See above
Following the address, my tall alpine like figure advanced out onto the sun bleached streets, accompanied by a long blood coloured cloak covering my vigorously large lifeless shoulders, flapping in accordance with the rhythm of the cold winters wind. Greer, my butler stood lingered on the threshold of MY Maserati, his plump figure, colossal eyes as big as over-sized grapes, bloodless bleached complexion and short white hair waiting patiently waiting to drive me home. At this point, I'll say that your imagery is technically proficient, but it isn't adding anything plot wise. Imagery should be used for a purpose, and at this point, it does seem like you are overdoing it ever so slightly
“I bought your flowers Sir, lilies as always”
(Sound of car door closing) See above
“Cheers Greer”
Arriving home I was reunited with the hallow tranquillity bought with fathers 75 billion pounds, who now, being retired, was dispatched to where all resigned marines were *somewhere*. I would fix the mechanics of this sentence, maybe add "Somewhere" with an ellipsis or as a separate sentence, create that pause to emphasise the next word, because it is powerful Approaching the courtyard I gazed at the bed of the only soulful body that had existed within father’s lifeless barricades and began to enunciate my prayers, placing her favourite white velvet lilies on her bloodless nurturing chest. This is beautifully written
As I was doing so, I noticed a small cornflake crisp This is an example of imagery for imagery's sake. Calling an envelope cornflake crisp adds nothing to your conceptual ideas. envelope behind mothers tomb, opening it up I sat there in astonishment as I gazed upon the one and only map of the east
I was going. Didn’t think twice! (Inversion?)This seems like an important thing to emphasise, give more reflection to. It is very rushed.
1985 JANUARY 5th, 23:00pm ‘The East’
Dead Birds, Dry Grass, Purple hazy skies
Little sunlight reached the brown subdued landscaped due to the vast outlying dry leafed canopy, off which salty water trickled down, unnerving every sense, slowly driving me mad with its regular rhythm. The thin crisp leaves crackled as the weary branches swayed in cohesion with the soon to be warm midnight wind.
“O Com’on now. Them Bulls be spott’in ye any minute, especially at curfew”
“Who spoke? Declare Yourself!?” I whispered falteringly
Out of the lifeless depth rose a young child wearing nothing but anguish and ill-fitting bleached army trousers. His protruded skeletal bones gripped his crusty skin, his lungs grasped for nourishment, his pupils, rich with universal colours beamed straight through my frigid blue eyes, blinking only to clear the rich pasty conjunctiva that deterred his focus.
(Child Wheezing)
“I figured a resenter must be ere…Everyone was run-in away you see…You look diffwent”
He shuffled back and diverted his gaze.
“Ar’ you a Bull” he stuttered.
“What? Bull? …Where did you get those”, I gestured, eyeing down the spirited army attire complimenting the boys suppressive rags.
That exchange was extremely confusing for the reader.
Before the young boy could talk
Gunshots cracked into the warm silent air, loud as thunder but without the raw power of a storm. The blood that had once flowed thick and scarlet in the youth’s veins was clasped in his callused fingers, generations of rich fluid mercifully devouring the little vitality within his young soulless body, like that of water in hot oil. I really like this use of imagery here, especially given the subject matter, it is a powerful form of euphemism almost
Death hung heavy in the air, its foul smelling essence filled the sharp, dense and dispassionate hearts of the mirthful, elderly men that followed.
The eldest man fixed his gaze upon me
“John, John F Kennedy”, my mouth unwillingly splurged.
“Well I’ll be. You sure ain’t from around here son… Come with us, we’ll take you someplace… safe”, he replied gingerly.
Reluctantly, I followed. Why would the character follow? I question the motives, and this makes me question the story.
1985 JANUARY 5th, 23:00pm
The soles of my feet wailed in joviality upon the sight of the old fossil shuddering on the hill, thirsty for the morning’s luscious silky rays to warm its weary walls and caress its dying timber floors. The faint humming from the back of the house seemed to scrape off the struggle of any free emotion left inside of me. The old man signalled goodbye to his mates.
(Resenters singing Rolling Stones; Dandelion)
“Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailors livesRich man, poor man, beautiful, daughters wives“Sun lilies don't tell no lie”“Moon lilies will make you wise”“Tell me if she laughs or cries”Blow away dandelion, blow away dandelion” Interesting allusion, I'm not personally catching the meaning, I understand the link to the speech from earlier, but what is the conceptual meaning?
(Singing fades)
“Take a seat, Chap…Shall I get you something to drink?” the man said positioning his gun on the counter.
“…Yes”, I replied quite sternly
The elderly man’s, cold grim wrinkles compressed to form a valley of never ending caverns, hollow with the passion of tenderness and as salty the deep pacific currents evoking an all too familiar childhood memory.
“FATHER?!”
The old oak timber creaked slowly open revealing a young man dressed in red shorts with the all too familiar army jacket carrying 2 glasses of fine red wine. The discipline of his emotions was reflected in his dishevelled uniform.
“JARRED?!... What is going on… and YOU, why did you kill him… Where am I?” I splurged hastily. I would say that, reaching this point in your narrative, you aren't using dialogue effectively. I don't believe the character would actually say this. Try to keep speech minimal and powerful, it is difficult to compose entire conversations which are believable
“Settle down John”, father said sternly in his evocative tone.
“You won’t understand, this is what we’re for, the army’s for… his is the right way. Would you like to live in a society with these greedy mutts? OK?
“No… NO!” I said as bitterly
“I am sorry John.. You know what happens to people who refuse the ways of the West, they get sent here and they work and get tortured, made examples for what the East calls their ‘pathetic heroes”… I can’t see you get tortured John, Do you understand?... I’m going to have to kill you.”
As father reached back for the pistol, the sound of 3 gunshots ripped through his chest, it was Jarred.
“You ok?”
“I’ll be fine, I swear, I’m just gone beyond repair… We need to stop this, for the better”
“You have all us real marines beside you John, don’t you forget that, just say the word”
The first soothing radiant rays settled upon The East, in the preferential places of its own complimented with the boisterous, prominent and pure tones of the soon to be blossoming community, each a different shade of happiness. The aura was scented with the immense fragrance of children dreams which quite absurdly, seemed to be gorging on the ‘Western’ marine’s shadowed intellect. I like the repetition used in this ending, quite powerful
I take this time to thank God for this privilege; surely no man can discover new oceans without first losing the sight of the shore.
John. F Kennedy
“I’ll be fine, I swear, I’m just gone beyond repair”
1958, April 12th, 4:00 am ‘The East’
The first radiant rays settled upon ‘The East’, in the preferential places of its own, complimented with the boisterous, prominent and pure tones of the distant Church Bells, each a different tone of agony. The aura was scented with the immense fragrance of rich alcohol infused tobacco which quite absurdly, seemed to be gorging on the ‘Eastern’ children’s stomachs… or what was the residual.
This morning, I take time to acknowledge God for the victory he has bestowed not just to the expanding ‘West’ but to my beautiful wife; Rose and I with our new born son. I also pledge my deepest sympathies for the waking sun however compensate it with pleasurable nights. Beautiful use of imagery
Joseph.P.Kennedy
1985, January 3rd, 6:00 am ‘The West’.
Reclining in the backseat of MY Maserati A6GCS Berlinetta, I watched the distressed daylight once again rise from its undesirable demanding journey to the luxuriously, comforting arms of ‘The West’, its blood bleached rays regaining the form of silky smooth butter only to once again be deprived the next morning.
‘The West’ as it was known was a modern 1980’s metropolis, its streets always buzzing with competitive cart owners, spanning roads in demand of hungry-shoppers between two never ending walls of majestic sandstone architecture, kneeling either side.
“Sir, shall I continue to drive?” enquired Greer.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out my most cherished possession, reading it religiously like I did so every Sunday every week for the past 18 years. My fathers discarded work entry which I happened upon by accident in 1967 had raised more questions in my apperception than that in your average ‘westerner’, mostly associated with a never before perceived term, ‘East’. All I and Seven billion other westerners knew was that there was just one civilisation and that was ‘The West’.
“Sir?”
“Huh, Oh. Yes Greer, Drive on”
I disembarked MY Maserati once at ‘The Green House’ at 9:00 am ready for General Adolf’s address. Upon entering the ‘Main Hall’ I looked over my first order marines from my designated seat on stage, observing an empty seat in Row 1 Column 2.
“Manoeuvre right soldier” I signalled to the marine on the borderline.
“Good Morning, John. How you doing?”
“Eh, Oh, Wondrously Sir Adolf, Sir.” (Salutes) Avoid using 'stage direction' style verbs unless you are specifically writing a script. Try incorporating it like you have done elsewhere
“That a boy, Marine! Oh, Henry, don’t distress about soldier no.25… just retain your cadets in line!”
“Jarred? Sure Sir Adolf, Sir” I responded to the all too habitual phrase and took my seat for the upcoming address.
“…My dear humanity; ‘The West’, that is why I myself, have and will continue to with great hindrance and predicament revive the world for you, your future and the broader community…Rest assured I will only grant the yellow Dandelions, our nation, to blossom in God’s young garden…Thankyou” This address isn't as powerful as you could make it, because it seems like it lasts 10 seconds. Try adding some character reaction between individual phrases for dramatic effect.
(Audience Applauds) See above
Following the address, my tall alpine like figure advanced out onto the sun bleached streets, accompanied by a long blood coloured cloak covering my vigorously large lifeless shoulders, flapping in accordance with the rhythm of the cold winters wind. Greer, my butler stood lingered on the threshold of MY Maserati, his plump figure, colossal eyes as big as over-sized grapes, bloodless bleached complexion and short white hair waiting patiently waiting to drive me home. At this point, I'll say that your imagery is technically proficient, but it isn't adding anything plot wise. Imagery should be used for a purpose, and at this point, it does seem like you are overdoing it ever so slightly
“I bought your flowers Sir, lilies as always”
(Sound of car door closing) See above
“Cheers Greer”
Arriving home I was reunited with the hallow tranquillity bought with fathers 75 billion pounds, who now, being retired, was dispatched to where all resigned marines were *somewhere*. I would fix the mechanics of this sentence, maybe add "Somewhere" with an ellipsis or as a separate sentence, create that pause to emphasise the next word, because it is powerful Approaching the courtyard I gazed at the bed of the only soulful body that had existed within father’s lifeless barricades and began to enunciate my prayers, placing her favourite white velvet lilies on her bloodless nurturing chest. This is beautifully written
As I was doing so, I noticed a small cornflake crisp This is an example of imagery for imagery's sake. Calling an envelope cornflake crisp adds nothing to your conceptual ideas. envelope behind mothers tomb, opening it up I sat there in astonishment as I gazed upon the one and only map of the east
I was going. Didn’t think twice! (Inversion?)This seems like an important thing to emphasise, give more reflection to. It is very rushed.
1985 JANUARY 5th, 23:00pm ‘The East’
Dead Birds, Dry Grass, Purple hazy skies
Little sunlight reached the brown subdued landscaped due to the vast outlying dry leafed canopy, off which salty water trickled down, unnerving every sense, slowly driving me mad with its regular rhythm. The thin crisp leaves crackled as the weary branches swayed in cohesion with the soon to be warm midnight wind.
“O Com’on now. Them Bulls be spott’in ye any minute, especially at curfew”
“Who spoke? Declare Yourself!?” I whispered falteringly
Out of the lifeless depth rose a young child wearing nothing but anguish and ill-fitting bleached army trousers. His protruded skeletal bones gripped his crusty skin, his lungs grasped for nourishment, his pupils, rich with universal colours beamed straight through my frigid blue eyes, blinking only to clear the rich pasty conjunctiva that deterred his focus.
(Child Wheezing)
“I figured a resenter must be ere…Everyone was run-in away you see…You look diffwent”
He shuffled back and diverted his gaze.
“Ar’ you a Bull” he stuttered.
“What? Bull? …Where did you get those”, I gestured, eyeing down the spirited army attire complimenting the boys suppressive rags.
That exchange was extremely confusing for the reader.
Before the young boy could talk
Gunshots cracked into the warm silent air, loud as thunder but without the raw power of a storm. The blood that had once flowed thick and scarlet in the youth’s veins was clasped in his callused fingers, generations of rich fluid mercifully devouring the little vitality within his young soulless body, like that of water in hot oil. I really like this use of imagery here, especially given the subject matter, it is a powerful form of euphemism almost
Death hung heavy in the air, its foul smelling essence filled the sharp, dense and dispassionate hearts of the mirthful, elderly men that followed.
The eldest man fixed his gaze upon me
“John, John F Kennedy”, my mouth unwillingly splurged.
“Well I’ll be. You sure ain’t from around here son… Come with us, we’ll take you someplace… safe”, he replied gingerly.
Reluctantly, I followed. Why would the character follow? I question the motives, and this makes me question the story.
1985 JANUARY 5th, 23:00pm
The soles of my feet wailed in joviality upon the sight of the old fossil shuddering on the hill, thirsty for the morning’s luscious silky rays to warm its weary walls and caress its dying timber floors. The faint humming from the back of the house seemed to scrape off the struggle of any free emotion left inside of me. The old man signalled goodbye to his mates.
(Resenters singing Rolling Stones; Dandelion)
“Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailors livesRich man, poor man, beautiful, daughters wives“Sun lilies don't tell no lie”“Moon lilies will make you wise”“Tell me if she laughs or cries”Blow away dandelion, blow away dandelion” Interesting allusion, I'm not personally catching the meaning, I understand the link to the speech from earlier, but what is the conceptual meaning?
(Singing fades)
“Take a seat, Chap…Shall I get you something to drink?” the man said positioning his gun on the counter.
“…Yes”, I replied quite sternly
The elderly man’s, cold grim wrinkles compressed to form a valley of never ending caverns, hollow with the passion of tenderness and as salty the deep pacific currents evoking an all too familiar childhood memory.
“FATHER?!”
The old oak timber creaked slowly open revealing a young man dressed in red shorts with the all too familiar army jacket carrying 2 glasses of fine red wine. The discipline of his emotions was reflected in his dishevelled uniform.
“JARRED?!... What is going on… and YOU, why did you kill him… Where am I?” I splurged hastily. I would say that, reaching this point in your narrative, you aren't using dialogue effectively. I don't believe the character would actually say this. Try to keep speech minimal and powerful, it is difficult to compose entire conversations which are believable
“Settle down John”, father said sternly in his evocative tone.
“You won’t understand, this is what we’re for, the army’s for… his is the right way. Would you like to live in a society with these greedy mutts? OK?
“No… NO!” I said as bitterly
“I am sorry John.. You know what happens to people who refuse the ways of the West, they get sent here and they work and get tortured, made examples for what the East calls their ‘pathetic heroes”… I can’t see you get tortured John, Do you understand?... I’m going to have to kill you.”
As father reached back for the pistol, the sound of 3 gunshots ripped through his chest, it was Jarred.
“You ok?”
“I’ll be fine, I swear, I’m just gone beyond repair… We need to stop this, for the better”
“You have all us real marines beside you John, don’t you forget that, just say the word”
The first soothing radiant rays settled upon The East, in the preferential places of its own complimented with the boisterous, prominent and pure tones of the soon to be blossoming community, each a different shade of happiness. The aura was scented with the immense fragrance of children dreams which quite absurdly, seemed to be gorging on the ‘Western’ marine’s shadowed intellect. I like the repetition used in this ending, quite powerful
I take this time to thank God for this privilege; surely no man can discover new oceans without first losing the sight of the shore.
John. F Kennedy
I would say on the whole that you really know how to use your techniques. Imagery, repetition, allusion, figurative language, all blended in quite a sophisticated and verbose writing style. However, I will say that the effectiveness of the techniques is lost on the fact that the plot is somewhat confusing. What I think is happening is that you are devoting a lot of time (PS - This is a 1400 word story, you will have to cut it down to use it in an exam scenario) to techniques, and the plot just becomes an afterthought. You describe scenes and characters extremely effectively, but then the actual plot development is rushed. This also means that your conceptual focus is not quite there. 'Discovery' isn't coming through as clearly as it could be; I don't get clear cut concepts out of this narrative. Also, there are a few grammatical errors in there: Word should pick them up, they aren't too serious.
So, my summary would be to really focus and reflect on what Discovery concepts you are wanting to push, and adjust your story so that this is pushed, by giving some more attention to the plot. You can push concepts with imagery and other techniques, but they need a solid plot behind them. Your embellishments (techniques, imagery, etc) are powerful, but they are lacking a solid backbone.
I really like some of the stuff you have done in there though. Some of your imagery and word choice is absolutely wonderful, very powerful, you definitely can craft an awesome creative writing piece here if you put some work into it ;D
Post by: therealqwerty on February 22, 2016, 05:52:35 am
You sit there in maths, your eyes stare at the board. In the background of your teachers mumbling jargon the tick tick ticking of the clock catches your attention and reminds you that in fourteen minutes it's recess and that none of this matters. What your teacher is saying is probably important, however no matter how hard you try you don't understand. As you look in front of you, the old textbook with yellow pages lays open accumulating the surrounding dust. The torn and folded, yet thick pages are full of carefully typed questions a diagrams which have fades slightly over the past 40 years they have been used. To you this makes less sense than the jargon your teacher speaks.
10:48 am
Tick tick, twelve minutes, time seems to go on for ever. Your teacher walks up to the board with a coloured marker in her hand. The board slowly changes from a vast array of whiteness to having colourful numbers and letters, which appear to swim like little fish across the board. The board once resembled your mind, however this new coloured nonsense has changed this. Still you look at the board trying to make something out of this nonsense.
10:49 am
You stare blankly at the board. Pens all around you reach the paper and scribble something that is a wonderful masterpiece for some. The more you stare at these carefully arranged numbers and letter the more your brain blanks out. Still your fingers curl around the pen in such a way that you pick it up and place it to this white paper with carefully ruled faint blue line. Your hand slowly moves neatly copping the colour of the board. Then nothing. Your mind can't produce anything, no masterpiece, only the tick tick ticking of the clock. Eleven minutes to go. Nothing else magically appears on your page. While all the class have their heads down and their pens run across the page you sit there with nothing.
10:52am
The colourful nonsense was erased into a vast white board still representative of your thoughts. However this didn't last long before again the marker made an irritating screeking noise as it moved across the board adding new numbers and letters for the class to solve. You Pen touches the pages to neatly copy down what's on the board at the top of your page. You place your pen down and your eyelids touch and squeeze tightly close. You then open them hoping for a renewed perspective on the colour which fills the board, however, nothing comes to you. Your mind is still blank so you sit there helpless your mind focused on the ticking of the clock, only 8 minutes left of class.
10:53 am
Your teacher comes over to you, interrupting your minds focus on the clock. She appears to notice your blank mind from the outside. "May I help you? Is there any thing I can help with?" She quires. You realise that it is the blank page in front of you which is just as blank as mind. You nod with uncertainty, un sure if that nod was a good decision. Your teacher walks over each step one at a time, point at letters and numbers.
10:55 am
As your teacher leaves you table having explained the colour of the board your eyes are fixed to your page which has the neatly copied down question at the top of your page. Just like the twenty four other students in your class your pen races across your page it's ink leaving behind the solution. You are no longer clueless, and your mind is no long fixed on the tick tick ticking of the clock which tells your there is five minutes left. You mind is now fixed finding the solution.
10:59 am
You finally finish the problem. Everyone around you seems to have finished earlier, however The tick tick ticking of the clock grabs your attention again, you realise it's one minute before the bell. With much relief of finally understanding the solution to the problem you shut the dusty old textbook close with a slam.
11:00am
The beep of the bell causes a loud slam of textbooks closing in unison, before a stampede of students race out the door for recess. This was what you had been waiting for however the understanding maths as a pleasant surprise.
I don't know if the discovery is too simple
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 22, 2016, 11:44:47 am
Thanks heaps for this offer! Would greatly appreciate someone having a look at my discovery story. Of particular concern for me at the moment is how to end it fittingly and emphatically so as make an impact on the marker. I'm not sure if the current hair motif is good enough. Any general feedback of other things that could be improved would be awesome too haha.Thanks again! :D
Sure thing MC Latte!
Dust and Dreams
The desolate land surrounds him, the curvature of the dry earth clear. He drags his reluctant feet a few more metres, before stopping and leaning on the rusty shovel. I enjoy the personification of the feet here. Really good work.Drew can never truly rest. Not until he has found another water source. He glares across the barren moonscape, bereft of moisture. Bereft of life.
Empty wheezing is all his ears register over the insistent wind; it’s a painful melody.
“I really need to do something about this asthma.” The persistent thought echoes in his weary skull. He tightens his light jacket against his face, protection from the incoming gale. His tongue hangs lifelessly in his mouth like a dead fish from the dried riverbed, roasting in the relentless sun. He squints back at his quickly disappearing footprints in the ground, running his calloused fingers vigourously through his patchy grey hair.
The intense heat of the afternoon Charleville sun radiates off the spade, glaring into his tired eyes and bringing him slowly back to his present. A shovel and a hole un-dug. Water, precious water, lies in wait many metres below the rocky ground. He hopes.
“Might as well get on with it,” he mutters wearily.
Drew tightens his weathered grip on the spade and drives it into the dirt. Your imagery is great, ironically I think the next step to enhancing it is to minimalise it. Perhaps the "weathered" grip here is a bit too much and takes away from the starkness of the imagery. The solidity of the ground jolts through his already aching arms and back, yet he presses on. Another thrust, then another. He perseveres; motivated by the need for water, for the vitality he hopes is there.
It has to be there…
As the hours crawl by, he turns repeatedly in the direction of home, kilometres away. He is puzzled to notice that he can’t see as far back as he could before. The horizon seems to loom in, palming a hidden menace. Spirals of dust dance in the gale, increasingly thick and frenzied.
Finally exhausted, Drew pauses and inhales on his puffer, squinting under a darkening sky. The sun is merely an indistinct smudge on the western horizon. He strains on his tiptoes to peer out of the hole he has made, his eyes almost beaten shut by the amassing wind.
As a black cockatoo screeches loudly in the sky, he begins to contemplate the journey home. Yet, he feels completely drained…
In every sense of the word. This is a peculiar sentence. It sticks out to me and I can't work out if it is for the right or wrong reason. What are the other senses of the word? Do you mean dehydrated and emotionally drained? I'm curious. The more I think about it, the more I enjoy it. It is a very thought provoking sentence. The isolation, the simplicity, the mystery, it all works well.
He sighs deeply, pulling himself labouriously from the hole in the torrid earth. Drew surveys his work dismally. A parched two-metre crater in the dirt mocks him from below, as he staggers momentarily against the relentless wind. Absent-mindedly running his hand back and forth on his scalp, Drew decides that the water will have to wait until tomorrow.
“Not that the water’s going anywhere,” he smiles wryly, scratching away the itchy tuft of fallen hair on his wrist, “unless this wind picks up any more.” His smile fades as he feels his windpipe tighten again almost immediately.
He shakily removes his inhaler from his pocket, clumsily sucking on it as he realises how severely the dusty wind is affecting him. Feigning calmness, Drew settles on his safest option. He scuttles back into the hole to wait for the wind to dissipate. However, it soon becomes clear that it is worsening. A feeling of dread slithers up his tense spine like an angry taipan.
The asthmatic’s worst nightmare. A dust storm.
Just breathe Drew.
In the hole with his jacket on his face and puffer in hand, he might be safe. Might be.
The storm, the moaning and coughing, the rocky ground and the taste of sandy defeat assault his senses for hours. Drew focuses on calming his rasping breaths, whilst unconsciously tugging at his hair for comfort. As he does this, his aching legs scrape back and forth on the ground in front of him, wearing two deepening grooves into the earth. The darkness of evening settles in, until Drew can no longer see his trembling hands before him.
Just breathe.
This is how he spends a few perturbed hours in the pitch black, before finally shutting down into a disturbed doze.
* * *
Silence.
Drew slowly drifts back into his painful reality; cramped, dehydrated and disoriented. Carefully, he unfolds his complaining body and sits with his back leaning on the wall. He tilts his neck deliberately into the bright morning, to see that the horrors of last night seem to have passed.
Next, Drew methodically brings himself to a standing position, stretching uncomfortably. His eyes eventually come to rest on the shovel, lying on the ground beneath his feet.
“Well that explains why I’m so damn sore,” he coughs. “I gotta get out of here…” The small remark causes him to grab at his throat, massaging the sharp blades within. If he's alone, is he really speaking out loud? It is possible, of course. It does seem odd to me.
At this point, Drew cautiously pokes his head out into the open. Despite the dust-blanketed landscape, the air is fresh. He slowly removes the jacket from his face and pockets his puffer, releasing the aching stiffness of his fingers around it.
Drew purposefully raises the shovel high into the air, feeling sweet oxygen slowly filling his deflated lungs. He releases a clear, deep breath and plunges the shovel into the soil with refreshed vigour. Ready to pull himself from the earth, Drew positions his hands around the rim of the hole.
Suddenly, a strange bubbling noise spurts from below. He feels his socks moisten, relief spilling in through the top of his filthy boots. In sodden disbelief, Drew casts his gaze downwards.
A shout of delight emanates from his parched lips, as precious water swells around his ankles. Drew sinks to his knees, cupping the water in desiccated palms and tossing handfuls jubilantly over his brow. The liquid continues to rise in the hole as he splashes joyfully, baptised anew by the gushing ground. I love the last part of this sentence - it highlights the discovery as being transformative.
And for the first time in a while for Drew, his hair remained comfortably atop his elated head.
Okay, so your story is great. I mean, considering it is a story where there is no progress until the end, I was never bored or waiting for something. I enjoyed it the whole way through so brownie points for you! As for the hair motif ... not strong enough for me. I wouldn't have noticed it except that it ended your story, and then I felt like I needed to go back to pay more careful attention to it. For me, the idea of being drained was so much more powerful. I think that is because of that isolated sentence of being drained in two senses. If I were you, I'd develop the drained notion a little more. The reason being, when you talk about being mentally drained, it heightens the discovery. You physically discover water, your symbolically baptised, and with a little tweaking,t he discovery becomes emotional. Don't forget that you can add a spiritual discovery to this, just by adding towards the end that his spirits had changed, he felt encouraged.
Great job. You've set yourself up to a lot of discovery options here. I will propose, what would happen if your stimulus required you to talk about rediscovering? Would you make it so that he has discovered water before and is now finally touching it again? What if your stimulus said that the discovery was evoked by curiosity and wonder? I'm only throwing these your way so that you can prepare for what you would do, if it would happen. Your story alone is already versatile to the stimulus, you've done a stellar job.
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 22, 2016, 12:00:16 pm
I don't know if the discovery is too simple.
Hey therealqwerty, I'm dying over your username, I love it.
Here is your story, unedited:
Spoiler
10:46 am
You sit there in maths, your eyes stare at the board. In the background of your teachers mumbling jargon the tick tick ticking of the clock catches your attention and reminds you that in fourteen minutes it's recess and that none of this matters. What your teacher is saying is probably important, however no matter how hard you try you don't understand. As you look in front of you, the old textbook with yellow pages lays open accumulating the surrounding dust. The torn and folded, yet thick pages are full of carefully typed questions a diagrams which have fades slightly over the past 40 years they have been used. To you this makes less sense than the jargon your teacher speaks.
10:48 am
Tick tick, twelve minutes, time seems to go on for ever. Your teacher walks up to the board with a coloured marker in her hand. The board slowly changes from a vast array of whiteness to having colourful numbers and letters, which appear to swim like little fish across the board. The board once resembled your mind, however this new coloured nonsense has changed this. Still you look at the board trying to make something out of this nonsense.
10:49 am
You stare blankly at the board. Pens all around you reach the paper and scribble something that is a wonderful masterpiece for some. The more you stare at these carefully arranged numbers and letter the more your brain blanks out. Still your fingers curl around the pen in such a way that you pick it up and place it to this white paper with carefully ruled faint blue line. Your hand slowly moves neatly copping the colour of the board. Then nothing. Your mind can't produce anything, no masterpiece, only the tick tick ticking of the clock. Eleven minutes to go. Nothing else magically appears on your page. While all the class have their heads down and their pens run across the page you sit there with nothing.
10:52am
The colourful nonsense was erased into a vast white board still representative of your thoughts. However this didn't last long before again the marker made an irritating screeking noise as it moved across the board adding new numbers and letters for the class to solve. You Pen touches the pages to neatly copy down what's on the board at the top of your page. You place your pen down and your eyelids touch and squeeze tightly close. You then open them hoping for a renewed perspective on the colour which fills the board, however, nothing comes to you. Your mind is still blank so you sit there helpless your mind focused on the ticking of the clock, only 8 minutes left of class.
10:53 am
Your teacher comes over to you, interrupting your minds focus on the clock. She appears to notice your blank mind from the outside. "May I help you? Is there any thing I can help with?" She quires. You realise that it is the blank page in front of you which is just as blank as mind. You nod with uncertainty, un sure if that nod was a good decision. Your teacher walks over each step one at a time, point at letters and numbers.
10:55 am
As your teacher leaves you table having explained the colour of the board your eyes are fixed to your page which has the neatly copied down question at the top of your page. Just like the twenty four other students in your class your pen races across your page it's ink leaving behind the solution. You are no longer clueless, and your mind is no long fixed on the tick tick ticking of the clock which tells your there is five minutes left. You mind is now fixed finding the solution.
10:59 am
You finally finish the problem. Everyone around you seems to have finished earlier, however The tick tick ticking of the clock grabs your attention again, you realise it's one minute before the bell. With much relief of finally understanding the solution to the problem you shut the dusty old textbook close with a slam.
11:00am
The beep of the bell causes a loud slam of textbooks closing in unison, before a stampede of students race out the door for recess. This was what you had been waiting for however the understanding maths as a pleasant surprise.
I don't know if the discovery is too simple
You sit there in maths, your eyes stare at the board. In the background of your teachers mumbling jargon the tick tick ticking of the clock catches your attention and reminds you that in fourteen minutes it's recess and that none of this matters. What your teacher is saying is probably important, however no matter how hard you try you don't understand. As you look in front of you, the old textbook with yellow pages lays open accumulating the surrounding dust. The torn and folded, yet thick pages are full of carefully typed questions a diagrams which have fades slightly over the past 40 years they have been used. To you this makes less sense than the jargon your teacher speaks.
10:48 am
Tick tick, twelve minutes, time seems to go on for ever. Your teacher walks up to the board with a coloured marker in her hand. The board slowly changes from a vast array of whiteness to having colourful numbers and letters, which appear to swim like little fish across the board. The board once resembled your mind, however this new coloured nonsense has changed this. Still you look at the board trying to make something out of this nonsense.
10:49 am
You stare blankly at the board. Pens all around you reach the paper and scribble something that is a wonderful masterpiece for some. The more you stare at these carefully arranged numbers and letter the more your brain blanks out. Still your fingers curl around the pen in such a way that you pick it up and place it to this white paper with carefully ruled faint blue line. Your hand slowly moves neatly copping the colour of the board. Then nothing. Your mind can't produce anything, no masterpiece, only the tick tick ticking of the clock. Eleven minutes to go. Nothing else magically appears on your page. While all the class have their heads down and their pens run across the page you sit there with nothing.
10:52am
The colourful nonsense was erased into a vast white board still representative of your thoughts. However this didn't last long before again the marker made an irritating screeking noise as it moved across the board adding new numbers and letters for the class to solve. You Pen touches the pages to neatly copy down what's on the board at the top of your page. You place your pen down and your eyelids touch and squeeze tightly close. You then open them hoping for a renewed perspective on the colour which fills the board, however, nothing comes to you. Your mind is still blank so you sit there helpless your mind focused on the ticking of the clock, only 8 minutes left of class.
10:53 am
Your teacher comes over to you, interrupting your minds focus on the clock. She appears to notice your blank mind from the outside. "May I help you? Is there any thing I can help with?" She quires. You realise that it is the blank page in front of you which is just as blank as mind. You nod with uncertainty, un sure if that nod was a good decision. Your teacher walks over each step one at a time, point at letters and numbers.
10:55 am
As your teacher leaves you table having explained the colour of the board your eyes are fixed to your page which has the neatly copied down question at the top of your page. Just like the twenty four other students in your class your pen races across your page it's ink leaving behind the solution. You are no longer clueless, and your mind is no long fixed on the tick tick ticking of the clock which tells your there is five minutes left. You mind is now fixed finding the solution.
10:59 am
You finally finish the problem. Everyone around you seems to have finished earlier, however The tick tick ticking of the clock grabs your attention again, you realise it's one minute before the bell. With much relief of finally understanding the solution to the problem you shut the dusty old textbook close with a slam.
11:00am
The beep of the bell causes a loud slam of textbooks closing in unison, before a stampede of students race out the door for recess. This was what you had been waiting for however the understanding maths as a pleasant surprise.
I don't know if the discovery is too simple
Here is your story with some annotations:
Spoiler
10:46 am
You sit there in maths, your eyes stare at the board. In the background of your teachers mumbling jargon the tick tick ticking of the clock catches your attention and reminds you that in fourteen minutes it's recess and that none of this matters. What your teacher is saying is probably important, however no matter how hard you try you don't understand. As you look in front of you, the old textbook with yellow pages lays open accumulating the surrounding dust. The torn and folded, yet thick pages are full of carefully typed questions a diagrams which have fades slightly over the past 40 years they have been used. To you this makes less sense than the jargon your teacher speaks. There are some areas here that are waiting for enhanced imagery. Instead of yellow pages, what about "worn pages with a jaundiced tinge"? I'm curious about what level of maths I'm in.
10:48 am
Tick tick, twelve minutes, time seems to go on for ever. Your teacher walks up to the board with a coloured marker in her hand. The board slowly changes from a vast array of whiteness to having colourful numbers and letters, which appear to swim like little fish across the board. The board once resembled your mind, however this new coloured nonsense has changed this. Still you look at the board trying to make something out of this nonsense. The vast array of whiteness doesn't do it for me here. An array is a range/display. So if there is a range of whiteness on the whiteboard, I'm confused about what this white board really is. How about you go for a metaphor here? Perhaps take a creative metaphor, suggest that it is a canvas and what the teacher writes is some kind of abstract art.
10:49 am
You stare blankly at the board. Pens all around you reach the paper and scribble something that is a wonderful masterpiece for some.This works well with an art metaphor. The more you stare at these carefully arranged numbers and letterS the more your brain blanks out. Still your fingers curl around the pen in such a way that you pick it up and place it to this white paper with carefully ruled faint blue line. Your hand slowly moves neatly copping the colour of the board. Then nothing. Your mind can't produce anything, no masterpiece, only the tick tick ticking of the clock. Eleven minutes to go. Nothing else magically appears on your page. While all the class have their heads down and their pens run across the page you sit there with nothing.
10:52am
The colourful nonsense was erased into a vast white board still representative of your thoughts. However this didn't last long before again the marker made an irritating screeking noise as it moved across the board adding new numbers and letters for the class to solve. You Pen touches the pages to neatly copy down what's on the board at the top of your page. You place your pen down and your eyelids touch and squeeze tightly close. You then open them hoping for a renewed perspective on the colour which fills the board, however, nothing comes to you. Your mind is still blank so you sit there helpless your mind focused on the ticking of the clock, only 8 minutes left of class.
10:53 am
Your teacher comes over to you, interrupting your minds focus on the clock. She appears to notice your blank mind from the outside. "May I help you? Is there any thing I can help with?" She quires. You realise that it is the blank page in front of you which is just as blank as mind. You nod with uncertainty, un sure if that nod was a good decision. Your teacher walks over each step one at a time, point at letters and numbers.
10:55 am
As your teacher leaves you table having explained the colour of the board your eyes are fixed to your page which has the neatly copied down question at the top of your page. Just like the twenty four other students in your class your pen races across your page it's ink leaving behind the solution. You are no longer clueless, and your mind is no long fixed on the tick tick ticking of the clock which tells your there is five minutes left. You mind is now fixed finding the solution.
10:59 am
You finally finish the problem. Everyone around you seems to have finished earlier, however The tick tick ticking of the clock grabs your attention again, you realise it's one minute before the bell. With much relief of finally understanding the solution to the problem you shut the dusty old textbook close with a slam.
11:00am
The beep of the bell causes a loud slam of textbooks closing in unison, before a stampede of students race out the door for recess. This was what you had been waiting for however the understanding maths as a pleasant surprise.
I don't know if the discovery is too simple
You sit there in maths, your eyes stare at the board. In the background of your teachers mumbling jargon the tick tick ticking of the clock catches your attention and reminds you that in fourteen minutes it's recess and that none of this matters. What your teacher is saying is probably important, however no matter how hard you try you don't understand. As you look in front of you, the old textbook with yellow pages lays open accumulating the surrounding dust. The torn and folded, yet thick pages are full of carefully typed questions a diagrams which have fades slightly over the past 40 years they have been used. To you this makes less sense than the jargon your teacher speaks. There are some areas here that are waiting for enhanced imagery. Instead of yellow pages, what about "worn pages with a jaundiced tinge"? I'm curious about what level of maths I'm in.
10:48 am
Tick tick, twelve minutes, time seems to go on for ever. Your teacher walks up to the board with a coloured marker in her hand. The board slowly changes from a vast array of whiteness to having colourful numbers and letters, which appear to swim like little fish across the board. The board once resembled your mind, however this new coloured nonsense has changed this. Still you look at the board trying to make something out of this nonsense. The vast array of whiteness doesn't do it for me here. An array is a range/display. So if there is a range of whiteness on the whiteboard, I'm confused about what this white board really is. How about you go for a metaphor here? Perhaps take a creative metaphor, suggest that it is a canvas and what the teacher writes is some kind of abstract art.
10:49 am
You stare blankly at the board. Pens all around you reach the paper and scribble something that is a wonderful masterpiece for some.This works well with an art metaphor. The more you stare at these carefully arranged numbers and letterS the more your brain blanks out. Still your fingers curl around the pen in such a way that you pick it up and place it to this white paper with carefully ruled faint blue line. Your hand slowly moves neatly copping the colour of the board. Then nothing. Your mind can't produce anything, no masterpiece, only the tick tick ticking of the clock. Eleven minutes to go. Nothing else magically appears on your page. While all the class have their heads down and their pens run across the page you sit there with nothing.
10:52am
The colourful nonsense was erased into a vast white board still representative of your thoughts. However this didn't last long before again the marker made an irritating screeking noise as it moved across the board adding new numbers and letters for the class to solve. You Pen touches the pages to neatly copy down what's on the board at the top of your page. You place your pen down and your eyelids touch and squeeze tightly close. You then open them hoping for a renewed perspective on the colour which fills the board, however, nothing comes to you. Your mind is still blank so you sit there helpless your mind focused on the ticking of the clock, only 8 minutes left of class.
10:53 am
Your teacher comes over to you, interrupting your minds focus on the clock. She appears to notice your blank mind from the outside. "May I help you? Is there any thing I can help with?" She quires. You realise that it is the blank page in front of you which is just as blank as mind. You nod with uncertainty, un sure if that nod was a good decision. Your teacher walks over each step one at a time, point at letters and numbers.
10:55 am
As your teacher leaves you table having explained the colour of the board your eyes are fixed to your page which has the neatly copied down question at the top of your page. Just like the twenty four other students in your class your pen races across your page it's ink leaving behind the solution. You are no longer clueless, and your mind is no long fixed on the tick tick ticking of the clock which tells your there is five minutes left. You mind is now fixed finding the solution.
10:59 am
You finally finish the problem. Everyone around you seems to have finished earlier, however The tick tick ticking of the clock grabs your attention again, you realise it's one minute before the bell. With much relief of finally understanding the solution to the problem you shut the dusty old textbook close with a slam.
11:00am
The beep of the bell causes a loud slam of textbooks closing in unison, before a stampede of students race out the door for recess. This was what you had been waiting for however the understanding maths as a pleasant surprise.
I don't know if the discovery is too simple
You're not wrong in saying that the discovery is simple. There is nothing wrong with this for various parts of the rubric. There is something wrong with this when you get a stimulus that you simply can't relate too. However, you have a good skeleton basis for an enhanced story. This is the route I would take. I suggest you compare mathematics and visual arts. I've already suggested the place for a metaphor up there. The idea would be that you can't see the two as being comparable at all and you prefer art. Then when you start treating the maths equation like an artwork, you finally can see the answer and it no longer seems so distant and bizarre. This is an idea that I'm presenting to you because it makes your story more complex but also adds new elements of discovery that the original story didn't hold. Keep on keeping on!
Post by: MC Latte on February 22, 2016, 12:35:45 pm
And with that sentence it is meant to mainly mean drained as in devoid of water but also the connotation of being emotionally spent as well. Thanks heaps for your time!
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 22, 2016, 12:45:23 pm
Thank you very much Elyse! Yeh I was thinking of changing the hair motif and thanks for the suggestion of expanding the drained feeling. I'll try and come up with a better way of ending it too with that idea in mind.
And with that sentence it is meant to mainly mean drained as in devoid of water but also the connotation of being emotionally spent as well. Thanks heaps for your time!
I love your work MC Latte. Post back any time :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 23, 2016, 10:09:21 am
Here goes...
Hey Elyse, please read my Creative. I'm in desperate need of help, so much so that I have finally found the confidence to post haha.
Thanks!
Yay! I'm so glad to see you here Simone.
Here is a copy of your story unedited:
Spoiler
‘We regret to inform you that your application for graduate study was unsuccessful’. A single drop crept down my cheek as I read that line in my head over and over again, causing me to grip the letter even harder this time. The once smooth edges of the paper were now filled with small lines which branched out from the corners of the page, creating a delicate pattern that mimicked the handiwork of a patient artist. I sat there tracing them with my thumb, the repetitive movement mesmerising me and numbing the pain I felt; temporarily. The hustle and bustle of the waking city was not enough to distract me from my worries. Screeching car noises and the occasional sound of a siren could not fill the emptiness I felt as I sat on the cold pavement in front of my apartment, watching people begin their day whilst I speculated about the possibility of my non-existent future.
The swaying movement of a sleek, black briefcase caught my attention as my eyes scanned over a trench coat and finally making their way to put a face to the hurried individual. I was taken aback by how pompous he looked; with his head tilted downwards and walking in a sidestepped manner, as if avoiding the possibility of the Manhattan crowd stepping on his shiny Italian shoes. His booming, authoritative voice barked orders through his phone as he caught my stare for a few moments, long enough for me to look into his shallow eyes. Annoyance filled his face as he bumped shoulders with a homeless man, confirming his brash persona as he continued along the street crossing and finally, out of my sight. I found his behaviour intriguing, as I pondered upon how someone who seemingly had everything could behave in such a manner.
It was then that I decided to take a walk through the city, eager to forget about the letter and the strange businessman. I soon found myself in Central park and sat down on a park bench. In front of me sat a man in his late fifties, wearing tattered clothes and a beanie. His hands were folded in front of him, his nails caked in dirt. My eyes slowly made their way to his face and what I saw left me dumbfounded. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks hollowed, yet the big smile he gave me reached his eyes, revealing two rows of yellowed teeth. He was the homeless man that bumped into the business man.
I gave him a timid smile, embarrassed that he caught me staring. My mind began to wander off again when his raspy voice addressed me: “Hello, would you mind if I sat next to you?” I shuffled over to the end of the bench, creating a greater space between us than needed. “I promise I don’t bite” he chuckled. His chuckle slowly developed into an eruptive laughter, only to be cut short by a series of hoarse coughs. “I wasn’t always like this.” He confessed. Puzzled, I turned towards him. “A little over a year ago, I was managing the top financial firm in New York City.” He paused, placing a hand over his chest and began to take deep breaths, wincing with every breath. “Are you ok?” I asked as he closed his eyes. He spoke slower this time. “I had a stable job and a some-what loving family until I was diagnosed with lung cancer. My wife and son managed to undermine me while I was at my weakest and took over the company.” I was slightly dazed, not knowing how to react with the information he was voluntarily giving me. “People often ask how I manage to keep a smile on my face. I bet you’re wondering the same thing too.” I nodded, curious to know how anyone could come out of such an adverse situation with a smile. “Your career isn’t everything; at the end of the day, we carry nothing with us to the grave. All that money I used to have, bought me nothing but temporary happiness. Even with everything in the world, I felt like I had nothing. I now know that and live every day to help others because that’s the true meaning of life.” he said as he stared off into the distant city skyline, eyes filled sorrow and regret. He turned back to me and gestured toward my coat pocket. “I know that look on your face and I’m here to tell you that a rejection letter does not determine your personal worth. Choose to find true happiness” he said with a sympathetic look in his eyes and slowly got up, giving me a slight wave before filling the silence with the shuffling of his feet.
That night, I was at war with sleep; tossing and turning until I felt like a defeated wrestler. Pillows were sprawled everywhere, the once comforting sheets now tangled between my legs; holding me down. I shifted my weight to my hip, slowly sitting up amongst the mess that covered my bed. I inched closer to the window and began to escape into a reverie as I watched the busy streets of New York City.
Watching the ant like movement of people made me think about the strangeness of it all; how everyone in this city manages to live separate lives, in a ‘bubble’ if you will. Every individual walking past another, not glancing once to think about the person next to them yet both somehow managing to fit into this microcosm of the greater world to find the true meaning of life. It’s an interesting phenomenon, really. Because now I know: your personal worth is not determined by your qualifications, or how much money you make, but rather how you find your true happiness and share it with others.
The swaying movement of a sleek, black briefcase caught my attention as my eyes scanned over a trench coat and finally making their way to put a face to the hurried individual. I was taken aback by how pompous he looked; with his head tilted downwards and walking in a sidestepped manner, as if avoiding the possibility of the Manhattan crowd stepping on his shiny Italian shoes. His booming, authoritative voice barked orders through his phone as he caught my stare for a few moments, long enough for me to look into his shallow eyes. Annoyance filled his face as he bumped shoulders with a homeless man, confirming his brash persona as he continued along the street crossing and finally, out of my sight. I found his behaviour intriguing, as I pondered upon how someone who seemingly had everything could behave in such a manner.
It was then that I decided to take a walk through the city, eager to forget about the letter and the strange businessman. I soon found myself in Central park and sat down on a park bench. In front of me sat a man in his late fifties, wearing tattered clothes and a beanie. His hands were folded in front of him, his nails caked in dirt. My eyes slowly made their way to his face and what I saw left me dumbfounded. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks hollowed, yet the big smile he gave me reached his eyes, revealing two rows of yellowed teeth. He was the homeless man that bumped into the business man.
I gave him a timid smile, embarrassed that he caught me staring. My mind began to wander off again when his raspy voice addressed me: “Hello, would you mind if I sat next to you?” I shuffled over to the end of the bench, creating a greater space between us than needed. “I promise I don’t bite” he chuckled. His chuckle slowly developed into an eruptive laughter, only to be cut short by a series of hoarse coughs. “I wasn’t always like this.” He confessed. Puzzled, I turned towards him. “A little over a year ago, I was managing the top financial firm in New York City.” He paused, placing a hand over his chest and began to take deep breaths, wincing with every breath. “Are you ok?” I asked as he closed his eyes. He spoke slower this time. “I had a stable job and a some-what loving family until I was diagnosed with lung cancer. My wife and son managed to undermine me while I was at my weakest and took over the company.” I was slightly dazed, not knowing how to react with the information he was voluntarily giving me. “People often ask how I manage to keep a smile on my face. I bet you’re wondering the same thing too.” I nodded, curious to know how anyone could come out of such an adverse situation with a smile. “Your career isn’t everything; at the end of the day, we carry nothing with us to the grave. All that money I used to have, bought me nothing but temporary happiness. Even with everything in the world, I felt like I had nothing. I now know that and live every day to help others because that’s the true meaning of life.” he said as he stared off into the distant city skyline, eyes filled sorrow and regret. He turned back to me and gestured toward my coat pocket. “I know that look on your face and I’m here to tell you that a rejection letter does not determine your personal worth. Choose to find true happiness” he said with a sympathetic look in his eyes and slowly got up, giving me a slight wave before filling the silence with the shuffling of his feet.
That night, I was at war with sleep; tossing and turning until I felt like a defeated wrestler. Pillows were sprawled everywhere, the once comforting sheets now tangled between my legs; holding me down. I shifted my weight to my hip, slowly sitting up amongst the mess that covered my bed. I inched closer to the window and began to escape into a reverie as I watched the busy streets of New York City.
Watching the ant like movement of people made me think about the strangeness of it all; how everyone in this city manages to live separate lives, in a ‘bubble’ if you will. Every individual walking past another, not glancing once to think about the person next to them yet both somehow managing to fit into this microcosm of the greater world to find the true meaning of life. It’s an interesting phenomenon, really. Because now I know: your personal worth is not determined by your qualifications, or how much money you make, but rather how you find your true happiness and share it with others.
And here is a copy of your story which will be annotated as I make my first reading. Afterwards I'll write some endnotes. What you'll be reading here are my first reactions and opinions so that you can gain the insight of how someone who has never read your work feels.
Spoiler
‘We regret to inform you that your application for graduate study was unsuccessful’.
^^This needs to be on its own line - it needs independence, isolation and a chance to resonate with the reader.^^
A single drop crept down my cheek as I read that line in my head over and over again, causing me to grip the letter even harder this time. (The "single drop" or "bead of sweat" is a cliche in stories. Try some even deeper imagery, can you describe that stale ache behind your eyes just before you cry? Try use descriptions that no other student will. You want to stand out!)The once smooth edges of the paper were now filled with small lines which branched out from the corners of the page, creating a delicate pattern that mimicked the handiwork of a patient artist. I sat there tracing them with my thumb, the repetitive movement mesmerising me and numbing the pain I felt; temporarily. The hustle and bustle of the waking city was not enough to distract me from my worries. Screeching car noises and the occasional sound of a siren could not fill the emptiness I felt as I sat on the cold pavement in front of my apartment, watching people begin their day whilst I speculated about the possibility of my non-existent future. (I really like that you haven't gone overboard with imagery. It is very easy for me to see you sitting on the pavement because it isn't too crowded with descriptions of physicality. That's a very good merit to your work. However, I am confused by what the lines on the page are? They sound lovely - but logistically I am confused.)
The swaying movement of a sleek, black briefcase caught my attention as my eyes scanned over a trench coat and finally making their way to put a face to the hurried individual.(This is a small technical thing but you have switched tenses in your verbs. You've gone from "scanned" to "making." These are the small things that may stick out to a marker - easily fixed!" I was taken aback by how pompous he looked; with his head tilted downwards and walking in a sidestepped manner, as if avoiding the possibility of the Manhattan crowd stepping on his shiny Italian shoes. (The Italian part is very nice. A very nice touch).His booming, authoritative voice barked orders through his phone as he caught my stare for a few moments, long enough for me to look into his shallow eyes. Annoyance filled his face as he bumped shoulders with a homeless man, confirming his brash persona as he continued along the street crossing and finally, out of my sight. I found his behaviour intriguing, as I pondered upon how someone who seemingly had everything could behave in such a manner. If you want to talk about him having it all I'd throw some little extra things in there. Instead of "shiny italian shoes" I'd go for "rich italian shoes," and possibly add something about the phone he has or a big brass watch. Just because, at the moment what is standing out to me more is his brash persona than his wealth. So when you say to me that he seemingly had everything, I had to think "oh does he??" So it is just a small change and youll be fixed right up here.)
It was then that I decided to take a walk through the city, eager to forget about the letter and the strange businessman. I soon found myself in Central park and sat down on a park bench. In front of me sat a man in his late fifties, wearing tattered clothes and a beanie. His hands were folded in front of him, his nails caked in dirt. The nails are a really nice touch!My eyes slowly made their way to his face and what I saw left me dumbfounded. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks hollowed, yet the big smile he gave me reached his eyes, revealing two rows of yellowed teeth. He was the homeless man that bumped into the business man.
I gave him a timid smile, embarrassed that he caught me staring. My mind began to wander off again when his raspy voice addressed me: “Hello, would you mind if I sat next to you?” I shuffled over to the end of the bench, creating a greater space between us than needed. “I promise I don’t bite” he chuckled. (You've got to use the correct speech conventions for a story. I know it is easy to want to embed them but you will need to make sure that when a new person speaks, it sits on a new line with an indent.)His chuckle slowly developed into an eruptive laughter, only to be cut short by a series of hoarse coughs. “I wasn’t always like this.” He confessed. Puzzled, I turned towards him. “A little over a year ago, I was managing the top financial firm in New York City.” He paused, placing a hand over his chest and began to take deep breaths, wincing with every breath. (Again, start the "Are you Okay?" on the next line. :)"“Are you ok?” I asked as he closed his eyes. He spoke slower this time. “I had a stable job and a some-what loving family until I was diagnosed with lung cancer. My wife and son managed to undermine me while I was at my weakest and took over the company.” I was slightly dazed, not knowing how to react with the information he was voluntarily giving me.(I have an idea for the sentence I just read. Instead of "voluntarily giving me" how about "uninvited/unexpected but very welcome words." Because it never crossed my mind that what he said wasn't voluntary. You don't need to say that." “People often ask how I manage to keep a smile on my face. I bet you’re wondering the same thing too.” I nodded, curious to know how anyone could come out of such an adverse situation with a smile. “Your career isn’t everything; at the end of the day, we carry nothing with us to the grave. All that money I used to have, bought me nothing but temporary happiness. Even with everything in the world, I felt like I had nothing. I now know that and live every day to help others because that’s the true meaning of life.” he said as he stared off into the distant city skyline, eyes filled sorrow and regret. He turned back to me and gestured toward my coat pocket. “I know that look on your face and I’m here to tell you that a rejection letter does not determine your personal worth. Choose to find true happiness” he said with a sympathetic look in his eyes and slowly got up, giving me a slight wave before filling the silence with the shuffling of his feet.
That night, I was at war with sleep; tossing and turning until I felt like a defeated wrestler. Pillows were sprawled everywhere, the once comforting sheets now tangled between my legs; holding me down. I shifted my weight to my hip, slowly sitting up amongst the mess that covered my bed. I inched closer to the window and began to escape into a reverie as I watched the busy streets of New York City. (This here is a very nice paragraph. I loved every part of it!!!)
Watching the ant like movement of people made me think about the strangeness of it all; how everyone in this city manages to live separate lives, in a ‘bubble’ if you will. Every individual walking past another, not glancing once to think about the person next to them yet both somehow managing to fit into this microcosm of the greater world to find the true meaning of life. It’s an interesting phenomenon, really. Because now I know: your personal worth is not determined by your qualifications, or how much money you make, but rather how you find your true happiness and share it with others.
^^This needs to be on its own line - it needs independence, isolation and a chance to resonate with the reader.^^
A single drop crept down my cheek as I read that line in my head over and over again, causing me to grip the letter even harder this time. (The "single drop" or "bead of sweat" is a cliche in stories. Try some even deeper imagery, can you describe that stale ache behind your eyes just before you cry? Try use descriptions that no other student will. You want to stand out!)The once smooth edges of the paper were now filled with small lines which branched out from the corners of the page, creating a delicate pattern that mimicked the handiwork of a patient artist. I sat there tracing them with my thumb, the repetitive movement mesmerising me and numbing the pain I felt; temporarily. The hustle and bustle of the waking city was not enough to distract me from my worries. Screeching car noises and the occasional sound of a siren could not fill the emptiness I felt as I sat on the cold pavement in front of my apartment, watching people begin their day whilst I speculated about the possibility of my non-existent future. (I really like that you haven't gone overboard with imagery. It is very easy for me to see you sitting on the pavement because it isn't too crowded with descriptions of physicality. That's a very good merit to your work. However, I am confused by what the lines on the page are? They sound lovely - but logistically I am confused.)
The swaying movement of a sleek, black briefcase caught my attention as my eyes scanned over a trench coat and finally making their way to put a face to the hurried individual.(This is a small technical thing but you have switched tenses in your verbs. You've gone from "scanned" to "making." These are the small things that may stick out to a marker - easily fixed!" I was taken aback by how pompous he looked; with his head tilted downwards and walking in a sidestepped manner, as if avoiding the possibility of the Manhattan crowd stepping on his shiny Italian shoes. (The Italian part is very nice. A very nice touch).His booming, authoritative voice barked orders through his phone as he caught my stare for a few moments, long enough for me to look into his shallow eyes. Annoyance filled his face as he bumped shoulders with a homeless man, confirming his brash persona as he continued along the street crossing and finally, out of my sight. I found his behaviour intriguing, as I pondered upon how someone who seemingly had everything could behave in such a manner. If you want to talk about him having it all I'd throw some little extra things in there. Instead of "shiny italian shoes" I'd go for "rich italian shoes," and possibly add something about the phone he has or a big brass watch. Just because, at the moment what is standing out to me more is his brash persona than his wealth. So when you say to me that he seemingly had everything, I had to think "oh does he??" So it is just a small change and youll be fixed right up here.)
It was then that I decided to take a walk through the city, eager to forget about the letter and the strange businessman. I soon found myself in Central park and sat down on a park bench. In front of me sat a man in his late fifties, wearing tattered clothes and a beanie. His hands were folded in front of him, his nails caked in dirt. The nails are a really nice touch!My eyes slowly made their way to his face and what I saw left me dumbfounded. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks hollowed, yet the big smile he gave me reached his eyes, revealing two rows of yellowed teeth. He was the homeless man that bumped into the business man.
I gave him a timid smile, embarrassed that he caught me staring. My mind began to wander off again when his raspy voice addressed me: “Hello, would you mind if I sat next to you?” I shuffled over to the end of the bench, creating a greater space between us than needed. “I promise I don’t bite” he chuckled. (You've got to use the correct speech conventions for a story. I know it is easy to want to embed them but you will need to make sure that when a new person speaks, it sits on a new line with an indent.)His chuckle slowly developed into an eruptive laughter, only to be cut short by a series of hoarse coughs. “I wasn’t always like this.” He confessed. Puzzled, I turned towards him. “A little over a year ago, I was managing the top financial firm in New York City.” He paused, placing a hand over his chest and began to take deep breaths, wincing with every breath. (Again, start the "Are you Okay?" on the next line. :)"“Are you ok?” I asked as he closed his eyes. He spoke slower this time. “I had a stable job and a some-what loving family until I was diagnosed with lung cancer. My wife and son managed to undermine me while I was at my weakest and took over the company.” I was slightly dazed, not knowing how to react with the information he was voluntarily giving me.(I have an idea for the sentence I just read. Instead of "voluntarily giving me" how about "uninvited/unexpected but very welcome words." Because it never crossed my mind that what he said wasn't voluntary. You don't need to say that." “People often ask how I manage to keep a smile on my face. I bet you’re wondering the same thing too.” I nodded, curious to know how anyone could come out of such an adverse situation with a smile. “Your career isn’t everything; at the end of the day, we carry nothing with us to the grave. All that money I used to have, bought me nothing but temporary happiness. Even with everything in the world, I felt like I had nothing. I now know that and live every day to help others because that’s the true meaning of life.” he said as he stared off into the distant city skyline, eyes filled sorrow and regret. He turned back to me and gestured toward my coat pocket. “I know that look on your face and I’m here to tell you that a rejection letter does not determine your personal worth. Choose to find true happiness” he said with a sympathetic look in his eyes and slowly got up, giving me a slight wave before filling the silence with the shuffling of his feet.
That night, I was at war with sleep; tossing and turning until I felt like a defeated wrestler. Pillows were sprawled everywhere, the once comforting sheets now tangled between my legs; holding me down. I shifted my weight to my hip, slowly sitting up amongst the mess that covered my bed. I inched closer to the window and began to escape into a reverie as I watched the busy streets of New York City. (This here is a very nice paragraph. I loved every part of it!!!)
Watching the ant like movement of people made me think about the strangeness of it all; how everyone in this city manages to live separate lives, in a ‘bubble’ if you will. Every individual walking past another, not glancing once to think about the person next to them yet both somehow managing to fit into this microcosm of the greater world to find the true meaning of life. It’s an interesting phenomenon, really. Because now I know: your personal worth is not determined by your qualifications, or how much money you make, but rather how you find your true happiness and share it with others.
End Notes:
Okay, so, I LOVE THIS!!!
What do I love about it?
-Do you follow Humans of New York on facebook or instagram? To me, I imagined it to be very much like the photos from Central Park. I love that.
-You don't struggle with words. In these early stages many people find that the more verbose their language is the better their story should be received. But that isn't the case at all. Right from the beginning I could see your delicate frankness of language which was truly admirable.
-The discovery element: It is there physically when he receives the letter. It is there spiritually when he changes his mind set. It is their emotionally. It is transformative of his perspective. Plus more! It ticks a lot of discovery options.
How to improve?
I've added some things throughout your story, just little tweaking things. But I also think you have the opportunity to enhance the story in terms of its plot, making it a little more complicated. You are in a position to do this because your language is just right at the moment, so you can look at improving it elsewhere. I can't tell you exactly how to do it because it is your story but I can propose a few things. I need to know a little more about this trench coat character. Maybe the homeless man knows about him? Does he know his stocks are about to fall or does he know that he made his way through fraud? It's just an idea and it is totally up to you what you want to add in because the story is great right now. But few students are at a stage this early in the year where they can play with plot, so if you think you are too, work with it. But there is nothing structurally wrong with your work right now. You've done an awesome job I'm very impressed!
Post back any time with any questions :)
Post by: lowrifunnell on March 03, 2016, 08:35:20 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 04, 2016, 05:12:30 pm
hi! I don't really have any particular concerns for my narrative apart from all of it :) thanks so much for doing this!!
Hey! It is my pleasure to do this :)
Here is your original, unedited creative:
Spoiler
The wind whipped my hair around my face as the car door slammed behind me. The air was thick with moisture. A storm was brewing.
As I entered the house and threw my keys on the counter, the first drops of rain were beginning to fling themselves at the frosted window panes. By the time I sank into a chair, it was pelting down with rain, droplets of water plummeting to their demise. Just like my career. When I graduated from Oxford at the top of my class, my career in astrophysics, specialising in the fabric of space-time, had looked promising. Now, 10 years later, my research job is slowly, yet surely, becoming my biggest failure yet. And that includes wearing socks with sandals.
No matter which calculations I tried, which formula I used, I always ended up with the same answer. The wrong answer. There must be some significance to it, I just can't figure it out. Maybe I never will. Maybe they were right, maybe I'll never be smart enough for this. The rain and wind was battering my window, threatening to smash it into shards. Stacks of notes were piled high, looming, teetering over me, each page threatening to spill from its pile and slice through the air in a storm of white and ink. Each page bearing the number 2.13765. It was inescapable. The rain outside intensified, lightning split the sky as if it were nothing but paper, illuminating the room and pulling my gaze towards my shelves, where a simple box was hiding behind papers and books. I yanked the box from its dust ridden place, resolving to focus on something else. Anything to take my mind off my failing experiments and theories.
The box had always fascinated me, I’d found it in the attic, and no one seemed to remember where it had come from. It was tall and wooden, with eight ornate, intricately carved sides. On the lid of the box was what looked like a combination lock. I’d tried every combination I could think of, every birthday, every significant date. So far nothing had worked. When I tipped the box on its side I could hear its contents slide around inside. I’d always wondered what could be inside.
I wonder…
I didn’t know why it would work, that wouldn’t make any sense, but I supposed that there was no harm in trying. I twisted the lock to face the two, then the one, three, seven, and six. Taking a final, deep breath, I clicked the lock over to the five. There was a small hiss as the lock slides out of place. The storm outside had calmed, but thunder rolled over faraway hills, as if in retreat, not nearly as loud as the blood roaring in my ears, racing through my veins, pulsing through my body like electricity.
The next day I raced into work, found an empty lab and locked myself in. Only then did I pull the box out of my bag and set it on the desk in amidst my failed experiments and calculations. I didn’t know what I might find, only that it would be instrumental in my life. The box stared up at me unassumingly, unaware of the impact it was about to make on my life, on everyone’s lives. Unable to wait any longer, I squeezed my eyes shut and prised off the lid. The contents appeared to be those of a time capsule, a handful of cinema ticket stubs, a CD of a band I’d never heard of, a photo of a family, clearer than anything I’d seen before, and a newspaper article. A newspaper article titled ‘Only Time Will Tell’, and dated December 6th, 2016. It didn’t make any sense, that was twenty years in the future. Skimming over the article, I thought it must be a practical joke, played by one of my more insensitive colleagues. The article was about time travel. There weren’t many details, but it looked like someone had finally done it, they had invented time travel. I was just about to storm out of my lab and command the rest of the scientists to explain themselves, when I saw one more item at the bottom of the box, tucked into a gap in the wooden corner. It was a tiny piece of ripped paper with a short sentence on it. a short sentence in my own handwriting.
‘You can do it, I promise’
As I entered the house and threw my keys on the counter, the first drops of rain were beginning to fling themselves at the frosted window panes. By the time I sank into a chair, it was pelting down with rain, droplets of water plummeting to their demise. Just like my career. When I graduated from Oxford at the top of my class, my career in astrophysics, specialising in the fabric of space-time, had looked promising. Now, 10 years later, my research job is slowly, yet surely, becoming my biggest failure yet. And that includes wearing socks with sandals.
No matter which calculations I tried, which formula I used, I always ended up with the same answer. The wrong answer. There must be some significance to it, I just can't figure it out. Maybe I never will. Maybe they were right, maybe I'll never be smart enough for this. The rain and wind was battering my window, threatening to smash it into shards. Stacks of notes were piled high, looming, teetering over me, each page threatening to spill from its pile and slice through the air in a storm of white and ink. Each page bearing the number 2.13765. It was inescapable. The rain outside intensified, lightning split the sky as if it were nothing but paper, illuminating the room and pulling my gaze towards my shelves, where a simple box was hiding behind papers and books. I yanked the box from its dust ridden place, resolving to focus on something else. Anything to take my mind off my failing experiments and theories.
The box had always fascinated me, I’d found it in the attic, and no one seemed to remember where it had come from. It was tall and wooden, with eight ornate, intricately carved sides. On the lid of the box was what looked like a combination lock. I’d tried every combination I could think of, every birthday, every significant date. So far nothing had worked. When I tipped the box on its side I could hear its contents slide around inside. I’d always wondered what could be inside.
I wonder…
I didn’t know why it would work, that wouldn’t make any sense, but I supposed that there was no harm in trying. I twisted the lock to face the two, then the one, three, seven, and six. Taking a final, deep breath, I clicked the lock over to the five. There was a small hiss as the lock slides out of place. The storm outside had calmed, but thunder rolled over faraway hills, as if in retreat, not nearly as loud as the blood roaring in my ears, racing through my veins, pulsing through my body like electricity.
The next day I raced into work, found an empty lab and locked myself in. Only then did I pull the box out of my bag and set it on the desk in amidst my failed experiments and calculations. I didn’t know what I might find, only that it would be instrumental in my life. The box stared up at me unassumingly, unaware of the impact it was about to make on my life, on everyone’s lives. Unable to wait any longer, I squeezed my eyes shut and prised off the lid. The contents appeared to be those of a time capsule, a handful of cinema ticket stubs, a CD of a band I’d never heard of, a photo of a family, clearer than anything I’d seen before, and a newspaper article. A newspaper article titled ‘Only Time Will Tell’, and dated December 6th, 2016. It didn’t make any sense, that was twenty years in the future. Skimming over the article, I thought it must be a practical joke, played by one of my more insensitive colleagues. The article was about time travel. There weren’t many details, but it looked like someone had finally done it, they had invented time travel. I was just about to storm out of my lab and command the rest of the scientists to explain themselves, when I saw one more item at the bottom of the box, tucked into a gap in the wooden corner. It was a tiny piece of ripped paper with a short sentence on it. a short sentence in my own handwriting.
‘You can do it, I promise’
Here is your creative with my thoughts:
Spoiler
The wind whipped my hair around my face as the car door slammed behind me. The air was thick with moisture. A storm was brewing. I like how you've used a longer sentence and then two short ones. Already you're showing great sentence variation.
As I entered the house and threw my keys on the counter, the first drops of rain were beginning to fling themselves at the frosted window panes. By the time I sank into a chair, it was pelting down with rain, droplets of water plummeting to their demise. Just like my career. When I graduated from Oxford at the top of my class, my career in astrophysics, specialising in the fabric of space-time, had looked promising. Now, 10 years later, my research job is slowly, yet surely, (Slowly yet surely is a cliche. Try avoid this. The reason being, your reader reads the beginning and they think they know what finishes it, and when you change it to be something else you draw in the reader's attention again. Even if you change "surely" for "undoubtedly" it will still have this effect!) becoming my biggest failure yet. And that includes wearing socks with sandals. I love this bit of humour. However, there are people who actually do this and see nothing wrong with it *cringe*. Socks with thongs is where its at.
No matter which calculations I tried, which formula I used, I always ended up with the same answer. The wrong answer. There must be some significance to it, I just can't figure it out. Maybe I never will. Maybe they were right, maybe I'll never be smart enough for this. The rain and wind was battering my window, threatening to smash it into shards. Stacks of notes were piled high, looming, teetering over me, each page threatening to spill from its pile and slice through the air in a storm of white and ink. Each page bearing the number 2.13765. It was inescapable. The rain outside intensified, lightning split the sky as if it were nothing but paper, illuminating the room and pulling my gaze towards my shelves, where a simple box was hiding behind papers and books. I yanked the box from its dust ridden place, resolving to focus on something else. Anything to take my mind off my failing experiments and theories.
The box had always fascinated me, I’d found it in the attic, and no one seemed to remember where it had come from. It was tall and wooden, with eight ornate, intricately carved sides. On the lid of the box was what looked like a combination lock. I’d tried every combination I could think of, every birthday, every significant date. So far nothing had worked. When I tipped the box on its side I could hear its contents slide around inside. I’d always wondered what could be inside.
I wonder…
I didn’t know why it would work, that wouldn’t make any sense, but I supposed that there was no harm in trying. I twisted the lock to face the two, then the one, three, seven, and six. Taking a final, deep breath, I clicked the lock over to the five. There was a small hiss as the lock slides out of place. The storm outside had calmed, but thunder rolled over faraway hills, as if in retreat, not nearly as loud as the blood roaring in my ears, racing through my veins, pulsing through my body like electricity.
The next day I raced into work, found an empty lab and locked myself in. Only then did I pull the box out of my bag and set it on the desk in amidst my failed experiments and calculations. I didn’t know what I might find, only that it would be instrumental in my life. The box stared up at me unassumingly, unaware of the impact it was about to make on my life, on everyone’s lives. Unable to wait any longer, I squeezed my eyes shut and prised off the lid. The contents appeared to be those of a time capsule, a handful of cinema ticket stubs, a CD of a band I’d never heard of, a photo of a family, clearer than anything I’d seen before, and a newspaper article. A newspaper article titled ‘Only Time Will Tell’, and dated December 6th, 2016. It didn’t make any sense, that was twenty years in the future. Skimming over the article, I thought it must be a practical joke, played by one of my more insensitive colleagues. The article was about time travel. There weren’t many details, but it looked like someone had finally done it, they had invented time travel. I was just about to storm out of my lab and command the rest of the scientists to explain themselves, when I saw one more item at the bottom of the box, tucked into a gap in the wooden corner. It was a tiny piece of ripped paper with a short sentence on it. a short sentence in my own handwriting.
‘You can do it, I promise’
As I entered the house and threw my keys on the counter, the first drops of rain were beginning to fling themselves at the frosted window panes. By the time I sank into a chair, it was pelting down with rain, droplets of water plummeting to their demise. Just like my career. When I graduated from Oxford at the top of my class, my career in astrophysics, specialising in the fabric of space-time, had looked promising. Now, 10 years later, my research job is slowly, yet surely, (Slowly yet surely is a cliche. Try avoid this. The reason being, your reader reads the beginning and they think they know what finishes it, and when you change it to be something else you draw in the reader's attention again. Even if you change "surely" for "undoubtedly" it will still have this effect!) becoming my biggest failure yet. And that includes wearing socks with sandals. I love this bit of humour. However, there are people who actually do this and see nothing wrong with it *cringe*. Socks with thongs is where its at.
No matter which calculations I tried, which formula I used, I always ended up with the same answer. The wrong answer. There must be some significance to it, I just can't figure it out. Maybe I never will. Maybe they were right, maybe I'll never be smart enough for this. The rain and wind was battering my window, threatening to smash it into shards. Stacks of notes were piled high, looming, teetering over me, each page threatening to spill from its pile and slice through the air in a storm of white and ink. Each page bearing the number 2.13765. It was inescapable. The rain outside intensified, lightning split the sky as if it were nothing but paper, illuminating the room and pulling my gaze towards my shelves, where a simple box was hiding behind papers and books. I yanked the box from its dust ridden place, resolving to focus on something else. Anything to take my mind off my failing experiments and theories.
The box had always fascinated me, I’d found it in the attic, and no one seemed to remember where it had come from. It was tall and wooden, with eight ornate, intricately carved sides. On the lid of the box was what looked like a combination lock. I’d tried every combination I could think of, every birthday, every significant date. So far nothing had worked. When I tipped the box on its side I could hear its contents slide around inside. I’d always wondered what could be inside.
I wonder…
I didn’t know why it would work, that wouldn’t make any sense, but I supposed that there was no harm in trying. I twisted the lock to face the two, then the one, three, seven, and six. Taking a final, deep breath, I clicked the lock over to the five. There was a small hiss as the lock slides out of place. The storm outside had calmed, but thunder rolled over faraway hills, as if in retreat, not nearly as loud as the blood roaring in my ears, racing through my veins, pulsing through my body like electricity.
The next day I raced into work, found an empty lab and locked myself in. Only then did I pull the box out of my bag and set it on the desk in amidst my failed experiments and calculations. I didn’t know what I might find, only that it would be instrumental in my life. The box stared up at me unassumingly, unaware of the impact it was about to make on my life, on everyone’s lives. Unable to wait any longer, I squeezed my eyes shut and prised off the lid. The contents appeared to be those of a time capsule, a handful of cinema ticket stubs, a CD of a band I’d never heard of, a photo of a family, clearer than anything I’d seen before, and a newspaper article. A newspaper article titled ‘Only Time Will Tell’, and dated December 6th, 2016. It didn’t make any sense, that was twenty years in the future. Skimming over the article, I thought it must be a practical joke, played by one of my more insensitive colleagues. The article was about time travel. There weren’t many details, but it looked like someone had finally done it, they had invented time travel. I was just about to storm out of my lab and command the rest of the scientists to explain themselves, when I saw one more item at the bottom of the box, tucked into a gap in the wooden corner. It was a tiny piece of ripped paper with a short sentence on it. a short sentence in my own handwriting.
‘You can do it, I promise’
OMG WOW.
The end bit is great. I didn't see it coming! So that is definitely a good sign.
The next step for you is to improve the persona's voice. There was that touch of humour in there which was great (socks and sandals) but I want to see a little bit more of it. This isn't because I want your piece to be funny, but because I want your character to be more than just sorry for themself. To me, the person seems bland, tired, depressed, boring. When in fact, I want them to be passionate but defeated, humorous but fatigued, on the verge of giving up, but not quite yet. Adding to the persona's personality and mannerisms will create interest in the story where it lulls. I mean, aside from the introduction and the getting into the box, it is a lull. This is the time for you to create the persona to be tangible.
Let's talk about discovery:
The reader makes a discovery, but so does the persona. The discovery is made at the same point for both, so that's great because it enhances the reader's understanding of what the persona feels.
A few things that I want to comment on that I'm a bit confused about, so perhaps you can take this on board. If you want to leave some of these as enigmas, that's totally fine. If you want to change it up to answer the questions, you can do that too.
1. The number on the page, the 2.#####. I guessed that this number is a result that he keeps coming up with even though it is incorrect? Is it a sign from the universe that it is actually the box's lock?
2. Is he in a shared laboratory? Because I see him in complete isolation, but then he wants to speak to the other scientists for a moment there?
3. Adding to the environment, there's an attic? This is what made me picture the persona being at home. Then the scientists came into it?
In all, this is a great piece. You should be very proud. Don't hesitate to add more to it or change things and post back. You have set yourself up for success in this creative.
You should get your hands on as many possible questions and stimuli as possible. This includes 2015 HSC exam, 2015 trials and 2015 half yearly exams. Apply your creative to this so that you can see just how it ticks the discovery boxes. If you find there is a question that you simply cannot adapt to: don't ignore it. You're ahead of a lot of people in that you have a great story already, so use this advantage to have a look at adapting the creative :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 07, 2016, 04:50:29 pm
Hi Elyse!
It would be such a privilege if you could give me your advice on this creative I wrote! Just wanted to know whether this was band 6 material and if you could point out any errors and give me advice on how to heighten it! Thank you so so much for you help I am so glad that I can send this to you, and I am forever greatful :)
Hey there! Here is your original, unedited creative:
Spoiler
With Knowledge comes power.
Oppenheimer was unaware that his brilliance would unleash a monstrous mammoth upon mankind: the first atomic bomb, 1965.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world”
The rest was history.
She had read somewhere that the cure for cancer was being suppressed between the calloused palms of business firms and medical institutions. Little did she know the implication of leaking this wealth of Knowledge onto society’s deprived soul. She calls it justice.
You and I would call it corruption.
***
Dr Samitha bathed her profuse charcoal hair unctuously with lavender Amla oil. Her sunken eyes weathered from years of reading, revising, and rendering, framed delicately with her chipped glasses which danced on the crook of her nose.
She hoisted the scissors against her hairline, which burnt cold against her tender dark skin, hungry for the charcoal. It was like an anesthetic to her pitiful domestic existence; the hammer that could shatter the glass ceiling.
She thought against it.
Soon all her hard work, in the domain of gender constructs would be acknowledged.
Hair tightly held back and teeth clenched, Dr Samitha staggered within the familiar suffocating magnolia walls brushed with undertones of bleach. She scavenged through myriads of medical chronicles and hunched methodically over the lab table.
Three years ago the clocks struck thirteen, and she was devoid of her loving Amma whom so willingly brushed her thick hair and kissed her cheek with adoration.
“Just make sure you own your career, don’t let it own you like so many people…” Those final whispers in the air cradled her ear – when her dear Amma was stolen by death himself, succumbing to leukemia.
1080 days of dedication.
She held the test tube against the fluorescent bursts for clarity and squinted at the immune system culture of T cell components – years of trial, error and perfection. With a generous drop from a micropipette, she peeked hesitantly into the lens of the electron microscope plated with diaphanous silver. Dr Samitha used her paraphernalia to genetically engineer a CD19 receptor onto the T & B cells amongst the tumorous cells.
The calm before the storm: deep palpitations throbbed against her ear drums. Hot air smothered against her throat, rivulets of sweat adhered to skin. The smell of bleach tickled her nostrils.
The T-cells crowded the cancerous cells like a flock of birds surrounding a meaty prey.
Dr Samitha gripped the table until her pale fingers barren of colour were nostalgic for sensation. She pecked the test tube and elevated the translucent solution against the stark light in awe, a tearful blurry view.
They would never understand her sacrifice.
Her eyes hesitantly lingered over the AAAS card to inform this scientific breakthrough that would pave history. She would be sitting in the hall of fame beside Francis Crick and James Watson.
So why was she holding back?
***
The East Wind mockingly whistled over the jungle bursting with buildings. The stagnant traffic accompanies incessant honking and yelping. An exponential population upsurge was experienced 50 years since the unearthing of the cure to cancer.
The Actuary’s job is non-existent – that rich business man’s job is thriving.
The citizens faces permeate gloom and not joy; misery and not happiness.
A social class was effortlessly re-established – the rich, rich enough to devour in such remedies and the poor, poor enough to suffer in such atrocities.
A window into what was hoped to be utopia was replaced with dystopia.
***
She wept.
So why was she holding back?
Her grip on the test tube tensed.
She could pay off her hefty university fees; compensate those years of slavery as a victim to the heinous act of cancer; shower in fame and shed the limelight on gender inequality.
Her grip on the test tube constricted furthermore and the smell of bleach heightened.
They will never understand her sacrifice.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world”
The test tube fractured under pressure, lacerating Dr Samitha, caking her hand in a rich maroon tapestry.
With Knowledge comes power – a power too rich in magnitude to tame.
Oppenheimer was unaware that his brilliance would unleash a monstrous mammoth upon mankind: the first atomic bomb, 1965.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world”
The rest was history.
She had read somewhere that the cure for cancer was being suppressed between the calloused palms of business firms and medical institutions. Little did she know the implication of leaking this wealth of Knowledge onto society’s deprived soul. She calls it justice.
You and I would call it corruption.
***
Dr Samitha bathed her profuse charcoal hair unctuously with lavender Amla oil. Her sunken eyes weathered from years of reading, revising, and rendering, framed delicately with her chipped glasses which danced on the crook of her nose.
She hoisted the scissors against her hairline, which burnt cold against her tender dark skin, hungry for the charcoal. It was like an anesthetic to her pitiful domestic existence; the hammer that could shatter the glass ceiling.
She thought against it.
Soon all her hard work, in the domain of gender constructs would be acknowledged.
Hair tightly held back and teeth clenched, Dr Samitha staggered within the familiar suffocating magnolia walls brushed with undertones of bleach. She scavenged through myriads of medical chronicles and hunched methodically over the lab table.
Three years ago the clocks struck thirteen, and she was devoid of her loving Amma whom so willingly brushed her thick hair and kissed her cheek with adoration.
“Just make sure you own your career, don’t let it own you like so many people…” Those final whispers in the air cradled her ear – when her dear Amma was stolen by death himself, succumbing to leukemia.
1080 days of dedication.
She held the test tube against the fluorescent bursts for clarity and squinted at the immune system culture of T cell components – years of trial, error and perfection. With a generous drop from a micropipette, she peeked hesitantly into the lens of the electron microscope plated with diaphanous silver. Dr Samitha used her paraphernalia to genetically engineer a CD19 receptor onto the T & B cells amongst the tumorous cells.
The calm before the storm: deep palpitations throbbed against her ear drums. Hot air smothered against her throat, rivulets of sweat adhered to skin. The smell of bleach tickled her nostrils.
The T-cells crowded the cancerous cells like a flock of birds surrounding a meaty prey.
Dr Samitha gripped the table until her pale fingers barren of colour were nostalgic for sensation. She pecked the test tube and elevated the translucent solution against the stark light in awe, a tearful blurry view.
They would never understand her sacrifice.
Her eyes hesitantly lingered over the AAAS card to inform this scientific breakthrough that would pave history. She would be sitting in the hall of fame beside Francis Crick and James Watson.
So why was she holding back?
***
The East Wind mockingly whistled over the jungle bursting with buildings. The stagnant traffic accompanies incessant honking and yelping. An exponential population upsurge was experienced 50 years since the unearthing of the cure to cancer.
The Actuary’s job is non-existent – that rich business man’s job is thriving.
The citizens faces permeate gloom and not joy; misery and not happiness.
A social class was effortlessly re-established – the rich, rich enough to devour in such remedies and the poor, poor enough to suffer in such atrocities.
A window into what was hoped to be utopia was replaced with dystopia.
***
She wept.
So why was she holding back?
Her grip on the test tube tensed.
She could pay off her hefty university fees; compensate those years of slavery as a victim to the heinous act of cancer; shower in fame and shed the limelight on gender inequality.
Her grip on the test tube constricted furthermore and the smell of bleach heightened.
They will never understand her sacrifice.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world”
The test tube fractured under pressure, lacerating Dr Samitha, caking her hand in a rich maroon tapestry.
With Knowledge comes power – a power too rich in magnitude to tame.
Here is your creative with some of my own comments, they will be written in bold :)
Spoiler
With Knowledge comes power.
Oppenheimer was unaware that his brilliance would unleash a monstrous mammoth upon mankind: the first atomic bomb, 1965. You could be saying this because it is an imaginative piece and not factual, but the first Atomic Bomb blast was on July 16 in 1945. This might stick out to a marker as being something to throw them early on, particularly if they are a history teacher as well.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world”
The rest was history.
She had read somewhere that the cure for cancer was being suppressed between the calloused palms of business firms and medical institutions. I'm dying over this sentence. "Calloused palms of business firms" WOW WOW WOW! Little did she know the implication of leaking this wealth of Knowledge onto society’s deprived soul. She calls it justice.
You and I would call it corruption. I love that I'm pulled in here. "You and I"
***
Dr Samitha bathed her profuse charcoal hair unctuously with lavender Amla oil. Her sunken eyes, weathered from years of reading, revising, and rendering, were framed delicately withher chipped glasses which that danced on the crook of her nose.
She hoisted the scissors against her hairline, which burnt cold against her tender dark skin, hungry for the charcoal.I'm just a bit confused here regarding what exactly is "hungry for the charcoal." It was like an anesthetic to her pitiful domestic existence; the hammer that could shatter the glass ceiling.
She thought against it.
Soon all her hard work, in the domain of gender constructs would be acknowledged.
Hair tightly held back and teeth clenched, Dr Samitha staggered within the familiar suffocating magnolia walls brushed with undertones of bleach. She scavenged through myriads of medical chronicles and hunched methodically over the lab table.
Three years ago the clocks struck thirteen, and she was devoid of her loving Amma whom so willingly brushed her thick hair and kissed her cheek with adoration.
“Just make sure you own your career, don’t let it own you like so many people…” Those final whispers in the air cradled her ear – when her dear Amma was stolen by death himself, succumbing to leukemia.
1080 days of dedication.
She held the test tube against the fluorescent bursts for clarity and squinted at the immune system culture of T cell components – years of trial, error and perfection. With a generous drop from a micropipette, she peeked hesitantly into the lens of the electron microscope plated with diaphanous silver. Dr Samitha used her paraphernalia to genetically engineer a CD19 receptor onto the T & B cells amongst the tumorous cells.
The calm before the storm: deep palpitations throbbed against her ear drums. Hot air smothered against her throat, rivulets of sweat adhered to skin. The smell of bleach tickled her nostrils.
The T-cells crowded the cancerous cells like a flock of birds surrounding a meaty prey.
Dr Samitha gripped the table until her pale fingers barren of colour were nostalgic for sensation. She pecked the test tube and elevated the translucent solution against the stark light in awe, a tearful blurry view.
They would never understand her sacrifice.
Her eyes hesitantly lingered over the AAAS card to inform this scientific breakthrough that would pave history. She would be sitting in the hall of fame beside Francis Crick and James Watson.
So why was she holding back?
***
The East Wind mockingly whistled over the jungle bursting with buildings. The stagnant traffic accompanies incessant honking and yelping. An exponential population upsurge was experienced 50 years since the unearthing of the cure to cancer.
The Actuary’s job is non-existent – that rich business man’s job is thriving.
The citizens faces permeate gloom and not joy; misery and not happiness.
A social class was effortlessly re-established – the rich, rich enough to devour in such remedies and the poor, poor enough to suffer in such atrocities.
A window into what was hoped to be utopia was replaced with dystopia.
***
She wept.
So why was she holding back?
Her grip on the test tube tensed.
She could pay off her hefty university fees; compensate those years of slavery as a victim to the heinous act of cancer; shower in fame and shed the limelight on gender inequality.
Her grip on the test tube constricted furthermore and the smell of bleach heightened.
They will never understand her sacrifice.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world”
The test tube fractured under pressure, lacerating Dr Samitha, caking her hand in a rich maroon tapestry.
With Knowledge comes power – a power too rich in magnitude to tame.
Oppenheimer was unaware that his brilliance would unleash a monstrous mammoth upon mankind: the first atomic bomb, 1965. You could be saying this because it is an imaginative piece and not factual, but the first Atomic Bomb blast was on July 16 in 1945. This might stick out to a marker as being something to throw them early on, particularly if they are a history teacher as well.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world”
The rest was history.
She had read somewhere that the cure for cancer was being suppressed between the calloused palms of business firms and medical institutions. I'm dying over this sentence. "Calloused palms of business firms" WOW WOW WOW! Little did she know the implication of leaking this wealth of Knowledge onto society’s deprived soul. She calls it justice.
You and I would call it corruption. I love that I'm pulled in here. "You and I"
***
Dr Samitha bathed her profuse charcoal hair unctuously with lavender Amla oil. Her sunken eyes, weathered from years of reading, revising, and rendering, were framed delicately with
She hoisted the scissors against her hairline, which burnt cold against her tender dark skin, hungry for the charcoal.I'm just a bit confused here regarding what exactly is "hungry for the charcoal." It was like an anesthetic to her pitiful domestic existence; the hammer that could shatter the glass ceiling.
She thought against it.
Soon all her hard work, in the domain of gender constructs would be acknowledged.
Hair tightly held back and teeth clenched, Dr Samitha staggered within the familiar suffocating magnolia walls brushed with undertones of bleach. She scavenged through myriads of medical chronicles and hunched methodically over the lab table.
Three years ago the clocks struck thirteen, and she was devoid of her loving Amma whom so willingly brushed her thick hair and kissed her cheek with adoration.
“Just make sure you own your career, don’t let it own you like so many people…” Those final whispers in the air cradled her ear – when her dear Amma was stolen by death himself, succumbing to leukemia.
1080 days of dedication.
She held the test tube against the fluorescent bursts for clarity and squinted at the immune system culture of T cell components – years of trial, error and perfection. With a generous drop from a micropipette, she peeked hesitantly into the lens of the electron microscope plated with diaphanous silver. Dr Samitha used her paraphernalia to genetically engineer a CD19 receptor onto the T & B cells amongst the tumorous cells.
The calm before the storm: deep palpitations throbbed against her ear drums. Hot air smothered against her throat, rivulets of sweat adhered to skin. The smell of bleach tickled her nostrils.
The T-cells crowded the cancerous cells like a flock of birds surrounding a meaty prey.
Dr Samitha gripped the table until her pale fingers barren of colour were nostalgic for sensation. She pecked the test tube and elevated the translucent solution against the stark light in awe, a tearful blurry view.
They would never understand her sacrifice.
Her eyes hesitantly lingered over the AAAS card to inform this scientific breakthrough that would pave history. She would be sitting in the hall of fame beside Francis Crick and James Watson.
So why was she holding back?
***
The East Wind mockingly whistled over the jungle bursting with buildings. The stagnant traffic accompanies incessant honking and yelping. An exponential population upsurge was experienced 50 years since the unearthing of the cure to cancer.
The Actuary’s job is non-existent – that rich business man’s job is thriving.
The citizens faces permeate gloom and not joy; misery and not happiness.
A social class was effortlessly re-established – the rich, rich enough to devour in such remedies and the poor, poor enough to suffer in such atrocities.
A window into what was hoped to be utopia was replaced with dystopia.
***
She wept.
So why was she holding back?
Her grip on the test tube tensed.
She could pay off her hefty university fees; compensate those years of slavery as a victim to the heinous act of cancer; shower in fame and shed the limelight on gender inequality.
Her grip on the test tube constricted furthermore and the smell of bleach heightened.
They will never understand her sacrifice.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world”
The test tube fractured under pressure, lacerating Dr Samitha, caking her hand in a rich maroon tapestry.
With Knowledge comes power – a power too rich in magnitude to tame.
I didn't comment on the second half of the text because in terms of language, there are no ugly flaws. So that's good, because it meant that I could enjoy the flow of the story, which I did.
However, I think there need to be a few linking adjustments made to better the flow and the overall effect. I liked the road you seemed to go down regarding the gender inequality because it shone a deeper light on the cancer story than just the idea that it is locked away financially. But, I didn't see a strong flow of that throughout. I only seemed to see her resentment for the system and the potential pride that she would feel if she did expose her findings. I was waiting, but it didn't seem to eventuate? Which can work in your favour, of course. Except, it was clouded by the husband's cancerous death and the debt she has to him. In the end, I was confused about what her motives were and what had eventuated. I couldn't be certain of the link being made to the A-bomb. I'm assuming that you wanted to compare her situation to the gravity of the bomb? But then I'm left wondering why the bomb is released later than 1945. Haha!
Now, don't be disheartened! These little things can be tidied up very easily. I've told you where I think there are broken links, and now you need to work out where you can mend them. I hope this makes sense to you! Your writing is spot on. I was loving your intro. I loved the rest throughout as well. Your story definitely is band 6 material, you just need to fix the links and then re-view the cohesiveness of the language to confirm your place! Don't be afraid to post back if you make any edits. Hopefully this makes sense! Please ask for clarification if I haven't been clear. :)
Post by: Reece7Burton on March 11, 2016, 12:56:10 pm
A mirroring image
The world was still, almost silent, except for the continuous chimes from a clock-tower far above and the dull thud of his heartbeat as he rested his against the sturdy alabaster wall and assessed the view before his wary, untrusting eyes. A white marble staircase is laid out a few metres from his resting place and spirals upwards in elegant, vertical rings before disappearing somewhere into the mist far above his head. Beyond this, the ivory wall that he leans on extends on either side of him, for what seems like a mile, surrounding the area like a prison and ensuring the only path to take was the one laid out directly before him.
When the world was different and things made sense, he’d had a deadly, almost paralysing fear of heights. he didn’t have that option anymore. There was nowhere else to go. Though he’d been fighting the instinct from the moment he opened his eyes, something deep inside him was telling that he should push through the fear as if it was the last thing he’d ever do. Climb. A sense that if he were to do that, life might make sense again. Although perception of reality seeped in, he decided for the first time in a very long time to listen to his instinct and trust himself.
Taking a deep breath to calm his aching nerves he pushes away from the wall and takes a tentative step onto the marble staircase, gripping the marble banister that runs alongside it trembling hands. Instantly he is bewildered by a memory.
The memory.
Grasping the banister tightly, he heaves his eyes to a close in an attempt to stop the image from materialising right before him. Suddenly he’s back there. Back to where it all began. A vapid white room appears before him. No life apart from the narrow pathway to the limp threads of fabric hanging from the bed with a cracked side table near and the smell of guilt overpowering him as he draws closer, a realisation of the pale, boned body, amid a mess of sheets. Shaking his head, he snorts his nose and wipes his cheeks. “It’s been so long since I’ve been in the hospital…”Drawing closer to the bed, the ashen form that rests upon it, a flicker of recognition passes. This fades when another figure materialises before him eyes, seeming not to see him as he approaches the figure on the thread. A wave of panic suddenly overwhelms him, though the realisation hasn’t been met. The shrouded ghost looks down on the boy at the bed through dull, cold eyes and leans down to say something, his lips right by the boys ear…And it’s as if a thread had been cut. A cry in protest arises from him as he is sent back to his body with the realisation.
The two figures were a mirroring image.
Clear as if he was still lying on the bed in that cold, lifeless room, the words echo in his head over and over, “Time’s up.” By the time he opens his eyes still clenching against the barrister, as if he would shatter into a million pieces if she didn’t have it there for support, the image remains in the eyes of his foreseen future. He remembers: a dark day, winter, snow crystals forming beyond the window frame. Silence. His mouth moving but the words received weren’t as concerning as the sad smile that followed. After the life had escaped his body.
Staring up the staircase, at the piercing light emitting at the top, he wonders what he will find there. Peace, perhaps? Sighing at the thought, he takes another step up the staircase, then another. Each step providing a light so strong that no other light can compare, well not since the sickness had found him. Like every journey, he takes his time reaching the top but when the foot touches flat ground instead of yet another dreaded step, a face enthralled with shock appears following the journey’s end. A deep breath is taken, following a trembling body feeling more conflicted then ever. Before him lies an intimidating marble wall, running straight as far as the eye can see. Stepping forwards he notices the clock-tower in the distance, still chiming, but somehow quieter than before. At the centre of the wall a gate is formed, illuminating a glow. sStill at a distance he watches as the glow weakens as if his loved ones had lost all hope and were forced to provide each other with an unattainable level of comfort. He feels torn. A longing he has been reaching for all this time is right there infant of him. After years and years of stumbling around in a memoryless haze. “Can I do it?”
A question only serving to illuminate all all of his past fears, insecurities and the hopelessness that his illness provided. As he turns on his heel, intent on declining back down before more bad memories could trouble a voice rings out. “Aren’t you going to take that extra step?” He stumbles back around to see only what was seen before. No figure. No life. As he takes a step closer, a sense of peace overwhelms him from beyond the gateway and tears trickle down the cheeks of a diminished human being as the thought of what he is leaving behind demands too much of him. Stepping closer, he ponders this. Could he really let go. Start again?
The peace he felt before, returns tenfold, and a hesitant smile appears. It’s been years since his death. Years of fear, anxieties and stress. Perhaps it is time. The gate open as if it was willed by god himself to allow him to step inside. The view was endlessly fulfilling. It was the answer to a lifetime of question and vague cravings. Finally he understood. Finally there was freedom.
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 12, 2016, 05:56:40 pm
Hi I was wondering if you could mark my creative story I had to put the sentence: The View is endlessly fulfilling. It is like the answer to a lifetime of questions and vague cravings. And the story had to be focused on a moment of discovery. Thanks
Hey there! I will definitely read your creative.
Here it is, unedited:
Spoiler
A mirroring image
The world was still, almost silent, except for the continuous chimes from a clock-tower far above and the dull thud of his heartbeat as he rested his against the sturdy alabaster wall and assessed the view before his wary, untrusting eyes. A white marble staircase is laid out a few metres from his resting place and spirals upwards in elegant, vertical rings before disappearing somewhere into the mist far above his head. Beyond this, the ivory wall that he leans on extends on either side of him, for what seems like a mile, surrounding the area like a prison and ensuring the only path to take was the one laid out directly before him.
When the world was different and things made sense, he’d had a deadly, almost paralysing fear of heights. he didn’t have that option anymore. There was nowhere else to go. Though he’d been fighting the instinct from the moment he opened his eyes, something deep inside him was telling that he should push through the fear as if it was the last thing he’d ever do. Climb. A sense that if he were to do that, life might make sense again. Although perception of reality seeped in, he decided for the first time in a very long time to listen to his instinct and trust himself.
Taking a deep breath to calm his aching nerves he pushes away from the wall and takes a tentative step onto the marble staircase, gripping the marble banister that runs alongside it trembling hands. Instantly he is bewildered by a memory.
The memory.
Grasping the banister tightly, he heaves his eyes to a close in an attempt to stop the image from materialising right before him. Suddenly he’s back there. Back to where it all began. A vapid white room appears before him. No life apart from the narrow pathway to the limp threads of fabric hanging from the bed with a cracked side table near and the smell of guilt overpowering him as he draws closer, a realisation of the pale, boned body, amid a mess of sheets. Shaking his head, he snorts his nose and wipes his cheeks. “It’s been so long since I’ve been in the hospital…”Drawing closer to the bed, the ashen form that rests upon it, a flicker of recognition passes. This fades when another figure materialises before him eyes, seeming not to see him as he approaches the figure on the thread. A wave of panic suddenly overwhelms him, though the realisation hasn’t been met. The shrouded ghost looks down on the boy at the bed through dull, cold eyes and leans down to say something, his lips right by the boys ear…And it’s as if a thread had been cut. A cry in protest arises from him as he is sent back to his body with the realisation.
The two figures were a mirroring image.
Clear as if he was still lying on the bed in that cold, lifeless room, the words echo in his head over and over, “Time’s up.” By the time he opens his eyes still clenching against the barrister, as if he would shatter into a million pieces if she didn’t have it there for support, the image remains in the eyes of his foreseen future. He remembers: a dark day, winter, snow crystals forming beyond the window frame. Silence. His mouth moving but the words received weren’t as concerning as the sad smile that followed. After the life had escaped his body.
Staring up the staircase, at the piercing light emitting at the top, he wonders what he will find there. Peace, perhaps? Sighing at the thought, he takes another step up the staircase, then another. Each step providing a light so strong that no other light can compare, well not since the sickness had found him. Like every journey, he takes his time reaching the top but when the foot touches flat ground instead of yet another dreaded step, a face enthralled with shock appears following the journey’s end. A deep breath is taken, following a trembling body feeling more conflicted then ever. Before him lies an intimidating marble wall, running straight as far as the eye can see. Stepping forwards he notices the clock-tower in the distance, still chiming, but somehow quieter than before. At the centre of the wall a gate is formed, illuminating a glow. sStill at a distance he watches as the glow weakens as if his loved ones had lost all hope and were forced to provide each other with an unattainable level of comfort. He feels torn. A longing he has been reaching for all this time is right there infant of him. After years and years of stumbling around in a memoryless haze. “Can I do it?”
A question only serving to illuminate all all of his past fears, insecurities and the hopelessness that his illness provided. As he turns on his heel, intent on declining back down before more bad memories could trouble a voice rings out. “Aren’t you going to take that extra step?” He stumbles back around to see only what was seen before. No figure. No life. As he takes a step closer, a sense of peace overwhelms him from beyond the gateway and tears trickle down the cheeks of a diminished human being as the thought of what he is leaving behind demands too much of him. Stepping closer, he ponders this. Could he really let go. Start again?
The peace he felt before, returns tenfold, and a hesitant smile appears. It’s been years since his death. Years of fear, anxieties and stress. Perhaps it is time. The gate open as if it was willed by god himself to allow him to step inside. The view was endlessly fulfilling. It was the answer to a lifetime of question and vague cravings. Finally he understood. Finally there was freedom
The world was still, almost silent, except for the continuous chimes from a clock-tower far above and the dull thud of his heartbeat as he rested his against the sturdy alabaster wall and assessed the view before his wary, untrusting eyes. A white marble staircase is laid out a few metres from his resting place and spirals upwards in elegant, vertical rings before disappearing somewhere into the mist far above his head. Beyond this, the ivory wall that he leans on extends on either side of him, for what seems like a mile, surrounding the area like a prison and ensuring the only path to take was the one laid out directly before him.
When the world was different and things made sense, he’d had a deadly, almost paralysing fear of heights. he didn’t have that option anymore. There was nowhere else to go. Though he’d been fighting the instinct from the moment he opened his eyes, something deep inside him was telling that he should push through the fear as if it was the last thing he’d ever do. Climb. A sense that if he were to do that, life might make sense again. Although perception of reality seeped in, he decided for the first time in a very long time to listen to his instinct and trust himself.
Taking a deep breath to calm his aching nerves he pushes away from the wall and takes a tentative step onto the marble staircase, gripping the marble banister that runs alongside it trembling hands. Instantly he is bewildered by a memory.
The memory.
Grasping the banister tightly, he heaves his eyes to a close in an attempt to stop the image from materialising right before him. Suddenly he’s back there. Back to where it all began. A vapid white room appears before him. No life apart from the narrow pathway to the limp threads of fabric hanging from the bed with a cracked side table near and the smell of guilt overpowering him as he draws closer, a realisation of the pale, boned body, amid a mess of sheets. Shaking his head, he snorts his nose and wipes his cheeks. “It’s been so long since I’ve been in the hospital…”Drawing closer to the bed, the ashen form that rests upon it, a flicker of recognition passes. This fades when another figure materialises before him eyes, seeming not to see him as he approaches the figure on the thread. A wave of panic suddenly overwhelms him, though the realisation hasn’t been met. The shrouded ghost looks down on the boy at the bed through dull, cold eyes and leans down to say something, his lips right by the boys ear…And it’s as if a thread had been cut. A cry in protest arises from him as he is sent back to his body with the realisation.
The two figures were a mirroring image.
Clear as if he was still lying on the bed in that cold, lifeless room, the words echo in his head over and over, “Time’s up.” By the time he opens his eyes still clenching against the barrister, as if he would shatter into a million pieces if she didn’t have it there for support, the image remains in the eyes of his foreseen future. He remembers: a dark day, winter, snow crystals forming beyond the window frame. Silence. His mouth moving but the words received weren’t as concerning as the sad smile that followed. After the life had escaped his body.
Staring up the staircase, at the piercing light emitting at the top, he wonders what he will find there. Peace, perhaps? Sighing at the thought, he takes another step up the staircase, then another. Each step providing a light so strong that no other light can compare, well not since the sickness had found him. Like every journey, he takes his time reaching the top but when the foot touches flat ground instead of yet another dreaded step, a face enthralled with shock appears following the journey’s end. A deep breath is taken, following a trembling body feeling more conflicted then ever. Before him lies an intimidating marble wall, running straight as far as the eye can see. Stepping forwards he notices the clock-tower in the distance, still chiming, but somehow quieter than before. At the centre of the wall a gate is formed, illuminating a glow. sStill at a distance he watches as the glow weakens as if his loved ones had lost all hope and were forced to provide each other with an unattainable level of comfort. He feels torn. A longing he has been reaching for all this time is right there infant of him. After years and years of stumbling around in a memoryless haze. “Can I do it?”
A question only serving to illuminate all all of his past fears, insecurities and the hopelessness that his illness provided. As he turns on his heel, intent on declining back down before more bad memories could trouble a voice rings out. “Aren’t you going to take that extra step?” He stumbles back around to see only what was seen before. No figure. No life. As he takes a step closer, a sense of peace overwhelms him from beyond the gateway and tears trickle down the cheeks of a diminished human being as the thought of what he is leaving behind demands too much of him. Stepping closer, he ponders this. Could he really let go. Start again?
The peace he felt before, returns tenfold, and a hesitant smile appears. It’s been years since his death. Years of fear, anxieties and stress. Perhaps it is time. The gate open as if it was willed by god himself to allow him to step inside. The view was endlessly fulfilling. It was the answer to a lifetime of question and vague cravings. Finally he understood. Finally there was freedom
Here it is, edited with my own thoughts in bold:
Spoiler
A mirroring image
The world was still, almost silent, except for the continuous chimes from a clock-tower far above and the dull thud of his heartbeat as he rested his against the sturdy alabaster wall and assessed the view before his wary, untrusting eyes. This is a long sentence. Typically, this isn't an enormous problem. Except, this will be presented in written form, so this will actually be likely to take up about 5 lines for one sentence - this is exhausting for a marker. The imagery sits in a more stark way when it is isolated.A white marble staircase is laid out a few metres from his resting place and spirals upwards in elegant, vertical rings before disappearing somewhere into the mist far above his head. Beyond this, the ivory wall that he leans on extends on either side of him, for what seems like a mile, surrounding the area like a prison and ensuring the only path to take was the one laid out directly before him.
When the world was different and things made sense, he’d had a deadly, almost paralysing fear of heights. he didn’t have that option anymore. There was nowhere else to go. Though he’d been fighting the instinct from the moment he opened his eyes, something deep inside him was telling that he should push through the fear as if it was the last thing he’d ever do. Climb. A sense that if he were to do that, life might make sense again. Although perception of reality seeped in, he decided for the first time in a very long time to listen to his instinct and trust himself.
Taking a deep breath to calm his aching nerves he pushes away from the wall and takes a tentative step onto the marble staircase, gripping the marble banister that runs alongside it trembling hands. Instantly he is bewildered by a memory.
The memory.
Grasping the banister tightly, he heaves his eyes to a close in an attempt to stop the image from materialising right before him. Suddenly he’s back there. Back to where it all began. A vapid white room appears before him. No life apart from the narrow pathway to the limp threads of fabric hanging from the bed with a cracked side table near and the smell of guilt overpowering him as he draws closer, a realisation of the pale, boned body, amid a mess of sheets. Shaking his head, he snorts his nose and wipes his cheeks. This sentence is nice because it is far shorter than your others, so the imagery stays with me.
Speech needs to be on a new line.“It’s been so long since I’ve been in the hospital…” Drawing closer to the bed, the ashen form that rests upon it, a flicker of recognition passes. This fades when another figure materialises beforehim his eyes, seeming not to see him as he approaches the figure on the thread. A wave of panic suddenly overwhelms him, though the realisation hasn’t been met. The shrouded ghost looks down on the boy at the bed through dull, cold eyes and leans down to say something, his lips right by the boys ear…And it’s as if a thread had been cut. A cry in protest arises from him as he is sent back to his body with the realisation.
The two figures were a mirroring image.
Clear as if he was still lying on the bed in that cold, lifeless room, the words echo in his head over and over, “Time’s up.” By the time he opens his eyes still clenching against the barrister, banister? as if he would shatter into a million pieces if she didn’t have it there for support, the image remains in the eyes of his foreseen future. He remembers: a dark day, winter, snow crystals forming beyond the window frame. Silence. His mouth moving but the words received weren’t as concerning as the sad smile that followed. After the life had escaped his body.
Staring up the staircase, at the piercing light emitting at the top, he wonders what he will find there. Peace, perhaps? Sighing at the thought, he takes another step up the staircase, then another. Each step providing a light so strong that no other light can compare, well not since the sickness had found him. Like every journey, he takes his time reaching the top but when the foot touches flat ground instead of yet another dreaded step, a face enthralled with shock appears following the journey’s end. A deep breath is taken, following a trembling body feeling more conflicted then ever. Before him lies an intimidating marble wall, running straight as far as the eye can see. Stepping forwards he notices the clock-tower in the distance, still chiming, but somehow quieter than before. At the centre of the wall a gate is formed, illuminating a glow. sStill at a distance he watches as the glow weakens as if his loved ones had lost all hope and were forced to provide each other with an unattainable level of comfort. He feels torn. A longing he has been reaching for all this time is right there infant of him. After years and years of stumbling around in a memoryless haze. “Can I do it?”
A question only serving to illuminate all all of his past fears, insecurities and the hopelessness that his illness provided. As he turns on his heel, intent on declining back down before more bad memories could trouble a voice rings out. “Aren’t you going to take that extra step?” He stumbles back around to see only what was seen before. No figure. No life. As he takes a step closer, a sense of peace overwhelms him from beyond the gateway and tears trickle down the cheeks of a diminished human being as the thought of what he is leaving behind demands too much of him. Stepping closer, he ponders this. Could he really let go. Start again?
The peace he felt before, returns tenfold, and a hesitant smile appears. It’s been years since his death. Years of fear, anxieties and stress. Perhaps it is time. The gate open as if it was willed by god himself to allow him to step inside. The view was endlessly fulfilling. It was the answer to a lifetime of question and vague cravings. Finally he understood. Finally there was freedom
The world was still, almost silent, except for the continuous chimes from a clock-tower far above and the dull thud of his heartbeat as he rested his against the sturdy alabaster wall and assessed the view before his wary, untrusting eyes. This is a long sentence. Typically, this isn't an enormous problem. Except, this will be presented in written form, so this will actually be likely to take up about 5 lines for one sentence - this is exhausting for a marker. The imagery sits in a more stark way when it is isolated.A white marble staircase is laid out a few metres from his resting place and spirals upwards in elegant, vertical rings before disappearing somewhere into the mist far above his head. Beyond this, the ivory wall that he leans on extends on either side of him, for what seems like a mile, surrounding the area like a prison and ensuring the only path to take was the one laid out directly before him.
When the world was different and things made sense, he’d had a deadly, almost paralysing fear of heights. he didn’t have that option anymore. There was nowhere else to go. Though he’d been fighting the instinct from the moment he opened his eyes, something deep inside him was telling that he should push through the fear as if it was the last thing he’d ever do. Climb. A sense that if he were to do that, life might make sense again. Although perception of reality seeped in, he decided for the first time in a very long time to listen to his instinct and trust himself.
Taking a deep breath to calm his aching nerves he pushes away from the wall and takes a tentative step onto the marble staircase, gripping the marble banister that runs alongside it trembling hands. Instantly he is bewildered by a memory.
The memory.
Grasping the banister tightly, he heaves his eyes to a close in an attempt to stop the image from materialising right before him. Suddenly he’s back there. Back to where it all began. A vapid white room appears before him. No life apart from the narrow pathway to the limp threads of fabric hanging from the bed with a cracked side table near and the smell of guilt overpowering him as he draws closer, a realisation of the pale, boned body, amid a mess of sheets. Shaking his head, he snorts his nose and wipes his cheeks. This sentence is nice because it is far shorter than your others, so the imagery stays with me.
Speech needs to be on a new line.“It’s been so long since I’ve been in the hospital…” Drawing closer to the bed, the ashen form that rests upon it, a flicker of recognition passes. This fades when another figure materialises before
The two figures were a mirroring image.
Clear as if he was still lying on the bed in that cold, lifeless room, the words echo in his head over and over, “Time’s up.” By the time he opens his eyes still clenching against the barrister, banister? as if he would shatter into a million pieces if she didn’t have it there for support, the image remains in the eyes of his foreseen future. He remembers: a dark day, winter, snow crystals forming beyond the window frame. Silence. His mouth moving but the words received weren’t as concerning as the sad smile that followed. After the life had escaped his body.
Staring up the staircase, at the piercing light emitting at the top, he wonders what he will find there. Peace, perhaps? Sighing at the thought, he takes another step up the staircase, then another. Each step providing a light so strong that no other light can compare, well not since the sickness had found him. Like every journey, he takes his time reaching the top but when the foot touches flat ground instead of yet another dreaded step, a face enthralled with shock appears following the journey’s end. A deep breath is taken, following a trembling body feeling more conflicted then ever. Before him lies an intimidating marble wall, running straight as far as the eye can see. Stepping forwards he notices the clock-tower in the distance, still chiming, but somehow quieter than before. At the centre of the wall a gate is formed, illuminating a glow. sStill at a distance he watches as the glow weakens as if his loved ones had lost all hope and were forced to provide each other with an unattainable level of comfort. He feels torn. A longing he has been reaching for all this time is right there infant of him. After years and years of stumbling around in a memoryless haze. “Can I do it?”
A question only serving to illuminate all all of his past fears, insecurities and the hopelessness that his illness provided. As he turns on his heel, intent on declining back down before more bad memories could trouble a voice rings out. “Aren’t you going to take that extra step?” He stumbles back around to see only what was seen before. No figure. No life. As he takes a step closer, a sense of peace overwhelms him from beyond the gateway and tears trickle down the cheeks of a diminished human being as the thought of what he is leaving behind demands too much of him. Stepping closer, he ponders this. Could he really let go. Start again?
The peace he felt before, returns tenfold, and a hesitant smile appears. It’s been years since his death. Years of fear, anxieties and stress. Perhaps it is time. The gate open as if it was willed by god himself to allow him to step inside. The view was endlessly fulfilling. It was the answer to a lifetime of question and vague cravings. Finally he understood. Finally there was freedom
I really enjoy this story. The discovery is clear and it's removed enough from banal reality that it is interested, without being too far fetched. The discovery part of this doesn't need a lot of work.
To improve your work, you should work on your sentence structure and variation. You use a lot of long sentences. Any sentence that is 35 words or more, I suggest you look at to try and cut down. It isn't because a sentence shouldn't be that long, it is just because you have so much imagery in each one that it is loaded and can't be taken in completely. You've evidently got an imaginary world clearly visualised...it just needs to be conveyed with greater clarity. Perhaps you've read the writing of authors who write like this. The difference is, you are unfortunately writing for a marker who may have read 50 other creatives that day, and this may be the last. Every bit of clear, effective imagery should be well expressed in order to grab the attention of the marker and set yourself aside from the rest!
Post by: Casey98 on March 14, 2016, 06:13:00 pm
If you get a chance, could you please mark my Creative Writing piece? My teachers have given us the stimulus that will be used in our half-yearly exam, so it's based off that.
Thanks in advance!
- Casey
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 16, 2016, 04:28:02 pm
Hey there!
If you get a chance, could you please mark my Creative Writing piece? My teachers have given us the stimulus that will be used in our half-yearly exam, so it's based off that.
Thanks in advance!
- Casey
Alright, this is an interesting stimulus Casey!
I'm going to attach your original creative right here in a spoiler:
Spoiler
“Please? With a cherry on top?” I chuckled at her new favourite phrase; it was the fourth time I had heard her say it since she had arrived. I attempted to stand my ground, but she gazed at me with those wide eyes, those beautiful, blue eyes…
They were so much like her grandfather’s, how could I argue with her?
“Fine, go ahead Nessie.” I sighed dramatically as she giggled and ran to the ladder. After all, I had made this promise: on her 6th birthday, I would allow her to enter the “mystery room in the roof”. I heaved my frail body up the ladder behind her, beginning to mentally prepare myself.
Before I even reached the attic, I could hear her coughing and spluttering. I arrived to see a cloud of dust arising from the box she was already opening- it must’ve been at least 15 years since anyone had been up here. I stood frozen at the entrance, inhaling the musty smell of the past; taking in the cardboard boxes filled with old memories. The room, which was dimly lit by a single, flickering light bulb in the middle of the ceiling, had been left untouched since he left. I silently took a seat in the rickety rocking chair in the corner, my sweating hands resting in my lap.
I was shortly approached by a laughing figure clothed in a red, oversized coat, a fancy floral hat and glistening high-heeled shoes. I recognised the clothes immediately- Nessie was dressed in my favourite winter coat; the one I always wore to Estelle’s for dinner. My, it had been such a long time since I had seen Estelle…
As Nessie danced among the boxes, twirling around in the coat, I began to relax. I could see her cheeky grin underneath the floppy hat as she continued to explore, occasionally squealing with delight. As my eyelids grew heavy, I drifted off to sleep.
“Grandma! Look!”
Awoken by Nessie’s excitement, I turned my head to the far corner of the room.
“I can draw like you!”
Her blue eyes glowed as she gestured towards the picture she had drawn on the side of a cardboard box. She sat in the middle of her mess: a combination of paint brushes, pencils and artists’ charcoal covering the floor. A beautiful painting rested in her lap, but this painting wasn’t mine.
I felt my body begin to shake as, for the first time in many years, I studied its once-vibrant colours. Although faded, the painting still held its elegance- he had perfectly captured the beauty of the simple landscape. I recalled him sitting in his rocking chair on the balcony that delightful spring afternoon, painting that lone tree- the one that we had planted many years beforehand. He was so engrossed in his work; I had frightened him when I walked over. But when he raised his head, he looked at me with those shining blue eyes, the same ones that were staring at me from the floor.
Our time together had been amazing. As a young couple, we shared every night: going out to fancy restaurants, or simply laying on the sofa, eating pizza and watching television. As our family grew, he was always by my side. Nessie’s father was a little rascal- he’d chase the young boy all the time, out into the backyard, where they’d wrestle and play.
It wasn’t always easy. As we grew older, he began to stress about our financial position- he wanted so desperately to give us everything he could. I often wouldn’t see him for days at a time as he continued to work long hours, but while we sometimes grew distant, we never disconnected. I remembered the sweet softness of his lips as he gently kissed my forehead while I fell asleep; he’d always kiss me when he came home late from work.
He never finished that painting.
I remembered the loss, the numbness, the cold skin as I held his hand, the piercing sound that penetrated my ears when the monitor flat lined. The tears that dripped down my cheeks, the flurry of doctors and nurses that entered the room, the tangle of wires and tubes covering his body. It was all too much.
“Nessie, pass me the painting. Go downstairs and show Daddy your fancy hat.”
After she had silently climbed down the ladder, clearly sensing something was wrong, I carefully assessed the image. He had created an ideal scene; a perfect world. A world without loss and pain. But is life ever that perfect? Even when he was here, we faced hardship and suffering.
Looking at this perfect painting made me realise that since his death, I had been trying to replicate this fantasy world in my own life. I had tried so hard to repress the pain for all of these years; to create a world where there was no loss. But now, looking at this perfect painting, I realised that these emotions were simply waiting to consume me.
As the painting fell out of my shaking hands, I broke down and cried.
They were so much like her grandfather’s, how could I argue with her?
“Fine, go ahead Nessie.” I sighed dramatically as she giggled and ran to the ladder. After all, I had made this promise: on her 6th birthday, I would allow her to enter the “mystery room in the roof”. I heaved my frail body up the ladder behind her, beginning to mentally prepare myself.
Before I even reached the attic, I could hear her coughing and spluttering. I arrived to see a cloud of dust arising from the box she was already opening- it must’ve been at least 15 years since anyone had been up here. I stood frozen at the entrance, inhaling the musty smell of the past; taking in the cardboard boxes filled with old memories. The room, which was dimly lit by a single, flickering light bulb in the middle of the ceiling, had been left untouched since he left. I silently took a seat in the rickety rocking chair in the corner, my sweating hands resting in my lap.
I was shortly approached by a laughing figure clothed in a red, oversized coat, a fancy floral hat and glistening high-heeled shoes. I recognised the clothes immediately- Nessie was dressed in my favourite winter coat; the one I always wore to Estelle’s for dinner. My, it had been such a long time since I had seen Estelle…
As Nessie danced among the boxes, twirling around in the coat, I began to relax. I could see her cheeky grin underneath the floppy hat as she continued to explore, occasionally squealing with delight. As my eyelids grew heavy, I drifted off to sleep.
“Grandma! Look!”
Awoken by Nessie’s excitement, I turned my head to the far corner of the room.
“I can draw like you!”
Her blue eyes glowed as she gestured towards the picture she had drawn on the side of a cardboard box. She sat in the middle of her mess: a combination of paint brushes, pencils and artists’ charcoal covering the floor. A beautiful painting rested in her lap, but this painting wasn’t mine.
I felt my body begin to shake as, for the first time in many years, I studied its once-vibrant colours. Although faded, the painting still held its elegance- he had perfectly captured the beauty of the simple landscape. I recalled him sitting in his rocking chair on the balcony that delightful spring afternoon, painting that lone tree- the one that we had planted many years beforehand. He was so engrossed in his work; I had frightened him when I walked over. But when he raised his head, he looked at me with those shining blue eyes, the same ones that were staring at me from the floor.
Our time together had been amazing. As a young couple, we shared every night: going out to fancy restaurants, or simply laying on the sofa, eating pizza and watching television. As our family grew, he was always by my side. Nessie’s father was a little rascal- he’d chase the young boy all the time, out into the backyard, where they’d wrestle and play.
It wasn’t always easy. As we grew older, he began to stress about our financial position- he wanted so desperately to give us everything he could. I often wouldn’t see him for days at a time as he continued to work long hours, but while we sometimes grew distant, we never disconnected. I remembered the sweet softness of his lips as he gently kissed my forehead while I fell asleep; he’d always kiss me when he came home late from work.
He never finished that painting.
I remembered the loss, the numbness, the cold skin as I held his hand, the piercing sound that penetrated my ears when the monitor flat lined. The tears that dripped down my cheeks, the flurry of doctors and nurses that entered the room, the tangle of wires and tubes covering his body. It was all too much.
“Nessie, pass me the painting. Go downstairs and show Daddy your fancy hat.”
After she had silently climbed down the ladder, clearly sensing something was wrong, I carefully assessed the image. He had created an ideal scene; a perfect world. A world without loss and pain. But is life ever that perfect? Even when he was here, we faced hardship and suffering.
Looking at this perfect painting made me realise that since his death, I had been trying to replicate this fantasy world in my own life. I had tried so hard to repress the pain for all of these years; to create a world where there was no loss. But now, looking at this perfect painting, I realised that these emotions were simply waiting to consume me.
As the painting fell out of my shaking hands, I broke down and cried.
Now, I'll put another spoiler here, this is your creative with my own comments in bold.
Spoiler
“Please? With a cherry on top?” I chuckled at her new favourite phrase; it was the fourth time I had heard her say it since she had arrived. I attempted to stand my ground, but she gazed at me with those wide eyes, those beautiful, blue eyes…
They were so much like her grandfather’s, how could I argue with her? I'd prefer this sentence broken. Replace the comma with a full stop and capitalise the H. This isn't because it is incorrect, but the two separate sentences make each more distinct.
“Fine, go ahead Nessie.” I sighed dramatically (Many famous writers suggest that to improve work, they avoid using an adverb after the verb of expression (said, sighed, laughed, etc). So what you're saying isn't incorrect, but can be improved. Try finding a verb that encapsulates exactly what you are trying to achieve from the verb and adverb combined. Perhaps, relinquished, surrender...) as she giggled and ran to the ladder. After all, I had made this promise: on her 6th birthday, I would allow her to enter the “mystery room in the roof”. I heaved my frail body (Suddenly, the grandfather's eyes reference doesn't seem too distant. I suspect that this person is elderly too) up the ladder behind her, beginning to mentally prepare myself.
Before I even reached the attic, I could hear her coughing and spluttering. I arrived to see a cloud of dust arising from the box she was already opening- it must’ve been at least 15 years since anyone had been up here. I stood frozen at the entrance, inhaling the musty smell of the past; taking in the cardboard boxes filled with old memories. The room, which was dimly lit by a single, flickering light bulb in the middle of the ceiling, had been left untouched since he left. I silently took a seat in the rickety rocking chair in the corner, my sweating hands resting in my lap.
I have italicised three things from the above paragraph. Why? They are cliches. I recommend that you avoid cliches as much as possible in creative writing, because you want to leave the impression on the marker that you are a creative, innovative writer, rather than one who relies on common expressions. Of course, cliches are well known because they are so accurate in describing something! So just start by trying to exchange one word in the expression for synonym. Your work isn't bad because of it, please note!! I'm just suggesting a way to elevate it :) Also - at this stage I have a really good image in my head of what is going on. So that's awesome!
I was shortly approached by a laughing figure clothed in a red, oversized coat, a fancy floral hat and glistening high-heeled shoes. I recognised the clothes immediately- Nessie was dressed in my favourite winter coat; the one I always wore to Estelle’s for dinner. My, it had been such a long time since I had seen Estelle…
As Nessie danced among the boxes, twirling around in the coat, I began to relax. I could see her cheeky grin underneath the floppy hat as she continued to explore, occasionally squealing with delight. As my eyelids grew heavy, I drifted off to sleep.
“Grandma! Look!”
Awoken by Nessie’s excitement, I turned my head to the far corner of the room.
“I can draw like you!”
Her blue eyes glowed as she gestured towards the picture she had drawn on the side of a cardboard box. She sat in the middle of her mess: a combination of paint brushes, pencils and artists’ charcoal covering the floor. A beautiful painting rested in her lap, but this painting wasn’t mine.
I felt my body begin to shake as, for the first time in many years, I studied its once-vibrant colours. Although faded, the painting still held its elegance- he had perfectly captured the beauty of the simple landscape. I recalled him sitting in his rocking chair on the balcony that delightful spring afternoon, (This is a bit of cliche. You've shown some awesome imagery here, you can find a more unique word choice that "delightful spring.." Again, you won't lose marks for this. This is a really good creative so I'm actually digging deep here to find things to improve! painting that lone tree- the one that we had planted many years beforehand. He was so engrossed in his work; I had frightened him when I walked over. But when he raised his head, he looked at me with those shining blue eyes, the same ones that were staring at me from the floor.
Our time together had been amazing. As a young couple, we shared every night: going out to fancy restaurants, or simply laying on the sofa, eating pizza and watching television. I'm curious about how old this couple is. If he has already died, I'm assuming they are reasonably old. Many grandparents of our generation didn't have televisions or pizza culture readily available. So just for textual detailing, I suggest that you change this to something linked to the era. As our family grew, he was always by my side. Nessie’s father was a little rascal- he’d chase the young boy all the time, out into the backyard, where they’d wrestle and play.
It wasn’t always easy. As we grew older, he began to stress about our financial position- he wanted so desperately to give us everything he could. I often wouldn’t see him for days at a time as he continued to work long hours, but while we sometimes grew distant, we never disconnected. I remembered the sweet softness of his lips as he gently kissed my forehead while I fell asleep; he’d always kiss me when he came home late from work.
He never finished that painting.
I remembered the loss, the numbness, the cold skin as I held his hand, the piercing sound that penetrated my ears when the monitor flat lined. The tears that dripped down my cheeks, the flurry of doctors and nurses that entered the room, the tangle of wires and tubes covering his body. It was all too much.
“Nessie, pass me the painting. Go downstairs and show Daddy your fancy hat.”
After she had silently climbed down the ladder, clearly sensing something was wrong, I carefully assessed the image. He had created an ideal scene; a perfect world. A world without loss and pain. But is life ever that perfect? Even when he was here, we faced hardship and suffering.
Looking at this perfect painting made me realise that since his death, I had been trying to replicate this fantasy world in my own life. I had tried so hard to repress the pain for all of these years; to create a world where there was no loss. But now, looking at this perfect painting, I realised that these emotions were simply waiting to consume me.
As the painting fell out of my shaking hands, I broke down and cried.
They were so much like her grandfather’s, how could I argue with her? I'd prefer this sentence broken. Replace the comma with a full stop and capitalise the H. This isn't because it is incorrect, but the two separate sentences make each more distinct.
“Fine, go ahead Nessie.” I sighed dramatically (Many famous writers suggest that to improve work, they avoid using an adverb after the verb of expression (said, sighed, laughed, etc). So what you're saying isn't incorrect, but can be improved. Try finding a verb that encapsulates exactly what you are trying to achieve from the verb and adverb combined. Perhaps, relinquished, surrender...) as she giggled and ran to the ladder. After all, I had made this promise: on her 6th birthday, I would allow her to enter the “mystery room in the roof”. I heaved my frail body (Suddenly, the grandfather's eyes reference doesn't seem too distant. I suspect that this person is elderly too) up the ladder behind her, beginning to mentally prepare myself.
Before I even reached the attic, I could hear her coughing and spluttering. I arrived to see a cloud of dust arising from the box she was already opening- it must’ve been at least 15 years since anyone had been up here. I stood frozen at the entrance, inhaling the musty smell of the past; taking in the cardboard boxes filled with old memories. The room, which was dimly lit by a single, flickering light bulb in the middle of the ceiling, had been left untouched since he left. I silently took a seat in the rickety rocking chair in the corner, my sweating hands resting in my lap.
I have italicised three things from the above paragraph. Why? They are cliches. I recommend that you avoid cliches as much as possible in creative writing, because you want to leave the impression on the marker that you are a creative, innovative writer, rather than one who relies on common expressions. Of course, cliches are well known because they are so accurate in describing something! So just start by trying to exchange one word in the expression for synonym. Your work isn't bad because of it, please note!! I'm just suggesting a way to elevate it :) Also - at this stage I have a really good image in my head of what is going on. So that's awesome!
I was shortly approached by a laughing figure clothed in a red, oversized coat, a fancy floral hat and glistening high-heeled shoes. I recognised the clothes immediately- Nessie was dressed in my favourite winter coat; the one I always wore to Estelle’s for dinner. My, it had been such a long time since I had seen Estelle…
As Nessie danced among the boxes, twirling around in the coat, I began to relax. I could see her cheeky grin underneath the floppy hat as she continued to explore, occasionally squealing with delight. As my eyelids grew heavy, I drifted off to sleep.
“Grandma! Look!”
Awoken by Nessie’s excitement, I turned my head to the far corner of the room.
“I can draw like you!”
Her blue eyes glowed as she gestured towards the picture she had drawn on the side of a cardboard box. She sat in the middle of her mess: a combination of paint brushes, pencils and artists’ charcoal covering the floor. A beautiful painting rested in her lap, but this painting wasn’t mine.
I felt my body begin to shake as, for the first time in many years, I studied its once-vibrant colours. Although faded, the painting still held its elegance- he had perfectly captured the beauty of the simple landscape. I recalled him sitting in his rocking chair on the balcony that delightful spring afternoon, (This is a bit of cliche. You've shown some awesome imagery here, you can find a more unique word choice that "delightful spring.." Again, you won't lose marks for this. This is a really good creative so I'm actually digging deep here to find things to improve! painting that lone tree- the one that we had planted many years beforehand. He was so engrossed in his work; I had frightened him when I walked over. But when he raised his head, he looked at me with those shining blue eyes, the same ones that were staring at me from the floor.
Our time together had been amazing. As a young couple, we shared every night: going out to fancy restaurants, or simply laying on the sofa, eating pizza and watching television. I'm curious about how old this couple is. If he has already died, I'm assuming they are reasonably old. Many grandparents of our generation didn't have televisions or pizza culture readily available. So just for textual detailing, I suggest that you change this to something linked to the era. As our family grew, he was always by my side. Nessie’s father was a little rascal- he’d chase the young boy all the time, out into the backyard, where they’d wrestle and play.
It wasn’t always easy. As we grew older, he began to stress about our financial position- he wanted so desperately to give us everything he could. I often wouldn’t see him for days at a time as he continued to work long hours, but while we sometimes grew distant, we never disconnected. I remembered the sweet softness of his lips as he gently kissed my forehead while I fell asleep; he’d always kiss me when he came home late from work.
He never finished that painting.
I remembered the loss, the numbness, the cold skin as I held his hand, the piercing sound that penetrated my ears when the monitor flat lined. The tears that dripped down my cheeks, the flurry of doctors and nurses that entered the room, the tangle of wires and tubes covering his body. It was all too much.
“Nessie, pass me the painting. Go downstairs and show Daddy your fancy hat.”
After she had silently climbed down the ladder, clearly sensing something was wrong, I carefully assessed the image. He had created an ideal scene; a perfect world. A world without loss and pain. But is life ever that perfect? Even when he was here, we faced hardship and suffering.
Looking at this perfect painting made me realise that since his death, I had been trying to replicate this fantasy world in my own life. I had tried so hard to repress the pain for all of these years; to create a world where there was no loss. But now, looking at this perfect painting, I realised that these emotions were simply waiting to consume me.
As the painting fell out of my shaking hands, I broke down and cried.
This is a really cool story. I mean, grammatically there is hardly anything to correct so that's great. The discovery is really clear as well. I'm going to propose something to you though, for the occasion that the stimulus in a future exam means that you need to tweak the ending. You can also absolutely end the story with a kind of discovery about loss. You end on the note of personal emotions - totally fine! That's an emotional discovery. But you could also resolve the story in a way that you realise the loss of a life actually a gain - because you gain wisdom, independence, personal growth, etc. If that makes sense? I'm only mentioning this because your story is really spot on, so this is just a potential extension that you should consider in case you do need it in a future exam! Otherwise, my main advice is working on the word choice of the areas I pointed out, just so that you don't fall into a cliche and instead, your work looks really unique!
Good luck!
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 16, 2016, 05:12:43 pm
Hi, hoping you could take a look at my AOS creative writing, my teacher seems to really like it with not much criticism so was hoping to get a second opinion and see where i am roughly sitting in terms of marks.
Thanks, i have attached it below
Hey there!
I have had a go at marking this. However, I would like to know if you could post this as a word document or just copy and paste the text into a comment here. The reason being, when I've copied and pasted it from the PDF to make comments on, the lines move and I can't actually see where you've used paragraphs. It became to difficult to mark this way, so if you can post it back through word or by copy and pasting, I'll be able to access it easier and give you better feedback (structure included). Thank you!
Post by: Casey98 on March 16, 2016, 07:55:45 pm
This is a really cool story. I mean, grammatically there is hardly anything to correct so that's great. The discovery is really clear as well. I'm going to propose something to you though, for the occasion that the stimulus in a future exam means that you need to tweak the ending. You can also absolutely end the story with a kind of discovery about loss. You end on the note of personal emotions - totally fine! That's an emotional discovery. But you could also resolve the story in a way that you realise the loss of a life actually a gain - because you gain wisdom, independence, personal growth, etc. If that makes sense? I'm only mentioning this because your story is really spot on, so this is just a potential extension that you should consider in case you do need it in a future exam! Otherwise, my main advice is working on the word choice of the areas I pointed out, just so that you don't fall into a cliche and instead, your work looks really unique!
Good luck![/b]
Thanks so much for your feedback Elyse, it's been really helpful! (I sent the same story to my teacher and got the "hmm.... it's nice" response, which is always good to hear, but not exactly constructive!) Stay awesome :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 17, 2016, 09:38:21 am
No problem, here it is! Thanks
Thanks for that. Already I'm seeing this is going to be so much easier! When I pasted it in from the PDF there were no paragraphs, so this is great!
Your original:
Spoiler
Once the news had broke, Mrs. Maddox wept.
She wept around the presence of her brother who patted her back and her husband’s friend, Arthur, who stood near. “If you need anything, anything at all,” Arthur spoke with unease, or maybe he just spoke in an attempt that his words would fill the limitless space between them. Abby simply wept, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her own arms. Her brother hadn’t spoke since he broke the news in jumbled sentences; half revealing, half concealing. It was Arthur who had been there, pulled the emergency alarm, panicked, sent the rescue team who did no rescuing. It was Arthur who received the three names, pictured the families, the wives, the children. Pictured Mrs. Maddox after the name Travis Maddox appeared before his eyes.
Unlike most, Abby did not question the inevitability of her husband’s death, did not throw her arms or fall to the floor on her knees praying to God that it wasn’t true. Did not argue in denial. She simply wept until the storm had spent itself.
***
Travis eyed Abby with an aura of confidence that obliterated the space between them. Abby, drink in hand, felt compelled to the tall, dark handsome man as she let her eyes dance between him and her group of friends.
“Ooo, he’s cute, go talk to him,” Meg paraded as she nudged Abby enough to cause her to stumble back onto her right foot, feeling lucky that the inch of shoe that actually hit hit the ground were enough to save her.
“Mmm, yeah he is, you’ve got to make your move at least one of the times we go out, that’s what makes it fun,” Katie obliviously pointed in his direction, holding two empty drinks in her hand.
Abby could feel the redness swell in her cheeks, “I can’t guys, I'm not like you.”
“Sure you are,” Meg replied as she pushed an unknown drink into Katie’s belly with such a force that it rode up the sides like a slippery dip, only millimetres away from crashing into Abby’s sheer, white top.
Abby leant against the bar as she observed how Travis beamed as if he were the centre show, with all four of his friends captivated by his performance. As he threw his hands up in a dramatic representation, they all laughed and Abby caught herself smiling.
Travis turned and the two were seemingly caught face to face, as if they had bumped into each other on the street. Abby spun, causing a sudden rush of vertigo, as she ordered another drink in an attempt to look busy.
Drinking, you’d think Abby had just finished a marathon as she depleted the contents in front of her. Turning her eyes, not her body, her image was filled with the close up of a white buttoned down t-shirt, the top button undone, exposing the slightest array of chest hair.
“Hi, I’m Travis,” he smiled, as his confidence now radiated into Abby.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Abby,” she said, causing a school-yard grin to consume her face.
“Want to get out of here, grab a bite to eat or something?” Travis has already started to move towards the exit, clearly a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
Abby nodded and innocently began to follow.
Travis placed the tips of his fingers on Abby’s lower back in a way that made her heat up inside.
***
Abby was young, with a fair, pure face which shone underneath the downpour of light which surrounded the room. Her husband had since flown from her in the presence of tears.
As Abby sat, unmoving, on the orange suede sofa she had once shared with Travis, her brother brought her a glass of water in an attempt to stir the stale air that the three of them existed in. Accepting the water, she did not drink it.
It was Arthur who made the first move, “You know,” he began saying as he reached for his back pocket, “I have this picture of Travis and I, when we first began working together, around the time the two of you met,” his fingers held a small picture he had retracted from his wallet as he leaned over to give it to Abby.
“I want you to have it.”
She stared at the piece of paper for a long time before announcing, “He looks happy.”
Abby counted backwards in time and concluded that this photo must have been taken 6 years ago, or 1 year before they had met. It was evident as she saw the man she fell for smiling back at her, she saw the same burning copper eyes as she had at the bar, the eyes that spoke of confidence, dedication, commitment. She thought of herself at this time, 6 years ago, she would have just finished her business degree. She placed the photo facedown and slid the photo back towards Arthur, thanking him for his kind gesture.
***
Mr and Mrs Maddox laughed as they manoeuvred their brand new orange sofa through the door of their two bedroom home.
“How good is this!” Travis exclaimed as he looked around their newly-renovated living room.
“You know..” Travis began as he creeped close to Mrs. Maddox, “you don't have to find a new job now..I’ve got it covered,” he boasted as he wrapped his arm around her waist.
Abby stepped away from his grip, “I thought we spoke about this, I want to work,” she spoke silently as she looked to the ground below her.
“But you don't have to!” Travis threw his arms as does when he is passionate about something.
“I know I don't have to, but I want to”
Now that Travis paced around the room, Mrs. Maddox hoped he would not break anything.
“Why would you want to, you can stay here and do anything you want, I'm allowing you to.”
Travis’ face seemed to absorb the redness which had seeped out of his wife’s as he opened and closed pantry doors, in such a rush that he could not even see what was inside.
“Where is all the food in this house! You cant even manage to look after the house when you aren't working.”
Mrs Maddox swallowed back the tears that seemed to be pushing her eyeballs out of her head.
She approached him slowly, “You’re right, you’re right, I don’t need to work,” she assured him as she convinced herself, he was right. It would all work out.
“I’m going to go and do some shopping now, okay?” Mrs. Maddox cautiously asked her husband.
“Okay, thank you” he replied as his breathing came back down to a normal pace and the tips off his fingers lingered on her arm for just long enough to make her hair stand up.
Before leaving, Mrs. Maddox stared into the hollow barrel of her own eyes as they appeared in front of her, convincing herself that the person she saw before her was smiling.
***
Abby’s heart smiled despite the sympathetic looks that never left the faces of Arthur and her brother. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and despite her eyelids covering her vision, she could see pictures of happiness, of freedom.
And yet she had loved him.
Often she had not.
Though no one knew, Mr. Maddox replaced Abby with Mrs. Maddox.
“So, I know there are a lot of way people deal with loss…I know when my Uncle died, my Aunty took up knitting as a way to…” Abby cut Arthur off before he could continue any more.
“I think I'm going to start looking for work, I can’t stay in this house all day.”
Arthur and her brother shared a surprised look.
“That sounds like a great idea, sis,” her brother rose and embraced her in a tight, reassuring hug.
“If you guys don’t mind, I would like to be alone for a bit.”
“Of course, don't mind us” Arthur said as both the men took a couple of steps to the door.
One final tear relinquished itself from her right eye as she closed the door on Arthur, closed the door on her husband. She was a widow. She smiled.
She wept around the presence of her brother who patted her back and her husband’s friend, Arthur, who stood near. “If you need anything, anything at all,” Arthur spoke with unease, or maybe he just spoke in an attempt that his words would fill the limitless space between them. Abby simply wept, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her own arms. Her brother hadn’t spoke since he broke the news in jumbled sentences; half revealing, half concealing. It was Arthur who had been there, pulled the emergency alarm, panicked, sent the rescue team who did no rescuing. It was Arthur who received the three names, pictured the families, the wives, the children. Pictured Mrs. Maddox after the name Travis Maddox appeared before his eyes.
Unlike most, Abby did not question the inevitability of her husband’s death, did not throw her arms or fall to the floor on her knees praying to God that it wasn’t true. Did not argue in denial. She simply wept until the storm had spent itself.
***
Travis eyed Abby with an aura of confidence that obliterated the space between them. Abby, drink in hand, felt compelled to the tall, dark handsome man as she let her eyes dance between him and her group of friends.
“Ooo, he’s cute, go talk to him,” Meg paraded as she nudged Abby enough to cause her to stumble back onto her right foot, feeling lucky that the inch of shoe that actually hit hit the ground were enough to save her.
“Mmm, yeah he is, you’ve got to make your move at least one of the times we go out, that’s what makes it fun,” Katie obliviously pointed in his direction, holding two empty drinks in her hand.
Abby could feel the redness swell in her cheeks, “I can’t guys, I'm not like you.”
“Sure you are,” Meg replied as she pushed an unknown drink into Katie’s belly with such a force that it rode up the sides like a slippery dip, only millimetres away from crashing into Abby’s sheer, white top.
Abby leant against the bar as she observed how Travis beamed as if he were the centre show, with all four of his friends captivated by his performance. As he threw his hands up in a dramatic representation, they all laughed and Abby caught herself smiling.
Travis turned and the two were seemingly caught face to face, as if they had bumped into each other on the street. Abby spun, causing a sudden rush of vertigo, as she ordered another drink in an attempt to look busy.
Drinking, you’d think Abby had just finished a marathon as she depleted the contents in front of her. Turning her eyes, not her body, her image was filled with the close up of a white buttoned down t-shirt, the top button undone, exposing the slightest array of chest hair.
“Hi, I’m Travis,” he smiled, as his confidence now radiated into Abby.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Abby,” she said, causing a school-yard grin to consume her face.
“Want to get out of here, grab a bite to eat or something?” Travis has already started to move towards the exit, clearly a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
Abby nodded and innocently began to follow.
Travis placed the tips of his fingers on Abby’s lower back in a way that made her heat up inside.
***
Abby was young, with a fair, pure face which shone underneath the downpour of light which surrounded the room. Her husband had since flown from her in the presence of tears.
As Abby sat, unmoving, on the orange suede sofa she had once shared with Travis, her brother brought her a glass of water in an attempt to stir the stale air that the three of them existed in. Accepting the water, she did not drink it.
It was Arthur who made the first move, “You know,” he began saying as he reached for his back pocket, “I have this picture of Travis and I, when we first began working together, around the time the two of you met,” his fingers held a small picture he had retracted from his wallet as he leaned over to give it to Abby.
“I want you to have it.”
She stared at the piece of paper for a long time before announcing, “He looks happy.”
Abby counted backwards in time and concluded that this photo must have been taken 6 years ago, or 1 year before they had met. It was evident as she saw the man she fell for smiling back at her, she saw the same burning copper eyes as she had at the bar, the eyes that spoke of confidence, dedication, commitment. She thought of herself at this time, 6 years ago, she would have just finished her business degree. She placed the photo facedown and slid the photo back towards Arthur, thanking him for his kind gesture.
***
Mr and Mrs Maddox laughed as they manoeuvred their brand new orange sofa through the door of their two bedroom home.
“How good is this!” Travis exclaimed as he looked around their newly-renovated living room.
“You know..” Travis began as he creeped close to Mrs. Maddox, “you don't have to find a new job now..I’ve got it covered,” he boasted as he wrapped his arm around her waist.
Abby stepped away from his grip, “I thought we spoke about this, I want to work,” she spoke silently as she looked to the ground below her.
“But you don't have to!” Travis threw his arms as does when he is passionate about something.
“I know I don't have to, but I want to”
Now that Travis paced around the room, Mrs. Maddox hoped he would not break anything.
“Why would you want to, you can stay here and do anything you want, I'm allowing you to.”
Travis’ face seemed to absorb the redness which had seeped out of his wife’s as he opened and closed pantry doors, in such a rush that he could not even see what was inside.
“Where is all the food in this house! You cant even manage to look after the house when you aren't working.”
Mrs Maddox swallowed back the tears that seemed to be pushing her eyeballs out of her head.
She approached him slowly, “You’re right, you’re right, I don’t need to work,” she assured him as she convinced herself, he was right. It would all work out.
“I’m going to go and do some shopping now, okay?” Mrs. Maddox cautiously asked her husband.
“Okay, thank you” he replied as his breathing came back down to a normal pace and the tips off his fingers lingered on her arm for just long enough to make her hair stand up.
Before leaving, Mrs. Maddox stared into the hollow barrel of her own eyes as they appeared in front of her, convincing herself that the person she saw before her was smiling.
***
Abby’s heart smiled despite the sympathetic looks that never left the faces of Arthur and her brother. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and despite her eyelids covering her vision, she could see pictures of happiness, of freedom.
And yet she had loved him.
Often she had not.
Though no one knew, Mr. Maddox replaced Abby with Mrs. Maddox.
“So, I know there are a lot of way people deal with loss…I know when my Uncle died, my Aunty took up knitting as a way to…” Abby cut Arthur off before he could continue any more.
“I think I'm going to start looking for work, I can’t stay in this house all day.”
Arthur and her brother shared a surprised look.
“That sounds like a great idea, sis,” her brother rose and embraced her in a tight, reassuring hug.
“If you guys don’t mind, I would like to be alone for a bit.”
“Of course, don't mind us” Arthur said as both the men took a couple of steps to the door.
One final tear relinquished itself from her right eye as she closed the door on Arthur, closed the door on her husband. She was a widow. She smiled.
Your story now, with my edited in bold writing:
Spoiler
Once the news had broke, Mrs. Maddox wept. The italicised part here isn't technically incorrect, to my understanding, but if I'm being really fussy, you either use "broke" or "had broken" and not "had broke." Such a small fussy thing I know, but seeing as your teacher didn't have much criticism, I'll try dig to find you stuff :)
She wept around the presence of her brother who patted her back and her husband’s friend, Arthur, who stood near. “If you need anything, anything at all,” Arthur spoke with unease, or maybe he just spoke in an attempt that his words would fill the limitless space between them. Abby simply wept, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her own arms. Her brother hadn’t spoke since he broke the news in jumbled sentences; half revealing, half concealing. It was Arthur who had been there, pulled the emergency alarm, panicked and sent the rescue team who did no rescuing. It was Arthur who received the three names, pictured the families, the wives, the children. Pictured Mrs. Maddox after the name Travis Maddox appeared before his eyes. This last sentence isn't correct in form. You need a noun to specify who or what "pictured."
Unlike most, Abby did not question the inevitability of her husband’s death, did not throw her arms or fall to the floor on her knees praying to God that it wasn’t true. Did not argue in denial. She simply wept until the storm had spent itself.
***
Travis eyed Abby with an aura of confidence that obliterated the space between them. Abby, drink in hand, felt compelled to the tall, dark handsome man as she let her eyes dance between him and her group of friends. What I LOVE about this sentence is the last part. The dancing eyes, that's wonderful. What dampens the sentence for me personally is the description of "tall, dark handsome." It is because it is such a common ideal that many women have for men, in that exact description. Instead, even describing that he had long hair or short hair or something to that effect - or even something way way unique - that would make the sentence really stand out.
“Ooo, he’s cute, go talk to him,” Meg paraded as she nudged Abby enough to cause her to stumble back onto her right foot, feeling lucky that the inch of shoe that actually hit hit (accidentally typed twice :)) the ground were enough to save her.
“Mmm, yeah he is, you’ve got to make your move at least one of the times we go out, that’s what makes it fun,” Katie obliviously pointed in his direction, holding two empty drinks in her hand.
Abby could feel the redness swell in her cheeks, “I can’t guys, I'm not like you.”
“Sure you are,” Meg replied as she pushed an unknown drink into Katie’s belly with such a force that it rode up the sides like a slippery dip, only millimetres away from crashing into Abby’s sheer, white top.
Abby leant There is a debate amongst grammar lovers regarding the use of leant or leaned. Leaned is used 10x more than leant, but it is American English technically. However, it is used far more than leant outside of America as well. It is up to you, of course, seeing as both are correct. But I just thought I'd pop that in here :) against the bar as she observed how Travis beamed as if he were the centre show, with all four of his friends captivated by his performance. As he threw his hands up in a dramatic representation, they all laughed and Abby caught herself smiling.
Travis turned and the two were seemingly caught face to face, as if they had bumped into each other on the street. Abby spun, causing a sudden rush of vertigo, as she ordered another drink in an attempt to look busy.
Drinking, you’d think Abby had just finished a marathon as she depleted the contents in front of her. Turning her eyes, not her body, her image was filled with the close up of a white buttoned down t-shirt, the top button undone, exposing the slightest array of chest hair.
“Hi, I’m Travis,” he smiled, as his confidence now radiated into Abby.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Abby,” she said, causing a school-yard grin to consume her face. Consume...it is difficult. I see what you are saying here, but because I'm being picky because everything so far is so good, I wouldn't use this word. Just because, when I imagine an enormous smile, I imagine sparkling eyes. But, if the smile consumes the face, my imagery of the eyes is disrupted. Perhaps try another verb. Again, I stress, there isn't anything wrong with what you've written. This is a great piece so I'm being fussy to find little things to improve on.
“Want to get out of here, grab a bite to eat or something?” Travis has already started to move towards the exit, clearly a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
Abby nodded and innocently began to follow.
Travis placed the tips of his fingers on Abby’s lower back in a way that made her heat up inside. This reminds me so much of a book, Brooklyn, by Colm Toibin. Your imagery is excellent.
***
Abby was young, with a fair, pure face which shone underneath the downpour of light which surrounded the room. Her husband had since flown from her in the presence of tears.
As Abby sat, unmoving, on the orange suede sofa she had once shared with Travis, her brother brought her a glass of water in an attempt to stir the stale air that the three of them existed in. Accepting the water, she did not drink it.
It was Arthur who made the first move, “You know,” he began saying as he reached for his back pocket, “I have this picture of Travis and I, when we first began working together, around the time the two of you met,” his fingers held a small picture he had retracted from his wallet as he leaned over to give it to Abby.
“I want you to have it.”
She stared at the piece of paper for a long time before announcing, “He looks happy.”
Abby counted backwards in time and concluded that this photo must have been taken 6 years ago, or 1 year before they had met. It was evident as she saw the man she fell for smiling back at her, she saw the same burning copper eyes as she had at the bar, the eyes that spoke of confidence, dedication, commitment. She thought of herself at this time, 6 years ago, she would have just finished her business degree. She placed the photo facedown and slid the photo back towards Arthur, thanking him for his kind gesture.
***
Mr and Mrs Maddox laughed as they manoeuvred their brand new orange sofa through the door of their two bedroom home.
“How good is this!” Travis exclaimed as he looked around their newly-renovated living room.
“You know..” Travis began as he creeped close to Mrs. Maddox, “you don't have to find a new job now..I’ve got it covered,” he boasted as he wrapped his arm around her waist.
Abby stepped away from his grip, “I thought we spoke about this, I want to work,” she spoke silently as she looked to the ground below her.
“But you don't have to!” Travis threw his arms as does when he is passionate about something. "arms as he does?"
“I know I don't have to, but I want to”
Now that Travis paced around the room, Mrs. Maddox hoped he would not break anything.
“Why would you want to, you can stay here and do anything you want, I'm allowing you to.”
Travis’ face seemed to absorb the redness which had seeped out of his wife’s as he opened and closed pantry doors, in such a rush that he could not even see what was inside.
“Where is all the food in this house! You cant even manage to look after the house when you aren't working.”
Mrs Maddox swallowed back the tears that seemed to be pushing her eyeballs out of her head.
She approached him slowly, “You’re right, you’re right, I don’t need to work,” she assured him as she convinced herself, he was right. It would all work out.
“I’m going to go and do some shopping now, okay?” Mrs. Maddox cautiously asked her husband.
“Okay, thank you” he replied as his breathing came back down to a normal pace and the tips off his fingers lingered on her arm for just long enough to make her hair stand up.
Before leaving, Mrs. Maddox stared into the hollow barrel of her own eyes as they appeared in front of her, convincing herself that the person she saw before her was smiling.
***
Abby’s heart smiled despite the sympathetic looks that never left the faces of Arthur and her brother. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut
And yet she had loved him.
Often she had not.
Though no one knew, Mr. Maddox replaced Abby with Mrs. Maddox.
“So, I know there are a lot of ways people deal with loss…I know when my Uncle died, my Aunty took up knitting as a way to…” Abby cut Arthur off before he could continue any more.
“I think I'm going to start looking for work, I can’t stay in this house all day.”
Arthur and her brother shared a surprised look.
“That sounds like a great idea, sis,” her brother rose and embraced her in a tight, reassuring hug.
“If you guys don’t mind, I would like to be alone for a bit.”
“Of course, don't mind us” Arthur said as both the men took a couple of steps to the door.
One final tear relinquished itself from her right eye as she closed the door on Arthur, closed the door on her husband. She was a widow. She smiled.
What I love about this story:
-You never explicitly say how he died. It works stronger like this.
-The circular structure of the story works well, coming back to the start at the end. This is very satisfying for a reader.
-Your imagery is definitely there, in a way that is strong without being showy.
What there is to improve:
The main thing is that grammatically, some things are not correct. I sense that you have done this in the aim of manipulating conventions for a purpose, this is why I left some untouched. However, the ones I commented on are the ones that stuck out to me especially as the kinds of things that markers would probably double read to make sure they read it correctly.
Some things to think about:
In a situation of a written stimulus, I'm going to present to you a few ideas just so you can think about how you would engage them in your story:
Write an imaginative piece of writing:
-Where discovery features as being transformative of opinions
-where rediscovery is a thematic highlight.
-that features discovering something for the first time.
Otherwise, you've done a really excellent job and you should be very proud!
Post by: hannahboardman98 on March 18, 2016, 09:18:43 am
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 18, 2016, 11:04:45 pm
Hi this is my creative writing draft for discovery area of study. I have included comments within the document in regards to where I'm struggling. Thank you! :)
Hey Hannah! I've attached your Creative below with some feedback :D
Spoiler
‘Discovery consists not in seeking new lands but in seeing with new eyes’
Lightning strikes through dark clouds and thunder shakes the neighbourhood. Climbing onto my motorbike, I thrust myself into the murky night. On the freeway, heading towards Rammington Bridge, I only have one intention. The wet road reflects my hideous appearance in rapid strokes on the black tar beneath my bike. Accelerating, I pass a tree whose branches crumble to the ground. Lightning strikes again. The tree, a symbol of my life falling apart. Skidding to theside kerb and launching myself off the vehicle, I stride purposely towards the bridge’s edge. In response to your comment, I would say just saying 'kerb' works here! Sweat drips down my face and an excitable anxiety runs through my body. Overlooking the channel, a thousand memories flood my mind, however one overpowers them all. Pain. This wrenching torment needs to be over. The cold night air brushes against the misfortune on my face. I am resolute. Silence. Moments from plunging into the depths of my painful release, a jolt like no other sends streams through my body. Yep, this makes sense! Every artery, muscle, nerve, ligament and tendon screams. Lightning. Extreme heat courses throughout me, bringing forth excruciation and exhilaration simultaneously. Within a fleeting moment, my surroundings transform. Really nice imagery in this paragraph. Be careful not to over do it though, otherwise it becomes imagery for imagery's sake.
I am in my room. The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. Same smells, but altered shadows. Confusion fills my head as my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, I create a wonky line all the way from my room to here. My body ceases. I see her. Her golden hair radiates the room as she sits comfortably on the lounge. I hear a murmur of the voice I have replayed over and over in my head for the last two years. Hearing it again, it gets louder, and louder. My spine tingles with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears, where it finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state. My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for 2 years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’ Remember, dialogue lines must take a line of their own. I also actually think this paragraph would be better without this last dialogue line, lets the reader figure out for themselves the role this woman plays. Reader drawn conclusions are always more powerful than your own: Show not tell.
The woman who I have not been able to touch for two years is now stroking my face with her soft, delicate hands. The warmth of her presence overwhelms me as I begin to feel myself fall back into the old life I once lived. The easy life. The life where I had a loving mother and father and no pain filled my body. But after that one day, the day my mother was ripped out of my arms, I was no longer pain free. I think the paragraph that follows could benefit from a slightly more euphemistic tone. This is a traumatic experience for the protagonist, so it makes sense that (especially given you are writing in first person) he could not directly re-live the event. Hint to what happened, rather than directly recount it. The recount style could be contributing to the 'cliched' tendency you are noticing.
It was a windy night, mum and I wanted to go for a drive so that I could get driving experience. We cautiously cruised along Rammington road whilst discussing how quickly time flies. Gushes of wind took control of the car and lead us over the bridge. The car sank rapidly. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water filled up the car. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I see her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’s seen a ghost. Screaming ‘Mum!!!!!!!!’, but nothing escaped her gaze. It was too late. Her body was as blue as a blue-bottle. She was dead. Mother Nature insensibly took my mother from me. I never believed in heartbreak, until that very moment. To see my mother not being able to draw a breath of air killed me internally. My chest filled with no air, it was like suffocating, and however I was surrounded with so much oxygen. This was my life from here onwards. The pain never went away. Until this moment, right here, as my mother begins to speak to me again.
‘You have to stop blaming yourself Rick. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’ Be careful with your use of dialogue, it is very hard to keep dialogue realistic at this length. Further, it loses its impact: Dialogue is powerful when used right.
My dad interrupts the conversation that I have needed to have in two years, ‘It’s time to go now son’.
I feel the same confusion and blurriness that I experienced when I arrived here. ‘Wait, mum where did dad just disappear to?’ I turn to claim reassurance from mum, however she’s gone as well. ‘No!!’ I scream and run through the house looking for mum like a child who’s lost their favourite teddy bear. This can’t be happening again. Yes, I think cutting this dialogue would benefit the story at large. The scene begins to fade before my eyes and a much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I’m drowning, with no one around. Memories flush back into my head and I comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. However, the next thing I know my body is swimming to the surface. I try to make sense of everything that is happening, but there just isn’t enough time at this particular moment. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. I paddle to the side bank, slumping my body at the first chance I get. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, looking up at the stars as I notice an enormous scar on my chest. It was formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. The lightning has provided me with this life altering experience. The scar and all its power, symbolises the strength my mother had just provided me with. The strength to turn over a new leaf, the strength to see my life through a new set of eyes. A fresh start. I find the juxtaposition between the realism of the theme of loss, and the supernaturalism of this ending, a little unusual. I'm not saying I don't like it, but it is definitely a contrast, and you may want to consider if this is intentional.
Lightning strikes through dark clouds and thunder shakes the neighbourhood. Climbing onto my motorbike, I thrust myself into the murky night. On the freeway, heading towards Rammington Bridge, I only have one intention. The wet road reflects my hideous appearance in rapid strokes on the black tar beneath my bike. Accelerating, I pass a tree whose branches crumble to the ground. Lightning strikes again. The tree, a symbol of my life falling apart. Skidding to the
I am in my room. The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. Same smells, but altered shadows. Confusion fills my head as my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, I create a wonky line all the way from my room to here. My body ceases. I see her. Her golden hair radiates the room as she sits comfortably on the lounge. I hear a murmur of the voice I have replayed over and over in my head for the last two years. Hearing it again, it gets louder, and louder. My spine tingles with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears, where it finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state. My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for 2 years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’ Remember, dialogue lines must take a line of their own. I also actually think this paragraph would be better without this last dialogue line, lets the reader figure out for themselves the role this woman plays. Reader drawn conclusions are always more powerful than your own: Show not tell.
The woman who I have not been able to touch for two years is now stroking my face with her soft, delicate hands. The warmth of her presence overwhelms me as I begin to feel myself fall back into the old life I once lived. The easy life. The life where I had a loving mother and father and no pain filled my body. But after that one day, the day my mother was ripped out of my arms, I was no longer pain free. I think the paragraph that follows could benefit from a slightly more euphemistic tone. This is a traumatic experience for the protagonist, so it makes sense that (especially given you are writing in first person) he could not directly re-live the event. Hint to what happened, rather than directly recount it. The recount style could be contributing to the 'cliched' tendency you are noticing.
It was a windy night, mum and I wanted to go for a drive so that I could get driving experience. We cautiously cruised along Rammington road whilst discussing how quickly time flies. Gushes of wind took control of the car and lead us over the bridge. The car sank rapidly. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water filled up the car. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I see her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’s seen a ghost. Screaming ‘Mum!!!!!!!!’, but nothing escaped her gaze. It was too late. Her body was as blue as a blue-bottle. She was dead. Mother Nature insensibly took my mother from me. I never believed in heartbreak, until that very moment. To see my mother not being able to draw a breath of air killed me internally. My chest filled with no air, it was like suffocating, and however I was surrounded with so much oxygen. This was my life from here onwards. The pain never went away. Until this moment, right here, as my mother begins to speak to me again.
‘You have to stop blaming yourself Rick. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’ Be careful with your use of dialogue, it is very hard to keep dialogue realistic at this length. Further, it loses its impact: Dialogue is powerful when used right.
My dad interrupts the conversation that I have needed to have in two years, ‘It’s time to go now son’.
I feel the same confusion and blurriness that I experienced when I arrived here. ‘Wait, mum where did dad just disappear to?’ I turn to claim reassurance from mum, however she’s gone as well. ‘No!!’ I scream and run through the house looking for mum like a child who’s lost their favourite teddy bear. This can’t be happening again. Yes, I think cutting this dialogue would benefit the story at large. The scene begins to fade before my eyes and a much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I’m drowning, with no one around. Memories flush back into my head and I comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. However, the next thing I know my body is swimming to the surface. I try to make sense of everything that is happening, but there just isn’t enough time at this particular moment. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. I paddle to the side bank, slumping my body at the first chance I get. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, looking up at the stars as I notice an enormous scar on my chest. It was formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. The lightning has provided me with this life altering experience. The scar and all its power, symbolises the strength my mother had just provided me with. The strength to turn over a new leaf, the strength to see my life through a new set of eyes. A fresh start. I find the juxtaposition between the realism of the theme of loss, and the supernaturalism of this ending, a little unusual. I'm not saying I don't like it, but it is definitely a contrast, and you may want to consider if this is intentional.
Your use of imagery and emotive language is extremely impressive! I really love what you've done in some parts, some very clever pathetic fallacy and figurative language, re-enforced with effective word choice.
I would say that your story is suffering a little bit from "over description." Try to be a bit more vague/euphemistic in some areas. This is especially true given the fact that you are writing in first person.
When you assume a character, you need to do one of two things. Adjust the character to suit your writing style, or adjust the style to suit the character. I like the character development, we start with the view of them as a tough, insensitive "biker" character, but then we are immediately shown the opposite. Perhaps tease this transition out a little bit more. Now, what isn't coming across is the hurt in this scenario. Describing the whole event in such detail does not suggest any personal grief, it suggests the opposite actually. If you cut and trim your imagery and dialogue to the essentials you will create something more powerful, in my opinion.
I don't think you have a cliche story here either, even though you suggested so in the document. However, if you are concerned, perhaps the first thing to address would be the ending. It is here where I am expecting some large crescendo. The character has gone through this reflective process, which is beautifully constructed, and then the "discovery" is done very quickly and with much less technicality. And part of this is the catalyst being somewhat supernatural in nature. If you want to do this, awesome, I really like the difference in it, but maybe explore the idea a little more and make the ending a little more significant. So, I don't think the issue is cliche, I think the issue is not properly fulfilling a climax, and using something supernatural as an easier escape from an internal emotional climax, which would be more suited to the story.
Keep in mind these are major nitpicks, this is a fantastic story! Really powerful use of language and some excellent themes throughout, with nice character development to boot! I think the ending is what you are concerned about, you may want to re-think the 'supernatural' nature of it, if the cliche concerns you. I think this idea is great, just the execution could be improved slightly. Fix this up and I think you are on the start of a real winner here ;D
Post by: znaser on March 21, 2016, 06:47:48 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 22, 2016, 09:56:43 am
Hi. This is my creative writing. Thank you for your time :)
Hey there! Usually I asked people who post PDFs to repost in a word doc, just because the line spacing goes a bit awkward. You'll realise this below. However, I've kept yours as a PDF because you've made good use of scattered line spacing. So I'll give it a go!
Spoiler
All tangible memories are but an illusion…
The lens captures the earth but drains the life.
The ink enshrouds the evidence, blurring what is real and what is not.
The powers of retention is one to be guarded… tended. For without memories, we are
devoid of identity, deeming us living but lifeless. For without the power to venture in time,
we are devoid of the faculty to discern how our past moulded our present… to reminisce
the branching off of our incessant labyrinth. My fingers clutch the mellow fringes of my
journal… its tenderness enlivening my despondent core. Imprinted within the interior in
pronounced, ebony ink: (At this point, what I like is that you have a really impressive vocabulary yet it seems to suit very well without being showy. I imagine that the persona is a very intelligent person, so this makes a lot of sense.)
“Life without memory is no life at all.”
I riffle the pages… pondering between the print,
and I rekindle with treacly sentiments.
November 11 2014
I was seven.
I was entranced by the puffs of white that roamed the sky, the myriads of ants that capered the
verdure, the pearls of white that perished to survive and the sun that died for the moon to be alive.
I was seven. Wide-eyed. Seduced by the beauty of life. (Imagery wise, I'd like to clarify. I don't know what the pearls of white are? I thought clouds, but you'd already discussed them as being puffs of white. Just something to think about :) )
Your garden embodied the pigments of life… It was YOUR garden that gravitated your soul to my
mind,
and I enquired with my entreating eyes, “How is it that a single rose petal can enfold so much
beauty, so much life?” At this point, I'd like to tell you how I imagine this piece. This piece, to me, based on vocabulary, is either written from the perspective of a historical and intelligent persona, or a persona who lives in a different culture to our Western culture, because a far greater emphasis is placed on expression of language and ideas.
and you replied with your benevolent psyche, “The rose is a token of amity.
‘Friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.’ ”
I was seven when you bestowed a burgeoning rose into my avid palms… when you whispered,
“Nurture this rose and it will blossom with you.”
and it did.
But
you
lied. This is really powerful. Really, really powerful.
I was fifteen when I espied the illusion:
The rose’s redolence is a pretence that veils its haughty scent… and as
your orange door became tinged with grey… your garden untended,
the rose wilted.
A trail of crimson stains the parchment, brushing the tattooed crystals in dolour. My tainted
fingertips clench onto the glass remnant, enwreathed with impressions fountained from my
soul… and I inhale mist of yore.
***
The quivers of the earth resonate the monitor and echo through my bones. Their city
crumbles, yet they tower above the rubble abreast, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand,
restoring soul to the withered ambience. Amidst the destruction,
blooming life.
I avert my gaze and observe through the transparency — oblivion… an illusion: fabricated
life veneering the lingering stench of death. My pen slides harshly over the smooth page,
marking in anarchic script —
Structure: A pretence for our disunity.
Her garden becomes defined within the compass of my vision… its once zealous character
drowns in apathy and I mutter under my breath, “Why did you leave me?”
A Nepalese child, ‘Mahavir’, casts my hearing in a trance, re-focusing my sight to the
display. He sounds in a stout, quivering airing, “We are blessed because we are alive and
together. We are blessed… we have each other, our ancestors.”
He proceeds, resting his calloused palm on his heart, “Their spirits are here. They are with
us, nurturing us… gravitating our souls to each other.”
Mahavir gestures to a budding rose anchored to his shirt, “The kind Australian gifted us
with this treasure, ‘A token to remind you that they are here, with you. Even though you are
unable to see them, they are with you…’ ”
I murmur with him, “…and they will always be with you.”
***
My fingertips strum the frail rose petals, tuning soothing melodies within me…—
conducting me to the glass remnant on the page. Piece by piece, I weld the segments of
the photograph, unchaining Xantara’s spirit within me… The scarlet tint in her cheeks, my
entreating eyes and the vibrancy of her garden become more pronounced… and the
memory ceases to bear a mirage. My pen tattoos the parchment in orderly print,
“When life throws thorns; hunt for the roses.”
I pry the iron chest and rest my journal within its interiors, hauling a quivering whisper,
“Goodbye.”
My grasp steers to Xantara’s film and quill, reigniting the glister in my eyes. I peruse a
notebook void of impressions and observe the roaming puffs of white through the
transparency. The mellow feather soars over the interiors of the binding, printing in large,
neat script,
"The real voyage of discovery consists, not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes."
My fingertips rekindle with the rose and I turn a new page.
The lens captures the earth but drains the life.
The ink enshrouds the evidence, blurring what is real and what is not.
The powers of retention is one to be guarded… tended. For without memories, we are
devoid of identity, deeming us living but lifeless. For without the power to venture in time,
we are devoid of the faculty to discern how our past moulded our present… to reminisce
the branching off of our incessant labyrinth. My fingers clutch the mellow fringes of my
journal… its tenderness enlivening my despondent core. Imprinted within the interior in
pronounced, ebony ink: (At this point, what I like is that you have a really impressive vocabulary yet it seems to suit very well without being showy. I imagine that the persona is a very intelligent person, so this makes a lot of sense.)
“Life without memory is no life at all.”
I riffle the pages… pondering between the print,
and I rekindle with treacly sentiments.
November 11 2014
I was seven.
I was entranced by the puffs of white that roamed the sky, the myriads of ants that capered the
verdure, the pearls of white that perished to survive and the sun that died for the moon to be alive.
I was seven. Wide-eyed. Seduced by the beauty of life. (Imagery wise, I'd like to clarify. I don't know what the pearls of white are? I thought clouds, but you'd already discussed them as being puffs of white. Just something to think about :) )
Your garden embodied the pigments of life… It was YOUR garden that gravitated your soul to my
mind,
and I enquired with my entreating eyes, “How is it that a single rose petal can enfold so much
beauty, so much life?” At this point, I'd like to tell you how I imagine this piece. This piece, to me, based on vocabulary, is either written from the perspective of a historical and intelligent persona, or a persona who lives in a different culture to our Western culture, because a far greater emphasis is placed on expression of language and ideas.
and you replied with your benevolent psyche, “The rose is a token of amity.
‘Friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.’ ”
I was seven when you bestowed a burgeoning rose into my avid palms… when you whispered,
“Nurture this rose and it will blossom with you.”
and it did.
But
you
lied. This is really powerful. Really, really powerful.
I was fifteen when I espied the illusion:
The rose’s redolence is a pretence that veils its haughty scent… and as
your orange door became tinged with grey… your garden untended,
the rose wilted.
A trail of crimson stains the parchment, brushing the tattooed crystals in dolour. My tainted
fingertips clench onto the glass remnant, enwreathed with impressions fountained from my
soul… and I inhale mist of yore.
***
The quivers of the earth resonate the monitor and echo through my bones. Their city
crumbles, yet they tower above the rubble abreast, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand,
restoring soul to the withered ambience. Amidst the destruction,
blooming life.
I avert my gaze and observe through the transparency — oblivion… an illusion: fabricated
life veneering the lingering stench of death. My pen slides harshly over the smooth page,
marking in anarchic script —
Structure: A pretence for our disunity.
Her garden becomes defined within the compass of my vision… its once zealous character
drowns in apathy and I mutter under my breath, “Why did you leave me?”
A Nepalese child, ‘Mahavir’, casts my hearing in a trance, re-focusing my sight to the
display. He sounds in a stout, quivering airing, “We are blessed because we are alive and
together. We are blessed… we have each other, our ancestors.”
He proceeds, resting his calloused palm on his heart, “Their spirits are here. They are with
us, nurturing us… gravitating our souls to each other.”
Mahavir gestures to a budding rose anchored to his shirt, “The kind Australian gifted us
with this treasure, ‘A token to remind you that they are here, with you. Even though you are
unable to see them, they are with you…’ ”
I murmur with him, “…and they will always be with you.”
***
My fingertips strum the frail rose petals, tuning soothing melodies within me…—
conducting me to the glass remnant on the page. Piece by piece, I weld the segments of
the photograph, unchaining Xantara’s spirit within me… The scarlet tint in her cheeks, my
entreating eyes and the vibrancy of her garden become more pronounced… and the
memory ceases to bear a mirage. My pen tattoos the parchment in orderly print,
“When life throws thorns; hunt for the roses.”
I pry the iron chest and rest my journal within its interiors, hauling a quivering whisper,
“Goodbye.”
My grasp steers to Xantara’s film and quill, reigniting the glister in my eyes. I peruse a
notebook void of impressions and observe the roaming puffs of white through the
transparency. The mellow feather soars over the interiors of the binding, printing in large,
neat script,
"The real voyage of discovery consists, not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes."
My fingertips rekindle with the rose and I turn a new page.
Ok so I didn't edit the last bit, because I couldn't fault it. That's great for you! I mean, this is wonderful. Your writing shows a sophistication with being a show-off. I think it comes from the fact that the persona's voice is so vulnerable and humble. Like I mentioned before, I either imagine this being set in another culture or in a past time, still potentially in a different culture. The language expressed here, the parchment, the calligraphy, none of it screams Aussie. Which I really think is great. It is so unique and wonderful. I honestly imagined an Aladdin type scenery, and I imagined the humility of sacred virtues. This really transported me to another place, I'm so impressed, moved even. It takes a skilled writer to use impressive vocabulary consistently and still show humility in their ideas.
What I am also interested in, is how you will craft your word-art in the exam? Will you write bloom in increasing size? Will you still write things from the right hand margin? You've created a wonderful art work with words, I'm curious about how you will emulate this in an exam.
Further, you explicitly say the word discovery in your piece. A lot of people recommend not doing that. I mean, it didn't stick out to me in a way that made me think "uhh...." or anything. However, perhaps you can find a synonym suitable. I suggest this because you don't know for sure that from another perspective, that it may look like "hello! here is my discovery aspect! Notice it!" Like I said, to me, it doesn't appear like that. But it wouldn't surprise me if another person perceived it that way. This is just food for thought.
You should be very proud of you work :)
Post by: znaser on March 22, 2016, 11:00:15 am
Post by: hannahboardman98 on March 22, 2016, 02:19:48 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 22, 2016, 07:40:14 pm
Is my 'discovery' clear in the story? Is it good enough? I tend to tell instead of show, how did I go in this story?
Hey there! I will go into this specifically thinking about the conveyance of discovery, but overall as well :)
Original story found in this spoiler:
Spoiler
‘Discovery consists not in seeking new lands but in seeing with new eyes’
Lightning strikes through dark clouds and thunder shakes the neighbourhood. Climbing onto my motorbike, I thrust myself into the murky night. On the freeway, heading towards Rammington Bridge, I only have one intention. The wet road on the black tar skirts beneath my bike reflecting the hideous composure of my face. Accelerating, I pass a tree whose branches crumble to the ground, symbolising my life falling apart. The sky flashes white again. Skidding to the side kerb and launching myself off the vehicle, I stride purposely towards the bridge’s edge. Sweat drips down my face and an overwhelming sense of anxiety courses through my body. Overlooking the channel, a thousand memories flood into my mind. One, however, overpowers them all. The indistinguishable cold grip of pain that clutches at my very being. This wrenching torment needs to be over. The cold night air brushes against the misfortune on my face. I am resolute. Silence. Moments from plunging into the water, a jolt like no other sends streams through my body. Every artery and nerve screams. Lightning. Extreme heat courses throughout me. Within a fleeting moment, my surroundings transform.
I am in my room. The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. The same smells, but altered shadows. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. My body ceases. I see her and my vision starts to haze as her soft silhouette emerges from the light. Her golden hair radiates the room as she sits cosily on the lounge. She purrs in her sleep, however and my presence wakes her. My spine tingles with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears, where it finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state. My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for 2 years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’
The woman who I have not been able to touch for two years is now stroking my face with her soft, delicate hands. The warmth of her presence overwhelms me as I begin to feel myself fall back into the old life I once lived. The easy life. The life where I had a loving mother and father and no pain filled my body. But after that one day, the day my mother was ripped out of my arms, I was no longer pain free.
It was a windy night, mum and I wanted to go for a drive so that I could get driving experience. We cautiously cruised along Rammington road whilst discussing how quickly time flies. Gushes of wind lifted the car and it felt like a roller-coaster as we were tossed into the water. The icy water filled my car and began to take me under its power. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water rushed in. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I see her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’s seen a ghost. Screaming ‘Mum!!!!!!!!’, but nothing escaped her gaze. It was too late. Her body was as cold as ice and whiter than I have ever seen her. Her jaw is open as if she was trying to grasp just one tiny bit of oxygen. But none ever did. Because of me. Tears fill my eyes as they disappear into the water that now withholds my mother’s spirit. My chest physically hurts, my heart feels as though somebody is trying to rip it apart. From that moment onwards, that heartache never went away, until now. Right here, my mother begins to speak to me again, snapping me out of my reminiscent state.
‘You have to stop blaming yourself Em. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’.
I snuggle into my mother’s arms as I feel comfort from the rise and fall of her chest. Cuddling up as though she the puzzle to my heart that needs filling, her warmth makes me feel forever safe. Happiness roams through my body and it is all that I will ever need, just as the world decides to be cruel to me yet again. The blurriness is back. The same sensation that I experienced when I first arrived in this momentary lapse. My revelation begins to fade in front of my eyes, and my senses become numb as I find myself less connected to the warmth mum emits.
I turn to claim reassurance from mum. ‘NO!!!!!’ my vocal chords shatter as I scream at the disappearance of my mum. This can’t be happening again, how can she be ripped out of my arms all over again!? A much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I am drowning, with no one around. Memories flush back into my head and I comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. However, the next thing I know my body is swimming to the surface. My mind encumbers with so many thoughts, but one particular voice seems to stand out the most. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. Pushing the water behind me, I seek refuge upon the side bank. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, arms and legs stretched out like an angel. Looking up at the stars my eyes catch a glimpse of an enormous scar on my chest. It was formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. I no longer feel the ache in my chest. Through being struck, I was able to receive everything that I have needed for a long time. Closure.
Lightning strikes through dark clouds and thunder shakes the neighbourhood. Climbing onto my motorbike, I thrust myself into the murky night. On the freeway, heading towards Rammington Bridge, I only have one intention. The wet road on the black tar skirts beneath my bike reflecting the hideous composure of my face. Accelerating, I pass a tree whose branches crumble to the ground, symbolising my life falling apart. The sky flashes white again. Skidding to the side kerb and launching myself off the vehicle, I stride purposely towards the bridge’s edge. Sweat drips down my face and an overwhelming sense of anxiety courses through my body. Overlooking the channel, a thousand memories flood into my mind. One, however, overpowers them all. The indistinguishable cold grip of pain that clutches at my very being. This wrenching torment needs to be over. The cold night air brushes against the misfortune on my face. I am resolute. Silence. Moments from plunging into the water, a jolt like no other sends streams through my body. Every artery and nerve screams. Lightning. Extreme heat courses throughout me. Within a fleeting moment, my surroundings transform.
I am in my room. The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. The same smells, but altered shadows. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. My body ceases. I see her and my vision starts to haze as her soft silhouette emerges from the light. Her golden hair radiates the room as she sits cosily on the lounge. She purrs in her sleep, however and my presence wakes her. My spine tingles with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears, where it finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state. My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for 2 years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’
The woman who I have not been able to touch for two years is now stroking my face with her soft, delicate hands. The warmth of her presence overwhelms me as I begin to feel myself fall back into the old life I once lived. The easy life. The life where I had a loving mother and father and no pain filled my body. But after that one day, the day my mother was ripped out of my arms, I was no longer pain free.
It was a windy night, mum and I wanted to go for a drive so that I could get driving experience. We cautiously cruised along Rammington road whilst discussing how quickly time flies. Gushes of wind lifted the car and it felt like a roller-coaster as we were tossed into the water. The icy water filled my car and began to take me under its power. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water rushed in. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I see her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’s seen a ghost. Screaming ‘Mum!!!!!!!!’, but nothing escaped her gaze. It was too late. Her body was as cold as ice and whiter than I have ever seen her. Her jaw is open as if she was trying to grasp just one tiny bit of oxygen. But none ever did. Because of me. Tears fill my eyes as they disappear into the water that now withholds my mother’s spirit. My chest physically hurts, my heart feels as though somebody is trying to rip it apart. From that moment onwards, that heartache never went away, until now. Right here, my mother begins to speak to me again, snapping me out of my reminiscent state.
‘You have to stop blaming yourself Em. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’.
I snuggle into my mother’s arms as I feel comfort from the rise and fall of her chest. Cuddling up as though she the puzzle to my heart that needs filling, her warmth makes me feel forever safe. Happiness roams through my body and it is all that I will ever need, just as the world decides to be cruel to me yet again. The blurriness is back. The same sensation that I experienced when I first arrived in this momentary lapse. My revelation begins to fade in front of my eyes, and my senses become numb as I find myself less connected to the warmth mum emits.
I turn to claim reassurance from mum. ‘NO!!!!!’ my vocal chords shatter as I scream at the disappearance of my mum. This can’t be happening again, how can she be ripped out of my arms all over again!? A much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I am drowning, with no one around. Memories flush back into my head and I comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. However, the next thing I know my body is swimming to the surface. My mind encumbers with so many thoughts, but one particular voice seems to stand out the most. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. Pushing the water behind me, I seek refuge upon the side bank. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, arms and legs stretched out like an angel. Looking up at the stars my eyes catch a glimpse of an enormous scar on my chest. It was formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. I no longer feel the ache in my chest. Through being struck, I was able to receive everything that I have needed for a long time. Closure.
Edited story, my comments in bold, found in this spoiler:
Spoiler
‘Discovery consists not in seeking new lands but in seeing with new eyes’
Lightning strikes through dark clouds and thunder shakes the neighbourhood. Climbing onto my motorbike, I thrust myself into the murky night. On the freeway, heading towards Rammington Bridge, I only have one intention. Would you like the strength of this sentence to be the one intention? to me, that should be salient. For this reason, I would put that as the first part of the sentence rather than in the second. But, if you prefer for it to remain less significant, keep it where it is! The wet road on the black tar skirts beneath my bike, reflecting the hideous composure of my face. Accelerating, I pass a tree whose branches crumble to the ground, symbolising my life falling apart. You shouldn't have to explain the symbolism, it should be a connection that the reader makes for themselves. The sky flashes white again. Skidding to the side kerb and launching myself off the vehicle, I stride purposely towards the bridge’s edge. When you put skid and launch together - it sounds like you've had an accident and you've been ejected from your seat, hurdling into the air. I would switch launching for another, less impacting word. Sweat drips down my face and an overwhelming sense of anxiety courses through my body. Overlooking the channel, a thousand memories flood into my mind. One, however, overpowers them all. The indistinguishable cold grip of pain that clutches at my very being. This wrenching torment needs to be over. The cold night air brushes against the misfortune on my face. Just interjecting here to let you know that this is the second noticeable mention of an ugly face - at this stage I'm hoping that the face is completely distorted or burnt or something, and the person doesn't just have low self esteem with an average face. I'm just letting you know because I think it is important for an author to know what a reader is thinking at each point. I am resolute. Silence. Moments from plunging into the water, a jolt like no other sends streams through my body. Every artery and nerve screams. Lightning. Extreme heat courses throughout me. Within a fleeting moment, my surroundings transform.
I am in my room. The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. The same smells, but altered shadows. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. My body ceases. I see her and my vision starts to haze as her soft silhouette emerges from the light. Her golden hair radiates the room as she sits cosily on the lounge. She purrs in her sleep, however and my presence wakes her. My spine tingles with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears, where it finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state. My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for 2 years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’ I was really certain that you were talking about a cat here. The golden hair, the cosily on the lounge, the purrs, definitely thought this was a cat lol. I suggest you change the description up a bit, because its a crude shock for a marker (or any human, if this was in real life) to realise a cat is actually a person haha.
The woman who I have not been able to touch for two years is now stroking my face with her soft, delicate hands. The warmth of her presence overwhelms me as I begin to feel myself fall back into the old life I once lived. The easy life. The life where I had a loving mother and father and no pain filled my body. But after that one day, the day my mother was ripped out of my arms, I was no longer pain free.
It was a windy night, mum and I wanted to go for a drive so that I could get driving experience. We cautiously cruised along Rammington road whilst discussing how quickly time flies. Gushes of wind lifted the car and it felt like a roller-coaster as we were tossed into the water. The icy water filled my car and began to take me under its power. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water rushed in. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I see her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’s seen a ghost. Screaming ‘Mum!!!!!!!!’, (I wouldn't do this many !!! in an exam, just because it technically is grammatically incorrect and you can compensate for this in language.) but nothing escaped her gaze. It was too late. Her body was as cold as ice and whiter than I have ever seen her. Her jaw is open as if she was trying to grasp just one tiny bit of oxygen. But none ever did. What is the none? This sentence doesn't quite make sense. Because of me. Tears fill my eyes as they disappear into the water that now withholds my mother’s spirit. My chest physically hurts, my heart feels as though somebody is trying to rip it apart. From that moment onwards, that heartache never went away, until now. Right here, my mother begins to speak to me again, snapping me out of my reminiscent state.
‘You have to stop blaming yourself Em. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’.
I snuggle into my mother’s arms as I feel comfort from the rise and fall of her chest. Cuddling up as though she was? is? the puzzle to my heart that needs filling, her warmth makes me feel forever safe. Happiness roams through my body and it is all that I will ever need, just as the world decides to be cruel to me yet again. The blurriness is back. The same sensation that I experienced when I first arrived in this momentary lapse. My revelation begins to fade in front of my eyes, and my senses become numb as I find myself less connected to the warmth mum emits.
I turn to claim reassurance from mum. ‘NO!!!!!’ (refer to previous comment on !!!)my vocal chords shatter as I scream at the disappearance of my mum. This can’t be happening again, how can she be ripped out of my arms all over again!? A much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I am drowning, with no one around. Memories flush back into my head and I comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. However, This isn't the strongest connective here possible. It just sounds a tad too essay and not enough like what the persona would say. the next thing I know my body is swimming to the surface. My mind encumbers with so many thoughts, but one particular voice seems to stand out the most. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. Pushing the water behind me, I seek refuge upon the side bank. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, arms and legs stretched out like an angel. Looking up at the stars my eyes catch a glimpse of an enormous scar on my chest. It was formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. I no longer feel the ache in my chest. Through being struck, I was able to receive everything that I have needed for a long time. Closure.
Lightning strikes through dark clouds and thunder shakes the neighbourhood. Climbing onto my motorbike, I thrust myself into the murky night. On the freeway, heading towards Rammington Bridge, I only have one intention. Would you like the strength of this sentence to be the one intention? to me, that should be salient. For this reason, I would put that as the first part of the sentence rather than in the second. But, if you prefer for it to remain less significant, keep it where it is! The wet road on the black tar skirts beneath my bike, reflecting the hideous composure of my face. Accelerating, I pass a tree whose branches crumble to the ground, symbolising my life falling apart. You shouldn't have to explain the symbolism, it should be a connection that the reader makes for themselves. The sky flashes white again. Skidding to the side kerb and launching myself off the vehicle, I stride purposely towards the bridge’s edge. When you put skid and launch together - it sounds like you've had an accident and you've been ejected from your seat, hurdling into the air. I would switch launching for another, less impacting word. Sweat drips down my face and an overwhelming sense of anxiety courses through my body. Overlooking the channel, a thousand memories flood into my mind. One, however, overpowers them all. The indistinguishable cold grip of pain that clutches at my very being. This wrenching torment needs to be over. The cold night air brushes against the misfortune on my face. Just interjecting here to let you know that this is the second noticeable mention of an ugly face - at this stage I'm hoping that the face is completely distorted or burnt or something, and the person doesn't just have low self esteem with an average face. I'm just letting you know because I think it is important for an author to know what a reader is thinking at each point. I am resolute. Silence. Moments from plunging into the water, a jolt like no other sends streams through my body. Every artery and nerve screams. Lightning. Extreme heat courses throughout me. Within a fleeting moment, my surroundings transform.
I am in my room. The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. The same smells, but altered shadows. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. My body ceases. I see her and my vision starts to haze as her soft silhouette emerges from the light. Her golden hair radiates the room as she sits cosily on the lounge. She purrs in her sleep, however and my presence wakes her. My spine tingles with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears, where it finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state. My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for 2 years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’ I was really certain that you were talking about a cat here. The golden hair, the cosily on the lounge, the purrs, definitely thought this was a cat lol. I suggest you change the description up a bit, because its a crude shock for a marker (or any human, if this was in real life) to realise a cat is actually a person haha.
The woman who I have not been able to touch for two years is now stroking my face with her soft, delicate hands. The warmth of her presence overwhelms me as I begin to feel myself fall back into the old life I once lived. The easy life. The life where I had a loving mother and father and no pain filled my body. But after that one day, the day my mother was ripped out of my arms, I was no longer pain free.
It was a windy night, mum and I wanted to go for a drive so that I could get driving experience. We cautiously cruised along Rammington road whilst discussing how quickly time flies. Gushes of wind lifted the car and it felt like a roller-coaster as we were tossed into the water. The icy water filled my car and began to take me under its power. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water rushed in. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I see her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’s seen a ghost. Screaming ‘Mum!!!!!!!!’, (I wouldn't do this many !!! in an exam, just because it technically is grammatically incorrect and you can compensate for this in language.) but nothing escaped her gaze. It was too late. Her body was as cold as ice and whiter than I have ever seen her. Her jaw is open as if she was trying to grasp just one tiny bit of oxygen. But none ever did. What is the none? This sentence doesn't quite make sense. Because of me. Tears fill my eyes as they disappear into the water that now withholds my mother’s spirit. My chest physically hurts, my heart feels as though somebody is trying to rip it apart. From that moment onwards, that heartache never went away, until now. Right here, my mother begins to speak to me again, snapping me out of my reminiscent state.
‘You have to stop blaming yourself Em. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’.
I snuggle into my mother’s arms as I feel comfort from the rise and fall of her chest. Cuddling up as though she was? is? the puzzle to my heart that needs filling, her warmth makes me feel forever safe. Happiness roams through my body and it is all that I will ever need, just as the world decides to be cruel to me yet again. The blurriness is back. The same sensation that I experienced when I first arrived in this momentary lapse. My revelation begins to fade in front of my eyes, and my senses become numb as I find myself less connected to the warmth mum emits.
I turn to claim reassurance from mum. ‘NO!!!!!’ (refer to previous comment on !!!)my vocal chords shatter as I scream at the disappearance of my mum. This can’t be happening again, how can she be ripped out of my arms all over again!? A much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I am drowning, with no one around. Memories flush back into my head and I comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. However, This isn't the strongest connective here possible. It just sounds a tad too essay and not enough like what the persona would say. the next thing I know my body is swimming to the surface. My mind encumbers with so many thoughts, but one particular voice seems to stand out the most. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. Pushing the water behind me, I seek refuge upon the side bank. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, arms and legs stretched out like an angel. Looking up at the stars my eyes catch a glimpse of an enormous scar on my chest. It was formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. I no longer feel the ache in my chest. Through being struck, I was able to receive everything that I have needed for a long time. Closure.
I really really like this ending - the lightning. I wish that there was some facial deformity from the accident or something that is made clearer - because the imagery for that is strong at the start and weakens later. This would give an idea of the physical hardship he or she bears on a daily basis as a reminder of the devastation.
Fortunately, I haven't experienced anything like this in real life. But, I think it is important you know that it really touched me anyway, it made me a little tight in the chest. So you have a great story.
Discovery wise: we need it to tick the boxes: physical and emotional, spiritual, transformative, the unplanned or planned nature. I don't think your story necessarily ticks all of these boxes. Physical, emotional, yes. Spiritual and transformative can be developed at the end to be super clear. But the planned or unplanned nature of discovery? All discoveries are one or the other. Do you think there is a definitive moment of discovery here? Can you accentuate it further?
Otherwise, you should be very proud :)
Post by: znaser on March 22, 2016, 08:08:29 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 23, 2016, 12:28:34 am
Hi Elyse. I have a massive problem with my creative. My teacher did not understand it and said that I'm showing too much and should include some tell. When she gave me suggestions on how to do that, she butchered my story. I'm not sure what to do because my exam is this thursday. I asked her what she would give it if I left it unchanged and she said 9 or 10/15 which is yh obviously not what I'm hoping for. Can you please help me solve this problem. I'm really sorry for taking your time.
Hey znaser! I spied your comment and had a read of your creative, perhaps just to give a second opinion. This is the issue with Creative I suppose, it is extremely interpretive.
The thing is, I loved your Creative just as much as Elyse. It shows almost masterful control of language and is extremely powerful ;D
Now, your teacher is suggesting "Less show, more tell." This in itself is new to me, I've never heard of feedback wanting someone to be less descriptive in their writing. I re-read your creative and tried to put myself in her shoes.
I think her view on the text could be that is it overly verbose (a testament I don't necessarily agree with, but I see where she is coming from). It is VERY stream of conscience-style, and I love that style, and I think you create a masterful tone with it. Perhaps though, your sophisticated vocabulary and the free-form structure, flow of thought style piece is distancing the reader from the concepts.
So, you could think about trying some concise, more reflective paragraphs in your piece. These can absolutely carry a similarly fragmented voice from the rest of the short story, but sentence structure could be a little simpler. Less phrases, more direct, less verbose, just direct reflections on the current happenings and trains of thought. Half orientation for the reader, half a chance to mix it up a little bit with your style and create moments of harsh, blunt tone within your more eloquent creation.
Essentially, your teacher 'not understanding' means that the concepts are out of reach for the reader (again, I disagree). To simplify, get the story clearer to the reader with some more direct vocabulary in parts, and that could help clarify your Discovery concepts.
As for "less show, more tell," the reflective paragraphs accomplish this as well. Rely less on description and symbolism, more on emotional reflection by the character. Long, simple, non-interrupted thoughts on characters and situations.
Please note, this is totally me just fishing for things to improve. I LOVED YOUR CREATIVE! It is absolutely wonderful, don't let this situation discourage you. It is just a part of the subject that some Creative pieces will be, shall we say, polarising. Often it is the polarising pieces which are the most wonderful to read, with the unique features proving attractive to some, and not so attractive for others. This is why Creative pieces, like essays, are doubled marked, and then triple marked if necessary ;D
Out of curiosity, what sort of things did your teacher suggest to improve? Why did you feel, as the author, that they "butchered" your creation? It might give us an insight to help you work through the feedback!
Post by: znaser on March 23, 2016, 09:38:07 am
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 23, 2016, 10:24:49 pm
Thank you for the help :) yh my teacher suggested to scrap the accounts from Mahavir which didnt make sense because he is the catalyst for her discovery and to include the perspective of her neighbour which is what I initially planned to do but decided to emit it because I wanted to amplify the message that she didn't need to be physically with her in order to maintain the 'spiritual' relationship. So yh I think she didn't attempt to read my story properly but just skimmed through it which is what the markers do anyways so yh I'm in a bit of a dilemma.
I mean, markers shouldn't be skimming, and the markers I know for creative writing definitely don't skim. So don't stress! But, it is definitely worthwhile to note that your work should be able to be read on surface level, but also much deeper as well. I think you're on the right track :)
Post by: William Chen on March 27, 2016, 01:56:39 am
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 27, 2016, 08:02:19 pm
Hey. Thanks for doing this. It's really awesome. Can I just get some feedback on this creative I wrote. I'm a bit afraid its too flashback-heavy if you know what I mean.
Hey there! I'm so keen to read this creative. I'll let you know what I think of the flashbacks :)
Original creative:
Spoiler
It isn’t supposed to be like this. Your twin sister is your twin sister. She is supposed to be there for you, offering advice, encouraging you, laughing, crying, introducing you to her friends and siding with you during those family arguments. She is not supposed to be confined to a room, drugged, anaesthetised, eyes cloudy, unrecognisable, drool coming from thin and pursed lips, skin sallow and hair lustreless.
No, it isn’t supposed to be like this.
But it is.
They called and said I could see her today. “She’s been good for three days, so perhaps a visit is appropriate.” The voice cold, detached, clinical.
“Is four okay?” I reply.
“We’ll try to have her ready.”
I note the verb and shudder. The last visit ended badly. I had arrived just after lunch and found Emily sitting by herself in the sun-room, staring vacantly across the lawns of the clinic. She ignored my greeting and the gentle kiss on her cheek; yet she allowed me to walk her along the sterile, lifeless corridor and out into the open air, my hand tucked inside her arm. We had only just set foot into the rose garden when the first wail began. Then she broke free and ran, her cries unintelligible, hands waving, only stopping by a tree where she doubled over and began convulsing. Two orderlies who were close by ran towards her and held her arms with firm grips; one I could hear whispering the same phrase over and over. “Peaceful thoughts. Peaceful thoughts.”
As they walked Emily back to her room one of the orderlies said to me, “Maybe try again later in the week.” They left me standing by a rose bush looking up at the sandstone walls of the sanatorium and the ivy that wound and snaked its way up.
Emily wasn’t always like this. Through our early years and into childhood, all was well. We often chased each other under the sun that was welded to the blue sky, and the clouds fused with the horizon, and where the small waves cascaded onto the white sand. And she would sing, her voice wide as autumn’s ending, smooth as a river stone.
There were a few moments, however, when alarm bells should have rung. A temper tantrum when she was at school, hitting a girl with a steel ruler, drawing blood and grinning maliciously. Waking one morning finding her holding her pet hamster dead in her arms singing a lullaby. Lying motionless at the bottom of a public pool, holding her breath as if she had drowned, waiting to be dragged to the surface by the lifeguard. What we didn’t realise then was that a darkness was at work, a black mist that surrounded my dearest twin, stalking and shadowing what remained of her innocent naivety, clawing away whatever tenuous grip she had on reality.
Then came the eating disorder, the gradual wasting away. Her moments of deep introspection and taciturnity tore away at our family fabric, leaving our parents disoriented and at wits end as Emily methodically, almost calculatingly, pulled one thread at a time, dismantling the weave. But my father, being his calm and collected self, was always able to comfort her, restitching what was undone. “Em, you sweet little nut. Why don’t you sing that voice again for us? Yes? Of course you will, my sweet little nut,” he often said. Ah yes, my father. He was the best man I ever knew. Always there knowing what to do. Always there to console and deliver.
Until one day he died. Until one day where he just couldn’t resist getting so drunk and drowning himself in piss and ultimately get hit by a car.
And my sweet mother who just couldn’t bear everything that had happened. I found her lying down next to some shrubs on the beach, eyes barely open, breath delicately heavy. Uncovering the bottle of white pills in her palm, I lay and waited with her as together we watched the setting sun dying the sky a dull pink, and the stars eventually fading from the night.
And now, as Emily and my fortieth birthday approaches, both orphaned, with my life an emotional ruin, broken marriages, a daughter won’t speak to me, a job I despise, and I am completely alone, I am left to pick up the fragile pieces of what went wrong. But I finally realise they are fragments too small to piece together, too numerous to salvage. Without Emily I am lost. Utterly lost. For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
…
And so there we are, sitting amongst the tranquillity of the breeze and the cool shade under this tree. I had expected her to run berserk like she did last time, but she is as peaceful as ever, her waist snugly wrapped around by my thin arms. We both waited, listening to a familiar noise around us. If the wind decided to howl, it would have sighed through the surrounding trees, swayed through the sandstone walls and swept this sound down like autumn leaves. If there was any music or laughter, but of course there wasn’t, and thus the sound continued to hum. I look into the eyes of my sister, and I can see that she views the world the same way I do. All we wanted was to tear a whole in this world and run away. I now recognise the sound. It reminds me of my sister’s singing. It reminds me of cutting flowers. It is the soft sound of those who are waiting to die.
I slowly think to myself, “Peaceful thoughts. Peaceful thoughts.”
No, it isn’t supposed to be like this.
But it is.
They called and said I could see her today. “She’s been good for three days, so perhaps a visit is appropriate.” The voice cold, detached, clinical.
“Is four okay?” I reply.
“We’ll try to have her ready.”
I note the verb and shudder. The last visit ended badly. I had arrived just after lunch and found Emily sitting by herself in the sun-room, staring vacantly across the lawns of the clinic. She ignored my greeting and the gentle kiss on her cheek; yet she allowed me to walk her along the sterile, lifeless corridor and out into the open air, my hand tucked inside her arm. We had only just set foot into the rose garden when the first wail began. Then she broke free and ran, her cries unintelligible, hands waving, only stopping by a tree where she doubled over and began convulsing. Two orderlies who were close by ran towards her and held her arms with firm grips; one I could hear whispering the same phrase over and over. “Peaceful thoughts. Peaceful thoughts.”
As they walked Emily back to her room one of the orderlies said to me, “Maybe try again later in the week.” They left me standing by a rose bush looking up at the sandstone walls of the sanatorium and the ivy that wound and snaked its way up.
Emily wasn’t always like this. Through our early years and into childhood, all was well. We often chased each other under the sun that was welded to the blue sky, and the clouds fused with the horizon, and where the small waves cascaded onto the white sand. And she would sing, her voice wide as autumn’s ending, smooth as a river stone.
There were a few moments, however, when alarm bells should have rung. A temper tantrum when she was at school, hitting a girl with a steel ruler, drawing blood and grinning maliciously. Waking one morning finding her holding her pet hamster dead in her arms singing a lullaby. Lying motionless at the bottom of a public pool, holding her breath as if she had drowned, waiting to be dragged to the surface by the lifeguard. What we didn’t realise then was that a darkness was at work, a black mist that surrounded my dearest twin, stalking and shadowing what remained of her innocent naivety, clawing away whatever tenuous grip she had on reality.
Then came the eating disorder, the gradual wasting away. Her moments of deep introspection and taciturnity tore away at our family fabric, leaving our parents disoriented and at wits end as Emily methodically, almost calculatingly, pulled one thread at a time, dismantling the weave. But my father, being his calm and collected self, was always able to comfort her, restitching what was undone. “Em, you sweet little nut. Why don’t you sing that voice again for us? Yes? Of course you will, my sweet little nut,” he often said. Ah yes, my father. He was the best man I ever knew. Always there knowing what to do. Always there to console and deliver.
Until one day he died. Until one day where he just couldn’t resist getting so drunk and drowning himself in piss and ultimately get hit by a car.
And my sweet mother who just couldn’t bear everything that had happened. I found her lying down next to some shrubs on the beach, eyes barely open, breath delicately heavy. Uncovering the bottle of white pills in her palm, I lay and waited with her as together we watched the setting sun dying the sky a dull pink, and the stars eventually fading from the night.
And now, as Emily and my fortieth birthday approaches, both orphaned, with my life an emotional ruin, broken marriages, a daughter won’t speak to me, a job I despise, and I am completely alone, I am left to pick up the fragile pieces of what went wrong. But I finally realise they are fragments too small to piece together, too numerous to salvage. Without Emily I am lost. Utterly lost. For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
…
And so there we are, sitting amongst the tranquillity of the breeze and the cool shade under this tree. I had expected her to run berserk like she did last time, but she is as peaceful as ever, her waist snugly wrapped around by my thin arms. We both waited, listening to a familiar noise around us. If the wind decided to howl, it would have sighed through the surrounding trees, swayed through the sandstone walls and swept this sound down like autumn leaves. If there was any music or laughter, but of course there wasn’t, and thus the sound continued to hum. I look into the eyes of my sister, and I can see that she views the world the same way I do. All we wanted was to tear a whole in this world and run away. I now recognise the sound. It reminds me of my sister’s singing. It reminds me of cutting flowers. It is the soft sound of those who are waiting to die.
I slowly think to myself, “Peaceful thoughts. Peaceful thoughts.”
Creative with my writing in bold text:
Spoiler
It isn’t supposed to be like this. Your twin sister is your twin sister. She is supposed to be there for you, offering advice, encouraging you, laughing, crying, introducing you to her friends and siding with you during those family arguments. She is not supposed to be confined to a room, drugged, anaesthetised, eyes cloudy, unrecognisable, drool coming from thin and pursed lips, skin sallow and hair lustreless. Wow this took a quick turn and I love it.
No, it isn’t supposed to be like this.
But it is.
They called and said I could see her today. “She’s been good for three days, so perhaps a visit is appropriate.” The voice cold, detached, clinical.
“Is four okay?” I reply.
“We’ll try to have her ready.”
I note the verb and shudder. The last visit ended badly. I had arrived just after lunch and found Emily sitting by herself in the sun-room, staring vacantly across the lawns of the clinic. She ignored my greeting and the gentle kiss on her cheek; yet she allowed me to walk her along the sterile, lifeless corridor and out into the open air, my hand tucked inside her arm. We had only just set foot into the rose garden when the first wail began. Then she broke free and ran, her cries unintelligible, hands waving, only stopping by a tree where she doubled over and began convulsing. Two orderlies who were close by ran towards her and held her arms with firm grips; one I could hear whispering the same phrase over and over. “Peaceful thoughts. Peaceful thoughts.”
As they walked Emily back to her room one of the orderlies said to me, “Maybe try again later in the week.” They left me standing by a rose bush looking up at the sandstone walls of the sanatorium and the ivy that wound and snaked its way up.
Emily wasn’t always like this. Through our early years and into childhood, all was well. We often chased each other under the sun that was welded to the blue sky, and the clouds fused with the horizon, and where the small waves cascaded onto the white sand. And she would sing, her voice wide as autumn’s ending, smooth as a river stone. This just seems to me to be a little too happy, chirpy, idealistic. This might be the bit that is a bit too flashback heavy. Because, I can assume she wasn't always like this because right now I'm taking that she has a drug problem. I don't imagine that she had a drug problem when she was younger. The point is just missed a little.
There were a few moments, however, when alarm bells should have rung. A temper tantrum when she was at school, hitting a girl with a steel ruler, drawing blood and grinning maliciously. This makes the above seem a little more understood now. Nonetheless, it is a little too idealistic above and this bit down here is more real. Waking one morning finding her holding her pet hamster dead in her arms singing a lullaby. Lying motionless at the bottom of a public pool, holding her breath as if she had drowned, waiting to be dragged to the surface by the lifeguard. What we didn’t realise then was that a darkness was at work, a black mist that surrounded mydearest (this sticks out to me as being a tiny bit too dramatic) twin, stalking and shadowing what remained of her innocent naivety, clawing away whatever tenuous grip she had on reality.
Then came the eating disorder, the gradual wasting away. Her moments of deep introspection and taciturnity tore away at our family fabric, leaving our parents disoriented and at wits end as Emily methodically, almost calculatingly, I know there are differences between these two words, but to me they are just so similar that they aren't effective in comparison. pulled one thread at a time, dismantling the weave. But my father, being his calm and collected self, was always able to comfort her, restitching what was undone. “Em, you sweet little nut. Why don’t you sing that voice again for us? Yes? Of course you will, my sweet little nut,” he often said. Ah yes, my father. He was the best man I ever knew. Always there knowing what to do. Always there to console and deliver.
Until one day he died. Until one day where he just couldn’t resist getting so drunk and drowning himself in pissand ultimately get hit by a car. ending in a vehicle fatality. (the grammar was a bit awkward because of the tense.)
And my sweet mother who just couldn’t bear everything that had happened. I found her lying down next to some shrubs on the beach, eyes barely open, breath delicately heavy. Uncovering the bottle of white pills in her palm, I lay and waited with her as together we watched the setting sun dying the sky a dull pink, and the stars eventually fading from the night.
And now, as Emily and my fortieth birthday approaches, both orphaned, with my life an emotional ruin, broken marriages, a daughter won’t speak to me, a job I despise, and I am completely alone, I am left to pick up the fragile pieces of what went wrong. But I finally realise they are fragments too small to piece together, too numerous to salvage. Without Emily I am lost. Utterly lost. For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
…
And so there we are, sitting amongst the tranquillity of the breeze and the cool shade under this tree. I had expected her to run berserk like she did last time, but she is as peaceful as ever, her waist snugly wrapped around by my thin arms. We both waited, listening to a familiar noise around us. If the wind decided to howl, it would have sighed through the surrounding trees, swayed through the sandstone walls and swept this sound down like autumn leaves. If there was any music or laughter, but of course there wasn’t, and thus the sound continued to hum. I look into the eyes of my sister, and I can see that she views the world the same way I do. All we wanted was to tear a whole in this world and run away. I now recognise the sound. It reminds me of my sister’s singing. It reminds me of cutting flowers. It is the soft sound of those who are waiting to die.
I slowly think to myself, “Peaceful thoughts. Peaceful thoughts.”
No, it isn’t supposed to be like this.
But it is.
They called and said I could see her today. “She’s been good for three days, so perhaps a visit is appropriate.” The voice cold, detached, clinical.
“Is four okay?” I reply.
“We’ll try to have her ready.”
I note the verb and shudder. The last visit ended badly. I had arrived just after lunch and found Emily sitting by herself in the sun-room, staring vacantly across the lawns of the clinic. She ignored my greeting and the gentle kiss on her cheek; yet she allowed me to walk her along the sterile, lifeless corridor and out into the open air, my hand tucked inside her arm. We had only just set foot into the rose garden when the first wail began. Then she broke free and ran, her cries unintelligible, hands waving, only stopping by a tree where she doubled over and began convulsing. Two orderlies who were close by ran towards her and held her arms with firm grips; one I could hear whispering the same phrase over and over. “Peaceful thoughts. Peaceful thoughts.”
As they walked Emily back to her room one of the orderlies said to me, “Maybe try again later in the week.” They left me standing by a rose bush looking up at the sandstone walls of the sanatorium and the ivy that wound and snaked its way up.
Emily wasn’t always like this. Through our early years and into childhood, all was well. We often chased each other under the sun that was welded to the blue sky, and the clouds fused with the horizon, and where the small waves cascaded onto the white sand. And she would sing, her voice wide as autumn’s ending, smooth as a river stone. This just seems to me to be a little too happy, chirpy, idealistic. This might be the bit that is a bit too flashback heavy. Because, I can assume she wasn't always like this because right now I'm taking that she has a drug problem. I don't imagine that she had a drug problem when she was younger. The point is just missed a little.
There were a few moments, however, when alarm bells should have rung. A temper tantrum when she was at school, hitting a girl with a steel ruler, drawing blood and grinning maliciously. This makes the above seem a little more understood now. Nonetheless, it is a little too idealistic above and this bit down here is more real. Waking one morning finding her holding her pet hamster dead in her arms singing a lullaby. Lying motionless at the bottom of a public pool, holding her breath as if she had drowned, waiting to be dragged to the surface by the lifeguard. What we didn’t realise then was that a darkness was at work, a black mist that surrounded my
Then came the eating disorder, the gradual wasting away. Her moments of deep introspection and taciturnity tore away at our family fabric, leaving our parents disoriented and at wits end as Emily methodically, almost calculatingly, I know there are differences between these two words, but to me they are just so similar that they aren't effective in comparison. pulled one thread at a time, dismantling the weave. But my father, being his calm and collected self, was always able to comfort her, restitching what was undone. “Em, you sweet little nut. Why don’t you sing that voice again for us? Yes? Of course you will, my sweet little nut,” he often said. Ah yes, my father. He was the best man I ever knew. Always there knowing what to do. Always there to console and deliver.
Until one day he died. Until one day where he just couldn’t resist getting so drunk and drowning himself in piss
And my sweet mother who just couldn’t bear everything that had happened. I found her lying down next to some shrubs on the beach, eyes barely open, breath delicately heavy. Uncovering the bottle of white pills in her palm, I lay and waited with her as together we watched the setting sun dying the sky a dull pink, and the stars eventually fading from the night.
And now, as Emily and my fortieth birthday approaches, both orphaned, with my life an emotional ruin, broken marriages, a daughter won’t speak to me, a job I despise, and I am completely alone, I am left to pick up the fragile pieces of what went wrong. But I finally realise they are fragments too small to piece together, too numerous to salvage. Without Emily I am lost. Utterly lost. For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
…
And so there we are, sitting amongst the tranquillity of the breeze and the cool shade under this tree. I had expected her to run berserk like she did last time, but she is as peaceful as ever, her waist snugly wrapped around by my thin arms. We both waited, listening to a familiar noise around us. If the wind decided to howl, it would have sighed through the surrounding trees, swayed through the sandstone walls and swept this sound down like autumn leaves. If there was any music or laughter, but of course there wasn’t, and thus the sound continued to hum. I look into the eyes of my sister, and I can see that she views the world the same way I do. All we wanted was to tear a whole in this world and run away. I now recognise the sound. It reminds me of my sister’s singing. It reminds me of cutting flowers. It is the soft sound of those who are waiting to die.
I slowly think to myself, “Peaceful thoughts. Peaceful thoughts.”
I love the ending, the "peaceful thoughts" mantra returns. Very awesome.
What I'm not so sold on is the persona. The persona talks of everyone as being sweet and darling. The persona looks back nostalgically and through rose tinted glasses. When in reality, this person is in every position that would direct them to be completely neurotic and bitter. Although this comes through at the end, it certainly doesn't feature in the main part. For me, this is a fragment in the story because the persona isn't consistent. The amount of bad things that happen to the persona is also difficult for a reader to empathise with because it is just so domino-effect. I'm not doubting that a similar sequence of events hasn't happened to someone before, but it is unlikely (and that is a fortunate fact!)
The discovery also isn't super apparent when compared to the rubric. I fear that the creative question might ask of you a very particular aspect and your story, as it stands, won't be able to encompass it. Have you looked at the 2015 HSC exam and any other past papers that you can get your hands on in order to apply the story to the stimulus? In my eyes, that is your next step!
Thanks for posting, I hope this makes sense and hopefully helps! Happy writing :) Post back if you need more fleshing out or editing!
Post by: Belkelly on March 30, 2016, 08:49:11 pm
My half yearly advanced english exam is this Friday and I wondered if you'd be able to give me some feedback on my short story. I know its wayyy to long, but I'm not sure which parts could be deleted. I'd appreciate any help at all :)
Thank you!
Belkelly
Death Was My Freedom
I was riding with the wind at my back, the thunder of the herd drumming in my ears. Looking upwards at the sky I could see a mass of threatening dark clouds swallowing all light from the sky. I signalled to a pair of rough dark haired boys on chestnut brumbies, riding along side me. We cracked our whips and urged the cattle on faster and faster towards the corrals in the distance. The dogs barked madly and the horses were sweating hard, but as the first crack of lightning resounded off the hills the last of the herd were safe within the holding yards. Then I heard the dinner bell began to clang as my young wife stood waiting on the homestead veranda.
I began to walk towards her, but my feet felt like lead, they wouldn’t move. As I watched her she began to fade away and the bell became softer and softer. A sharp ‘bing ding’ rang in my ears and woke me up. I rubbed my tired eyes and looked about, but there was no storm, no wife, no cattle, and no sons. Plain white washed walls surrounded me, senseless beings sat in still motion, and the sickening smell of disinfectant filled my senses. The mechanical bell stopped and a middle aged nurse hurried towards me.
“Come on, love, dinner is served,” she smiled with feigned cheerfulness.
“I’d rather not eat, I think I will go to bed,” I replied politely.
“Now, now, it’s very important we keep our strength up. After dinner we will watch a little TV and then it will be time for our bedtime,” she replied with a simplistic but harsher tone in her voice.
I sat at the table and looked down at my plate. The meat had been processed and then steam cooked in a mould of a steak shape. The vegetables had also been made into puree and then pressed into moulds of miniature carrots and potatoes. I looked about the table and saw silent, powerless men and women either being spoon fed by nurses or feeding themselves in robotic fashion. There was no light banter or conversation, only the soft sound of an air conditioner which kept the atmosphere constantly lukewarm. I took a sip from a glass of water and almost felt sick from the after taste of the strong chlorine purificator. Out the window I could see a tiny garden, bordered by a grey brick wall which surrounded the entire building. Every morning it struggled to block the sun from peeking into the dim and lifeless rooms.
“Eat up deary,” a nurse said patronisingly, as a mother would to her defiant child.
I looked back at her with a scowl, “I’m a grown man,” I said angrily, “I don’t like this disgusting mushed up food for babies and I’m very tired and want to go to bed.”
The nurse quickly stood up, shaking her head, and called for a doctor.
“I’m afraid he’s getting argumentative and disturbing the other dears, he needs to be quietened.”
The doctor inserted a calming drug into my arm and commanded that the patient be put to bed immediately.
The very next morning I woke at sunrise and got up. No sooner had I made my way to the bathroom when the night nurse spotted the telltale red light of the blood pressure band on my wrist.
“Now, now, deary. Go back to bed,” said the night nurse, with that condescending tone. Another nurse joined her and they led me back to my room.
“We may have to look at getting some night medication for him,” whispered one nurse to the other.
I pondered awhile, my forehead wrinkled in concentration. I decided that if I wanted to still have control over my own senses I would have to submit myself to their commands and live as they wished me to live. I leant back on my pillows, which were far too soft for my liking. I picked them up and put them on the floor, now it felt like my old swag. My eyes slowly closed and I was sitting on the back steps of my old veranda.
“Daddy,” called a young voice. A small boy walked into view from around the corner of the house.
“Yes, Jerry.”
“Mamma said you’d take me ridin’?”
“I’m a bit busy son, these whips have to be plaited, it takes a long time,” I replied, as I stooped over my work.
The boy’s head dropped and his eyes looked like they were staring at a rainy day in June. I looked across at him and sighed.
“Come on, then. Work will always be around, but a beautiful sky and a spirited youngster won’t be.”
The clock chimed 8 and a creaking door quietly woke me up to reality. I was permitted to walk myself to the eating room and get my own breakfast of lukewarm porridge.
After breakfast there was Bingo. The round table was situated in a corner of the recreation room, opposite the plasma tv. Plastic vases of paper flowers were situated systematically around the room so that they would not be in danger of drawing attention or, worse, criticism from visitors. I sat down between two half asleep elderly women. A nurse directed the game, while we were like pawns on a chessboard, ordered to make one move or the other, given no knowledge of the rules nor the goal of the game and utterly ignorant of its purpose in our daily lives.
While the nurses dealt out cards I rested my head back on the chair and stared at the white ceiling. Slowly clouds began to form over the plaster and the distant figures of birds began to appear, soaring over the wide blue spaces. A cool hand touched my forehead and stroked my brown hair. The smiling face of my wife looked down on me and I could hear her laughter. Then the scene disappeared and I was standing in a darkened room. She was standing beside me, her face a picture of worry and anxiety. We were both looking down at a young boy lying in a simple wooden bed.
“Daddy, it hurts,” the lad struggled to say, as he touched his chest.
“Anna, go get some sleep, I’ll watch him,” I said, sitting down on the covers. “Listen, Tom, close your eyes and listen for the wind. Do you hear it?” The boy nodded. “Now, if you were a spec of dust floating on that wind, where would you like to go?”
The boy replied in a croaky voice, “Heaven.”
With a jolt, I was suddenly awake and the faces of two nurses peering down at me.
“We’ll have no talk of Heaven, you aren’t going anywhere, deary,” said one of them.
“Come, love, your son is here for a visit, now isn’t that nice,” said the other nurse to me.
We went back to my bedroom and a short young man in a R.M.Williams shirt and Ariat boots stood up to greet me.
“Dad, how have you been?”
The nurse left us and I sat down on my bed.
“Well Dad? Are they treating you well?”
“I don’t like it here, Tom, and I want to go home.”
The man shook his head and smiled.
“Nah, Dad. Me and Jerry are far too busy on the farm to keep an eye on you. They provide excellent care for you here, don’t they? I’m afraid there is no alternative.”
My hand shook and I stared at the grey brick wall outside my little widow. I looked at my son, so strong and healthy.
“Where is Anna?” I asked.
“Can’t you remember?” asked the young man, shocked.
“I know. She’s in heaven.”
“I guess. If anyone could get there, Mum could,” he replied, sadly.
I smiled. I could see her face smiling and her cool hand on my forehead.
“I could get there too… couldn’t I. Goodbye son,” I said.
“Goodbye? Where are you going? Dad, what's the matter with you? Get up. Dad, please get up. Nurse, nurse, come quickly.”
I embraced death with a smile, it was my ticket to freedom.
Sixty years later, Jerry sat in the front seat of his daughter’s car.
“One last stop, Dad, make it quick. I need to get home to pick up the kids.”
They pulled up at the graveyard gate and Jerry walked slowly past the sleeping stones of those long dead.
“Come on. The nursing home wants you back in fifteen minutes,” said the tall young woman, impatiently.
The engraving of Liam O’Brien was still visible through the green moss which covered the marble headstone.
Jerry hung his head, tears trickling down his cheeks, “Now I understand Dad,” he muttered, “I’m so very very sorry.”
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 31, 2016, 09:00:27 pm
Hi Ms. Popplewell,
My half yearly advanced english exam is this Friday and I wondered if you'd be able to give me some feedback on my short story. I know its wayyy to long, but I'm not sure which parts could be deleted. I'd appreciate any help at all :)
Thank you!
Belkelly
Hey Belkelly! Thanks for posting, I've attached your story below with some feedback! ;D
Death Was My Freedom
Spoiler
I was riding with the wind at my back, the thunder of the herd drumming in my ears. Looking upwards at the sky I could see a mass of threatening dark clouds swallowing all light from the sky. I signalled to a pair of rough dark haired boys on chestnut brumbies, riding along side me. We cracked our whips and urged the cattle on faster and faster towards the corrals in the distance. The dogs barked madly and the horses were sweating hard, but as the first crack of lightning resounded off the hills the last of the herd were safe within the holding yards. Really cool imagery in this introduction! Sets context effectively with show not tell, I like it! Then I heard the dinner bell began to clang as my young wife stood waiting on the homestead veranda. You'd be surprised how much more powerful your writing will be by removing the word 'Then.' Then immediately puts you into that retell mode, like "This happened, this happened, then this happened." Taking out then, "I heard the dinner bell begin to clang...," adds a level of abstraction to your writing, just raises it up a notch.
I began to walk towards her, but my feet felt like lead, they wouldn’t move. As I watched her she began to fade away and the bell became softer and softer. A sharp ‘bing ding’ rang in my ears and woke me up. I rubbed my tired eyes and looked about, but there was no storm, no wife, no cattle, and no sons. Plain white washed walls surrounded me, senseless beings sat in still motion, and the sickening smell of disinfectant filled my senses. The mechanical bell stopped and a middle aged nurse hurried towards me.
“Come on, love, dinner is served,” she smiled with feigned cheerfulness.
“I’d rather not eat, I think I will go to bed,” I replied politely.
“Now, now, it’s very important we keep our strength up. After dinner we will watch a little TV and then it will be time for our bedtime,” she replied with a simplistic but harsher tone in her voice. Be EXTREMELY careful with dialogue. Dialogue is one of the most powerful tools available to a writer, but also the most dangerous. As soon as you begin to sound unrealistic, you lose the reader. I liked the first line, the next two lost me a little. Say this last line to yourself, it doesn't sound natural.
I sat at the table and looked down at my plate. The meat had been processed and then steam cooked in a mould of a steak shape. The vegetables had also been made into puree and then pressed into moulds of miniature carrots and potatoes. I looked about the table and saw silent, powerless men and women either being spoon fed by nurses or feeding themselves in robotic fashion. There was no light banter or conversation, only the soft sound of an air conditioner which kept the atmosphere constantly lukewarm. I took a sip from a glass of water and almost felt sick from the after taste of the strong chlorine purificator. You are creating a fantastic atmosphere here, clever word choice, effective imagery, fantastic! Out the window I could see a tiny garden, bordered by a grey brick wall which surrounded the entire building. Every morning it struggled to block the sun from peeking into the dim and lifeless rooms. This last line is fantastic, I really like it, this is a very cleverly crafted paragraph!
“Eat up deary,” a nurse said patronisingly, as a mother would to her defiant child.
I looked back at her with a scowl, “I’m a grown man,” I said angrily, “I don’t like this disgusting mushed up food for babies and I’m very tired and want to go to bed.” Watch the dialogue here again. I sort of believe the character would say this, but not in this way.
The nurse quickly stood up, shaking her head, and called for a doctor.
“I’m afraid he’s getting argumentative and disturbing the other dears, he needs to be quietened.”
The doctor inserted a calming drug into my arm and commanded that the patient be put to bed immediately. Emphasise "patient" here, I think. I like how the way it connotes a loss of identity.
The very next morning I woke at sunrise and got up. No sooner had I made my way to the bathroom when the night nurse spotted the telltale red light of the blood pressure band on my wrist.
“Now, now, deary. Go back to bed,” said the night nurse, with that condescending tone. Another nurse joined her and they led me back to my room.
“We may have to look at getting some night medication for him,” whispered one nurse to the other.At this point I'll say you definitely need to cut back on dialogue a little, try describing what is happening, even what is being said. Sometimes this can be more effective than the dialogue itself!
I pondered awhile, my forehead wrinkled in concentration. I decided that if I wanted to still have control over my own senses I would have to submit myself to their commands and live as they wished me to live. I leant back on my pillows, which were far too soft for my liking. I picked them up and put them on the floor, now it felt like my old swag. My eyes slowly closed and I was sitting on the back steps of my old veranda. I'd love to see a little more imagery again here, readjust the reader back to the old environment!
“Daddy,” called a young voice. A small boy walked into view from around the corner of the house.
“Yes, Jerry.”
“Mamma said you’d take me ridin’?”
“I’m a bit busy son, these whips have to be plaited, it takes a long time,” I replied, as I stooped over my work.
The boy’s head dropped and his eyes looked like they were staring at a rainy day in June. I looked across at him and sighed.
“Come on, then. Work will always be around, but a beautiful sky and a spirited youngster won’t be.” Watch your dialogue.
The clock chimed 8 and a creaking door quietly woke me up to reality. I was permitted to walk myself to the eating room and get my own breakfast of lukewarm porridge. I LOVE the tone in your writing, the sarcastic attitude of your character is coming through, try and push it through a little more!
After breakfast there was Bingo. The round table was situated in a corner of the recreation room, opposite the plasma tv. Plastic vases of paper flowers were situated systematically around the room so that they would not be in danger of drawing attention or, worse, criticism from visitors. I sat down between two half asleep elderly women. A nurse directed the game, while we were like pawns on a chessboard, ordered to make one move or the other, given no knowledge of the rules nor the goal of the game and utterly ignorant of its purpose in our daily lives. Beautiful.
While the nurses dealt out cards I rested my head back on the chair and stared at the white ceiling. Slowly clouds began to form over the plaster and the distant figures of birds began to appear, soaring over the wide blue spaces. A cool hand touched my forehead and stroked my brown hair. The smiling face of my wife looked down on me and I could hear her laughter. Then the scene disappeared and I was standing in a darkened room. She was standing beside me, her face a picture of worry and anxiety. We were both looking down at a young boy lying in a simple wooden bed.
“Daddy, it hurts,” the lad struggled to say, as he touched his chest.
“Anna, go get some sleep, I’ll watch him,” I said, sitting down on the covers. “Listen, Tom, close your eyes and listen for the wind. Do you hear it?” The boy nodded. “Now, if you were a spec of dust floating on that wind, where would you like to go?”
The boy replied in a croaky voice, “Heaven.” THIS is effective use of dialogue. Fantastic. Just this one line by itself is so powerful, the way it is set up, this conversation is crafted extremely well.
With a jolt, I was suddenly awake and the faces of two nurses peering down at me.
“We’ll have no talk of Heaven, you aren’t going anywhere, deary,” said one of them.
“Come, love, your son is here for a visit, now isn’t that nice,” said the other nurse to me.
We went back to my bedroom and a short young man in a R.M.Williams shirt and Ariat boots stood up to greet me.
“Dad, how have you been?”
The nurse left us and I sat down on my bed.
“Well Dad? Are they treating you well?”
“I don’t like it here, Tom, and I want to go home.”
The man shook his head and smiled.
“Nah, Dad. Me and Jerry are far too busy on the farm to keep an eye on you. They provide excellent care for you here, don’t they? I’m afraid there is no alternative.” This would be one area to cut down. This exchange is too drawn out and manufactured, it would work better as description, I think.
My hand shook and I stared at the grey brick wall outside my little widow. I looked at my son, so strong and healthy.
“Where is Anna?” I asked.
“Can’t you remember?” asked the young man, shocked.
“I know. She’s in heaven.”
“I guess. If anyone could get there, Mum could,” he replied, sadly.
I smiled. I could see her face smiling and her cool hand on my forehead.
“I could get there too… couldn’t I. Goodbye son,” I said.
“Goodbye? Where are you going? Dad, what's the matter with you? Get up. Dad, please get up. Nurse, nurse, come quickly.”
I embraced death with a smile, it was my ticket to freedom. I like the idea of this ending, but it is EXTREMELY abrupt. You need a better, more effectual build up. I also think that the dialogue in this situation seems unrealistic. The ending is nowhere near as powerful as the rest of your story, it is very build up, build up, build up, then the climax happens in 3 lines. Work on adding something more here.
Sixty years later, Jerry sat in the front seat of his daughter’s car.
“One last stop, Dad, make it quick. I need to get home to pick up the kids.”
They pulled up at the graveyard gate and Jerry walked slowly past the sleeping stones of those long dead.
“Come on. The nursing home wants you back in fifteen minutes,” said the tall young woman, impatiently.
The engraving of Liam O’Brien was still visible through the green moss which covered the marble headstone.
Jerry hung his head, tears trickling down his cheeks, “Now I understand Dad,” he muttered, “I’m so very very sorry.”
While I like the idea of an epilogue, I don't think the feelings of the son were explored enough throughout the story to warrant this. It was very much based on the protagonist, the son came in last minute, and we weren't shown his anger towards the death of the father, or any similar emotion that would set this up. Again, very abrupt, and a little manufactured.
I began to walk towards her, but my feet felt like lead, they wouldn’t move. As I watched her she began to fade away and the bell became softer and softer. A sharp ‘bing ding’ rang in my ears and woke me up. I rubbed my tired eyes and looked about, but there was no storm, no wife, no cattle, and no sons. Plain white washed walls surrounded me, senseless beings sat in still motion, and the sickening smell of disinfectant filled my senses. The mechanical bell stopped and a middle aged nurse hurried towards me.
“Come on, love, dinner is served,” she smiled with feigned cheerfulness.
“I’d rather not eat, I think I will go to bed,” I replied politely.
“Now, now, it’s very important we keep our strength up. After dinner we will watch a little TV and then it will be time for our bedtime,” she replied with a simplistic but harsher tone in her voice. Be EXTREMELY careful with dialogue. Dialogue is one of the most powerful tools available to a writer, but also the most dangerous. As soon as you begin to sound unrealistic, you lose the reader. I liked the first line, the next two lost me a little. Say this last line to yourself, it doesn't sound natural.
I sat at the table and looked down at my plate. The meat had been processed and then steam cooked in a mould of a steak shape. The vegetables had also been made into puree and then pressed into moulds of miniature carrots and potatoes. I looked about the table and saw silent, powerless men and women either being spoon fed by nurses or feeding themselves in robotic fashion. There was no light banter or conversation, only the soft sound of an air conditioner which kept the atmosphere constantly lukewarm. I took a sip from a glass of water and almost felt sick from the after taste of the strong chlorine purificator. You are creating a fantastic atmosphere here, clever word choice, effective imagery, fantastic! Out the window I could see a tiny garden, bordered by a grey brick wall which surrounded the entire building. Every morning it struggled to block the sun from peeking into the dim and lifeless rooms. This last line is fantastic, I really like it, this is a very cleverly crafted paragraph!
“Eat up deary,” a nurse said patronisingly, as a mother would to her defiant child.
I looked back at her with a scowl, “I’m a grown man,” I said angrily, “I don’t like this disgusting mushed up food for babies and I’m very tired and want to go to bed.” Watch the dialogue here again. I sort of believe the character would say this, but not in this way.
The nurse quickly stood up, shaking her head, and called for a doctor.
“I’m afraid he’s getting argumentative and disturbing the other dears, he needs to be quietened.”
The doctor inserted a calming drug into my arm and commanded that the patient be put to bed immediately. Emphasise "patient" here, I think. I like how the way it connotes a loss of identity.
The very next morning I woke at sunrise and got up. No sooner had I made my way to the bathroom when the night nurse spotted the telltale red light of the blood pressure band on my wrist.
“Now, now, deary. Go back to bed,” said the night nurse, with that condescending tone. Another nurse joined her and they led me back to my room.
“We may have to look at getting some night medication for him,” whispered one nurse to the other.At this point I'll say you definitely need to cut back on dialogue a little, try describing what is happening, even what is being said. Sometimes this can be more effective than the dialogue itself!
I pondered awhile, my forehead wrinkled in concentration. I decided that if I wanted to still have control over my own senses I would have to submit myself to their commands and live as they wished me to live. I leant back on my pillows, which were far too soft for my liking. I picked them up and put them on the floor, now it felt like my old swag. My eyes slowly closed and I was sitting on the back steps of my old veranda. I'd love to see a little more imagery again here, readjust the reader back to the old environment!
“Daddy,” called a young voice. A small boy walked into view from around the corner of the house.
“Yes, Jerry.”
“Mamma said you’d take me ridin’?”
“I’m a bit busy son, these whips have to be plaited, it takes a long time,” I replied, as I stooped over my work.
The boy’s head dropped and his eyes looked like they were staring at a rainy day in June. I looked across at him and sighed.
“Come on, then. Work will always be around, but a beautiful sky and a spirited youngster won’t be.” Watch your dialogue.
The clock chimed 8 and a creaking door quietly woke me up to reality. I was permitted to walk myself to the eating room and get my own breakfast of lukewarm porridge. I LOVE the tone in your writing, the sarcastic attitude of your character is coming through, try and push it through a little more!
After breakfast there was Bingo. The round table was situated in a corner of the recreation room, opposite the plasma tv. Plastic vases of paper flowers were situated systematically around the room so that they would not be in danger of drawing attention or, worse, criticism from visitors. I sat down between two half asleep elderly women. A nurse directed the game, while we were like pawns on a chessboard, ordered to make one move or the other, given no knowledge of the rules nor the goal of the game and utterly ignorant of its purpose in our daily lives. Beautiful.
While the nurses dealt out cards I rested my head back on the chair and stared at the white ceiling. Slowly clouds began to form over the plaster and the distant figures of birds began to appear, soaring over the wide blue spaces. A cool hand touched my forehead and stroked my brown hair. The smiling face of my wife looked down on me and I could hear her laughter. Then the scene disappeared and I was standing in a darkened room. She was standing beside me, her face a picture of worry and anxiety. We were both looking down at a young boy lying in a simple wooden bed.
“Daddy, it hurts,” the lad struggled to say, as he touched his chest.
“Anna, go get some sleep, I’ll watch him,” I said, sitting down on the covers. “Listen, Tom, close your eyes and listen for the wind. Do you hear it?” The boy nodded. “Now, if you were a spec of dust floating on that wind, where would you like to go?”
The boy replied in a croaky voice, “Heaven.” THIS is effective use of dialogue. Fantastic. Just this one line by itself is so powerful, the way it is set up, this conversation is crafted extremely well.
With a jolt, I was suddenly awake and the faces of two nurses peering down at me.
“We’ll have no talk of Heaven, you aren’t going anywhere, deary,” said one of them.
“Come, love, your son is here for a visit, now isn’t that nice,” said the other nurse to me.
We went back to my bedroom and a short young man in a R.M.Williams shirt and Ariat boots stood up to greet me.
“Dad, how have you been?”
The nurse left us and I sat down on my bed.
“Well Dad? Are they treating you well?”
“I don’t like it here, Tom, and I want to go home.”
The man shook his head and smiled.
“Nah, Dad. Me and Jerry are far too busy on the farm to keep an eye on you. They provide excellent care for you here, don’t they? I’m afraid there is no alternative.” This would be one area to cut down. This exchange is too drawn out and manufactured, it would work better as description, I think.
My hand shook and I stared at the grey brick wall outside my little widow. I looked at my son, so strong and healthy.
“Where is Anna?” I asked.
“Can’t you remember?” asked the young man, shocked.
“I know. She’s in heaven.”
“I guess. If anyone could get there, Mum could,” he replied, sadly.
I smiled. I could see her face smiling and her cool hand on my forehead.
“I could get there too… couldn’t I. Goodbye son,” I said.
“Goodbye? Where are you going? Dad, what's the matter with you? Get up. Dad, please get up. Nurse, nurse, come quickly.”
I embraced death with a smile, it was my ticket to freedom. I like the idea of this ending, but it is EXTREMELY abrupt. You need a better, more effectual build up. I also think that the dialogue in this situation seems unrealistic. The ending is nowhere near as powerful as the rest of your story, it is very build up, build up, build up, then the climax happens in 3 lines. Work on adding something more here.
Sixty years later, Jerry sat in the front seat of his daughter’s car.
“One last stop, Dad, make it quick. I need to get home to pick up the kids.”
They pulled up at the graveyard gate and Jerry walked slowly past the sleeping stones of those long dead.
“Come on. The nursing home wants you back in fifteen minutes,” said the tall young woman, impatiently.
The engraving of Liam O’Brien was still visible through the green moss which covered the marble headstone.
Jerry hung his head, tears trickling down his cheeks, “Now I understand Dad,” he muttered, “I’m so very very sorry.”
While I like the idea of an epilogue, I don't think the feelings of the son were explored enough throughout the story to warrant this. It was very much based on the protagonist, the son came in last minute, and we weren't shown his anger towards the death of the father, or any similar emotion that would set this up. Again, very abrupt, and a little manufactured.
What I'll start by saying is that you have some bloody INCREDIBLE things in this story. The way you manufacture the environment of the nursing home is fantastic. Extremely powerful imagery. That flashback in the middle, BEAUTIFUL control of sentence length to create effect. Some wonderful work here! ;D
I would say the issue I would raise with this story is that, in between these beautiful flow-of-thought imagery sections, you have exchanges with the character that just feel unnatural. Dialogue is very hard to get right, try reading some of these lines yourself, they don't sound like they are coming out of their characters mouth. As a way to fix this, and cut down your word limit, I would suggest cutting back on some of these conversations. Cut back to bare essentials, I think your story and tone will benefit.
My second issue would be a conceptual base. It seems like you are touching on a few themes here: Entrapment, loss, regret. I don't think you are hammering any of them home though. So, the main character feels trapped, and his release is death, but you rush through this conclusion in 3 lines. The flashback to the son being ill, you don't really do anything with this, though it is beautiful. I thought for sure as though the man had lost his son, not his wife. This is the way you had set it up. Finally, the epilogue with the son was not set up, we don't get any glimpse into the sons character, and so it is hard for us to relate to his epiphany in the epilogue. If you need a quick way to trim words, I would trim the final paragraph.
I think you need to think of a better way to tie all the elements together. Really hammer an idea home for the responder. Perhaps you explore the pain felt by the protagonist (flashback to Anna perhaps?), then explore that even the pain is better for the protagonist than the numbness of the nursing home. Pain is meant to be felt. If you want to end with the death in the same manner, build it up more. You could even reference throughout the story that he wants to see family BEYOND THE WALL, they are with the sunlight peeking through the windows. Then right at the end we realise that the character means he wants to join his loved ones outside the wall, meaning: in heaven, he says "Heaven" just the same as his son once did, and fades away.
All in all, you have the pieces of an absolutely FANTASTIC piece of writing here. I think trimming away some of the excess dialogue and giving a little more consideration to how you tie all your ideas together is all that is needed, you have some seriously beautiful use of language already! Great work! ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on April 01, 2016, 07:42:04 pm
Hi Ms. Popplewell,
My half yearly advanced english exam is this Friday and I wondered if you'd be able to give me some feedback on my short story. I know its wayyy to long, but I'm not sure which parts could be deleted. I'd appreciate any help at all :)
Thank you!
Belkelly
Hey Belkelly,
I didn't get to you in time, but Jamon has marked your work!
It is so polite of you to call me Ms Popplewell, but in the future if you wish to call me Elyse that's fine :)
Post by: Belkelly on April 02, 2016, 08:47:24 am
I'm gonna get onto that right now :) exam is over, but I've heard I have to have a backup short story for the Prelim and HSC exams? Thanks again, you guys are such a great help!
Very grateful,
Belkelly
Post by: jamonwindeyer on April 02, 2016, 10:06:36 am
Wow, thanks Jamon and Elyse!!!
I'm gonna get onto that right now :) exam is over, but I've heard I have to have a backup short story for the Prelim and HSC exams? Thanks again, you guys are such a great help!
Very grateful,
Belkelly
Happy to help Belkelly! I think it totally depends on how flexible your story is in terms of adapting to the stimulus. My creative writing piece (for the old topic of Belonging, I'm a dinosaur) was quite easy to modify, so I only prepared to use one, and just adjusted it to suit the question. Another option is, yes, to prepare two stories so you can use whichever one makes most sense. This is because, basically, an exam will ask you to write a story using a specific idea, or exploring a specific concept. If your prepared story doesn't match, you are in trouble.
This is also why I'm not a fan of completely memorising stories, but rather, memorising the ideas and maybe even a few key lines. It is easier to adjust that to the question.
I hope your exam went well!! ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on April 12, 2016, 10:25:50 pm
Hi can you please let me know about this. I feel discovery is a little subtle in this story + the ending is rushed so ill fix that up. :):)
Hey Alalamc! Thanks for posting your story, I've attached your story below with some feedback! ;D
Spoiler
“Welcome. Although illegally, you have arrived at your destination. Year: 12 016 .Birth centre: Earth. Genus: Male. Species: James 3. Congratulations it’s a Boy.” I like the robotic tone to start this off, cool intro!
IT’S ON PREVIEW
The Early rays of Sol eagerly tiptoed around the hospital to glimpse at the happiness that it once so jovially danced with so long ago. For this was no ordinary James 3, or boy for that matter, but one of love. His cosmic pupils, rich with universal colours would beam with knowledge and perfection. Yet he wasn’t a product of machine. His soft giggles, rosy cheeks and stubby-fingers curled around the mechanical hearts of all those around him. Yet he wasn’t programmed to. His blissful smile was as sweet as a summer strawberry and flourished his father with sunshine he never knew existed in the world. Yet it was intended it to do so.Fantastic use of juxtaposition in this paragraph, you are using literary techniques quite cleverly indeed! At this point in the story, I as a reader do not have much information to give this context. I'm confused/waiting for info. Is this intended?
IT’S ON PREVIEW
At 5 yrs. His imagination would start to Samba on the walls. Integrations of African Oranges, Indian Pinks, Caribbean Blues and German greens all at war with the universal white walls of his bedroom. War. At night he will turn to the next page in his History book. Out of the lifeless depth rose a young African child wearing nothing but anguish and ill-fitting bleached army trousers. His protruded skeletal bones gripped his crusty skin, his lungs grasped for nourishment. He turns the page. Gunshots cracked into the warm silent air, loud as thunder but without the raw power of a storm. The blood that had once flowed thick and scarlet in the youth’s veins was clasped in his callused fingers, generations of rich fluid mercifully devouring the little vitality within his young soulless body. He turns the page. Lights glittered everywhere just liked stars dropping to the earth, huge and small buildings collided in a mixture of shadow and geometry, tiny vehicles rushing along tangled lines of streets creating twisting threads of light - they all intertwined together in a magnificent mess of dream. He turned the page. Billboards, skylights and buildings spanned the 1800 horizon, yet among the masses of lifeless personalities, the young American watch the sunset from the plasma screens. Very effective imagery in this paragraph with nice use of repetition too! I would say the idea stretches a tiny bit too long though, maybe take just one page turn out?
IT’S ON PREVIEW
At 6 yrs. He would start school. “He would blend right in now, don’t you worry Rosa” his father would say. But he was wrong. James 3 would smile. People will look. James 3 would write stories. People would do calculations. James 3 would talk of the land of princes and the world of cyborgs. People will talk about quantum physics and the astronomical universe. By day he relied on the sky to let himself know that it wasn't a monochromatic world; just one in which the people were too busy for art. By night he relied on God. On the weekends there was no time to neither play soccer among the multi-coloured crisp, autumn leaves nor build a secret space station among the highest branches, for there was no time to plant a tree. He threw glitter from his window and splashed mercury on the walls to get a glimpse of death and movement. I will say at this point that I am starting to get the themes you are exploring with this piece, but again, I'm not quite sure of the context here. You are setting up society as robotic, but I'm not sure of exactly the circumstances surrounding it. Again, great use of juxtaposition, and I do like the chronological timeline, guides story development nicely!
IT’S ON PREVIEW
At 7yrs. He would as rebellious as to crawl into the attic and look out the window to watch the fiery red orb of light slowly sink beneath the horizon. Threads of light lingered in the sky, mingling with the rolling clouds, dyeing the heavens first orange, then red, then dark blue, until all that was left of the sunset was a chalky mauve, and then that melted away in turn as stygian darkness took over the sky. Sequin-silver stars like the glowing embers of a dying fire winked down at him, illuminating the atramentous curtain of sky. The clouds would then part revealing a lustrous, argent disc casting brilliant rays of moonlight onto the dark grounds of his garden, to which he would fall asleep to.Beautiful visual imagery created here, try playing with sentence length a little. Some of your longer sentences could benefit from being split slightly.
“Welcome. You have arrived at your destination. Year: 12 076 .Birth centre: Earth. Genus: Female. Species: Sarah 1. Congratulations it’s a Girl.” Cool addition of cyclical repetition, I like it!
IT’S ON CAPTURE
The Early rays of Sol eagerly tiptoed around the hospital to glimpse at the happiness that it once so jovially danced with before. For this was no ordinary Sarah 1, or girl for that matter, but one of love. James 3 would hold his newborn to his shoulder and she's smaller than a bag of sugar from the grocers. Tiny toes peek from her blanket, dangling in the summer breeze. Her head, a crazy mass of brown curls not yet rubbed bald from lying in her crib, wobbles beneath his supporting hand. He couldn’t believe how tiny new humans are, how vulnerable, how awe inspiring.
IT’S ON CAPTURE
At 5yrs. James 3 was sure to sit her down. Listen here dear Sarah 1. Society has a picture of what people should be yet it is truly ones choice and personality that shape one’s life. Everyone has their own contribution that makes themselves and this world special. So go on press the button, for this camera has been on preview for too long. Long. Make your own pictures, and run by them, not the pictures that society has framed.
IT’S ON CAPTURE. Okay, so the significance of these repeated phrases are revealed at the end. This is cool, however, consider the effect on a reader who doesn't know what is happening. They get a random interruption every paragraph, and then at the end, it's kind of like "Oh that's what that was, okay." This isn't as powerful as your other uses of repetition. I think you could make it work, but I don't think it is quite there as an inclusion right now.
IT’S ON PREVIEW
The Early rays of Sol eagerly tiptoed around the hospital to glimpse at the happiness that it once so jovially danced with so long ago. For this was no ordinary James 3, or boy for that matter, but one of love. His cosmic pupils, rich with universal colours would beam with knowledge and perfection. Yet he wasn’t a product of machine. His soft giggles, rosy cheeks and stubby-fingers curled around the mechanical hearts of all those around him. Yet he wasn’t programmed to. His blissful smile was as sweet as a summer strawberry and flourished his father with sunshine he never knew existed in the world. Yet it was intended it to do so.Fantastic use of juxtaposition in this paragraph, you are using literary techniques quite cleverly indeed! At this point in the story, I as a reader do not have much information to give this context. I'm confused/waiting for info. Is this intended?
IT’S ON PREVIEW
At 5 yrs. His imagination would start to Samba on the walls. Integrations of African Oranges, Indian Pinks, Caribbean Blues and German greens all at war with the universal white walls of his bedroom. War. At night he will turn to the next page in his History book. Out of the lifeless depth rose a young African child wearing nothing but anguish and ill-fitting bleached army trousers. His protruded skeletal bones gripped his crusty skin, his lungs grasped for nourishment. He turns the page. Gunshots cracked into the warm silent air, loud as thunder but without the raw power of a storm. The blood that had once flowed thick and scarlet in the youth’s veins was clasped in his callused fingers, generations of rich fluid mercifully devouring the little vitality within his young soulless body. He turns the page. Lights glittered everywhere just liked stars dropping to the earth, huge and small buildings collided in a mixture of shadow and geometry, tiny vehicles rushing along tangled lines of streets creating twisting threads of light - they all intertwined together in a magnificent mess of dream. He turned the page. Billboards, skylights and buildings spanned the 1800 horizon, yet among the masses of lifeless personalities, the young American watch the sunset from the plasma screens. Very effective imagery in this paragraph with nice use of repetition too! I would say the idea stretches a tiny bit too long though, maybe take just one page turn out?
IT’S ON PREVIEW
At 6 yrs. He would start school. “He would blend right in now, don’t you worry Rosa” his father would say. But he was wrong. James 3 would smile. People will look. James 3 would write stories. People would do calculations. James 3 would talk of the land of princes and the world of cyborgs. People will talk about quantum physics and the astronomical universe. By day he relied on the sky to let himself know that it wasn't a monochromatic world; just one in which the people were too busy for art. By night he relied on God. On the weekends there was no time to neither play soccer among the multi-coloured crisp, autumn leaves nor build a secret space station among the highest branches, for there was no time to plant a tree. He threw glitter from his window and splashed mercury on the walls to get a glimpse of death and movement. I will say at this point that I am starting to get the themes you are exploring with this piece, but again, I'm not quite sure of the context here. You are setting up society as robotic, but I'm not sure of exactly the circumstances surrounding it. Again, great use of juxtaposition, and I do like the chronological timeline, guides story development nicely!
IT’S ON PREVIEW
At 7yrs. He would as rebellious as to crawl into the attic and look out the window to watch the fiery red orb of light slowly sink beneath the horizon. Threads of light lingered in the sky, mingling with the rolling clouds, dyeing the heavens first orange, then red, then dark blue, until all that was left of the sunset was a chalky mauve, and then that melted away in turn as stygian darkness took over the sky. Sequin-silver stars like the glowing embers of a dying fire winked down at him, illuminating the atramentous curtain of sky. The clouds would then part revealing a lustrous, argent disc casting brilliant rays of moonlight onto the dark grounds of his garden, to which he would fall asleep to.Beautiful visual imagery created here, try playing with sentence length a little. Some of your longer sentences could benefit from being split slightly.
“Welcome. You have arrived at your destination. Year: 12 076 .Birth centre: Earth. Genus: Female. Species: Sarah 1. Congratulations it’s a Girl.” Cool addition of cyclical repetition, I like it!
IT’S ON CAPTURE
The Early rays of Sol eagerly tiptoed around the hospital to glimpse at the happiness that it once so jovially danced with before. For this was no ordinary Sarah 1, or girl for that matter, but one of love. James 3 would hold his newborn to his shoulder and she's smaller than a bag of sugar from the grocers. Tiny toes peek from her blanket, dangling in the summer breeze. Her head, a crazy mass of brown curls not yet rubbed bald from lying in her crib, wobbles beneath his supporting hand. He couldn’t believe how tiny new humans are, how vulnerable, how awe inspiring.
IT’S ON CAPTURE
At 5yrs. James 3 was sure to sit her down. Listen here dear Sarah 1. Society has a picture of what people should be yet it is truly ones choice and personality that shape one’s life. Everyone has their own contribution that makes themselves and this world special. So go on press the button, for this camera has been on preview for too long. Long. Make your own pictures, and run by them, not the pictures that society has framed.
IT’S ON CAPTURE. Okay, so the significance of these repeated phrases are revealed at the end. This is cool, however, consider the effect on a reader who doesn't know what is happening. They get a random interruption every paragraph, and then at the end, it's kind of like "Oh that's what that was, okay." This isn't as powerful as your other uses of repetition. I think you could make it work, but I don't think it is quite there as an inclusion right now.
I really like some of your use of technique in this piece! Very clever use of juxtaposition to set up the robotic nature of society, a really cool cyclical style timeline, great imagery, etc etc. Really cool. I feel you are setting up your themes well, you characterises the protagonist really well and you had an awesome build up. Then, I agree, at the end you kind of throw that build up away and literally have a character say your main idea. This works, but it does feel like you could make it better. Remember, show not tell! Use Sarah by all means, but perhaps have that final idea as reflection on Sarah's early childhood, or something. The dialogue is a little forced and a little less powerful as a result.
Besides this, I also want a little more clarity of plot and context. You set up the tone and the themes well, but I don't have a context. Why is James called James 3, for example? It is okay to have unexplained things in your story, but in this case I feel there was a little too much unknown. Try adding a little extra clarity to orientate the reader and get them into your themes!
Really cool stuff Alalamc, awesome job! I hope this feedback helps! ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 07, 2016, 10:59:37 am
Hi
I edited my creative, its not finished however I have re-designed my layout. Basically I decided to remove Sarah. This is the first half, basically I am going to continue it by comparing his experiences within general societies. Each paragraph is an attribute that contributes to the protagonists individuality. Can you please tell me whether you can tell this or this idea is too vague. :)
Hey Alalamc!! Good on you working to improve your Creative!! I've attached it with some comments ;D
Spoiler
Welcome. Although illegally, you have arrived at your destination. Year: 12 016 .Birth centre: Earth. Genus: Male. Species: James Type: 3. Congratulations it’s a Boy and you’re a father.
IMAGINATION MAKES INDIVUALITY NOT SOCIETY
The Early rays of Sol eagerly tiptoed around the hospital to glimpse at the happiness that it once so jovially danced with so long ago. For this was no ordinary James 3, or boy for that matter, but one made of love. His cosmic pupils, rich with universal colours would beam with knowledge and perfection. Yet he wasn’t a product of machine. His soft giggles, rosy cheeks and stubby-fingers curled around the mechanical hearts of all those around him. Yet he wasn’t programmed to. His blissful smile was as sweet as a summer strawberry and flourished his father with sunshine he never knew existed in the world. Yet it was intended it to do so. In a world produced on a production line came an individual produced from the summer sky. He was unique. UNIQUE.As before, great use of language to create a wonderful tone. Excellent juxtaposition. Great start.
IMAGINATION MAKES INDIVUALITY NOT SOCIETY
At his 4th sight of candles, a smile would stretch from ear to ear and part for the Pacific currents to slowly dribble from within. His laughter was as expressed as quietly as melting snowflakes but with the raw power of an a hundred avalanches, reaching the heavens above; the ears of angels who have forgotten the warmth of such harmonies. Harmonies. His Imagination would Samba on the walls. Integrations of African Oranges, Indian Pinks, Caribbean Blues and German greens all at war with the universal white walls of his bedroom. War. But he would win, for he had the decision. He would win, for he had the control. He would win for he was He. Stepping out of home and into town, they walked, he ran. He saw lights of the universe that glittered like falling stars, huge and small buildings colliding in a mixture of shadow and geometry, tiny vehicles rushing along tangled lines of streets creating twisting threads of light - all intertwined together in a magnificent mess of dream. They saw just a city.
He was powerful. POWERFUL. I really love the tone you are creating here. Watch that your imagery doesn't have techniques for the sake of techniques, everything must have a purpose otherwise it becomes wish-washy. Just techniques galore with no purpose. You aren't there just yet, but be careful you don't overdo it.
IMAGINATION MAKES INDIVUALITY NOT SOCIETY
At 7yrs. He would crawl into the attic and look out the window, waiting to watch the once-in-a-lifetime meteor shower. He waited. Waited. The fiery red orb of ZYRTEC slipped beneath the horizon, like when he dunked his Oreo in Dad’s morning coffee. This is an example of a simile which really doesn't serve much of a purpose. Unless you intend for it to be purposefully anticlimactic and Bathos. Also, Oreos still around in 10000 years? What a world! Threads of light lingered in the sky, mingling with the rolling clouds, dyeing the heavens orange, red and blue, until all that was left of the sunset was a chalky mauve, that melted away in turn as stygian darkness took over the sky. Darkness. Sequin-silver stars like the glowing embers of a dying fire winked down at him, illuminating the atramentous curtain of sky. The clouds would then part revealing a lustrous argent disc, casting brilliant rays of moonlight onto the dark grounds of his garden, as thousands of pieces of light showered the darkness. Yet among the masses of lifeless personalities, all young Americans watched from their plasma screens.
He was original. ORIGINAL. I really like this repetition of structure and this capitalisation at the end, make sure you do something with it in the long run.
IMAGINATION MAKES INDIVUALITY NOT SOCIETY
IMAGINATION MAKES INDIVUALITY NOT SOCIETY
The Early rays of Sol eagerly tiptoed around the hospital to glimpse at the happiness that it once so jovially danced with so long ago. For this was no ordinary James 3, or boy for that matter, but one made of love. His cosmic pupils, rich with universal colours would beam with knowledge and perfection. Yet he wasn’t a product of machine. His soft giggles, rosy cheeks and stubby-fingers curled around the mechanical hearts of all those around him. Yet he wasn’t programmed to. His blissful smile was as sweet as a summer strawberry and flourished his father with sunshine he never knew existed in the world. Yet it was intended it to do so. In a world produced on a production line came an individual produced from the summer sky. He was unique. UNIQUE.As before, great use of language to create a wonderful tone. Excellent juxtaposition. Great start.
IMAGINATION MAKES INDIVUALITY NOT SOCIETY
At his 4th sight of candles, a smile would stretch from ear to ear and part for the Pacific currents to slowly dribble from within. His laughter was as expressed as quietly as melting snowflakes but with the raw power of an a hundred avalanches, reaching the heavens above; the ears of angels who have forgotten the warmth of such harmonies. Harmonies. His Imagination would Samba on the walls. Integrations of African Oranges, Indian Pinks, Caribbean Blues and German greens all at war with the universal white walls of his bedroom. War. But he would win, for he had the decision. He would win, for he had the control. He would win for he was He. Stepping out of home and into town, they walked, he ran. He saw lights of the universe that glittered like falling stars, huge and small buildings colliding in a mixture of shadow and geometry, tiny vehicles rushing along tangled lines of streets creating twisting threads of light - all intertwined together in a magnificent mess of dream. They saw just a city.
He was powerful. POWERFUL. I really love the tone you are creating here. Watch that your imagery doesn't have techniques for the sake of techniques, everything must have a purpose otherwise it becomes wish-washy. Just techniques galore with no purpose. You aren't there just yet, but be careful you don't overdo it.
IMAGINATION MAKES INDIVUALITY NOT SOCIETY
At 7yrs. He would crawl into the attic and look out the window, waiting to watch the once-in-a-lifetime meteor shower. He waited. Waited. The fiery red orb of ZYRTEC slipped beneath the horizon, like when he dunked his Oreo in Dad’s morning coffee. This is an example of a simile which really doesn't serve much of a purpose. Unless you intend for it to be purposefully anticlimactic and Bathos. Also, Oreos still around in 10000 years? What a world! Threads of light lingered in the sky, mingling with the rolling clouds, dyeing the heavens orange, red and blue, until all that was left of the sunset was a chalky mauve, that melted away in turn as stygian darkness took over the sky. Darkness. Sequin-silver stars like the glowing embers of a dying fire winked down at him, illuminating the atramentous curtain of sky. The clouds would then part revealing a lustrous argent disc, casting brilliant rays of moonlight onto the dark grounds of his garden, as thousands of pieces of light showered the darkness. Yet among the masses of lifeless personalities, all young Americans watched from their plasma screens.
He was original. ORIGINAL. I really like this repetition of structure and this capitalisation at the end, make sure you do something with it in the long run.
IMAGINATION MAKES INDIVUALITY NOT SOCIETY
I think this piece is really great, and I get where you are coming from with attempting to highlight individual attributes! It's a cool concept!
However, I'd say that the paragraphs don't necessarily describe the attribute you say they do. Really, they all do the same thing, they portray the protagonist as one who is in touch with natural beauties and appreciates simple pleasures long abhorred by the now mechanic society. I don't really get anything different from the latter two paragraphs, for me they achieve a similar purpose.
I'd be keen to see what you do with this story from this point. Right now it seems ever so slightly one-dimensional: Guy appreciates things that a mechanical world doesn't. This is an awesome premise that you are pulling off really well, but try to do something more. Really come up with interesting ways to show individual characteristics of the protagonist. When you compare with other experiences of society, does this cause him to be extradited? Is he like the super-futuristic version of a hipster? Take these ideas and develop them to add layers to your story, and I think it will take a great premise and make it amazing!
Again, your style is as always extremely impressive! ;D if you do something clever with the latter half you will have an excellent piece. Great work!! ;D
Post by: brontem on May 20, 2016, 05:56:52 pm
It's a pretty.. questionable(?) story.. I feel like I might have just gone completely the wrong way and I have no idea if it even makes sense to anyone but me. I also need help for an ending.
I’m aware it’s incredibly cheesy.. Please don’t hesitate in absolutely ripping it to shreds if need be, I'm willing to keep changing until I get it right ;D
Thanks heaps!! :) :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 21, 2016, 12:36:06 pm
Hey! :) Here’s my creative; it wasn’t the one I used for the half yearlies and I’m kicking myself about it! (the one I used was a lame story, my teacher thought it was a really lame story) – I much prefer this one to the one I actually used (it didn’t go too well hahaha) and I feel like this one is way more adaptable.
It's a pretty.. questionable(?) story.. I feel like I might have just gone completely the wrong way and I have no idea if it even makes sense to anyone but me. I also need help for an ending.
I’m aware it’s incredibly cheesy.. Please don’t hesitate in absolutely ripping it to shreds if need be, I'm willing to keep changing until I get it right ;D
Thanks heaps!! :) :)
Hey brontem!! Sounds awesome, the creative is attached below with some brief comments throughout!!
Spoiler
Just as he suspected. The denial was just wishful thinking.
Andy’s hands trembled as he clasped on to the document which uncovered the truth. Crushing it in his fists, his hands pressed against his head, cringing in anguish. He never once questioned the position he held in his own life…. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the reality that he has never been, or will ever be, the father of his beloved son. Very nice use of language, good mood established already!
The air around him began to thicken, and he was fighting to breathe. His bones rattled at the realisation, and tremors shook his body as he sat awake through the night. Awesome figurative language
Andy groggily struggled to remain normality as he mechanically went through his morning routine. Taking his newspaper underarm, the morning stroll to the office was hostile, attempting to absorb the streetscape to distract his mind, and taking no notice of the beggar on his way. Throughout the day reality sent tremors through his whole being.
Familiarity was drifting further away from him upon returning home each day. The actuality of the relationship with his son strained his compassion. Interactions became merely an act to preserve normality. I'm noticing repetition of word choice. 'Normality' and 'tremors' stand out. Any particular reasons? Any time he looked into the boys eyes, anger grappled around his body like a vine strangling a fence. This simile has a bit of a bathos-effect. This means it takes something quite serious and powerful and turns it to an everyday situation. It's a little comedic, might be worth revisiting? Immense pressure clasped his body, and the only way to escape aggravation was to distance himself. Feeling a sense of self slip away, the truth was sucking away the compassion he had left.
Personal reality seemed distorted. The perception of the position in his own life was being broken down in his mind. Be careful to show and not tell for the majority of the story. Show us, through description and technique, or say it in a more creative way, how the perception of position has been broken down. Don't just say it, show it to us. Inadequacy pulsed through his veins as he questioned his position in the universe. The distance he felt from his son was internalised daily. Shattering the illusion for the 11 year old soul was too much to even consider. Actions and words lost meaning and heartbreak erupted any time the youngster cracked a smile. Andy couldn’t help but detach himself from the lie which now infiltrated his life. Time together became mechanical, with distance the only way out from ruining the illusion.
The umbrella worked hard to hold itself up in the morning’s torrential rain as Andy marched to his office. Fog accompanied the rain, navigating the distance ahead became difficult.
Standing impatiently on the corner, Andy unintentionally locked eyes with the beggar across the street. His limbs were shuddering from the bitter cold and the cardboard structure over his head was weeping under the weight of the rain. The misery in his eyes radiated through his being. 'Radiated' is a slightly positive word choice here, I think that choice could be a little better. Andy jolted at the similarity to the expressions of his son. Show us! Go into some details about what the character observes that reminds him of his son.
Guilt flooded throughout his body as he realised what he had done. Selfishness had taken over his heart and his mind in an attempt to blame the feigned relationship on the innocent child. This link is a bit of a stretch, it needs to be built up to with reflection and wordplay, just putting it out there straight away is, as you say, a tad cheesy. A build up will fix that!
He watched the beggar toss the structure from over his head, with the weak cardboard dissolving into the puddle beside him. Tremors flooded back into Andy's system, somehow annihilating the disgust and filling him with regret. Time seemed to slow down, making his mind dizzy with remorse. How selfish he had been to anyone who had crossed his path, disregarding other's existence in an attempt to validate his own. Again, the link to the rest of the story is a little bit weak. I'm not 100% believing this reaction by the protagonist.
Andy rushed across the street and apologetically passed the umbrella to the beggar, who graciously accepted his charity. It was then where he realised that he simultaneously had opened his heart to a stranger amidst the process of making himself a stranger to his son.
The blood pulsing through his veins had become purposeful again, feeding his heart and his mind with compassion, enlightening him with human emotion. A tremor of sensibility had shocked his system, and his eyed widened as he looked beyond the fog to absorb the streetscape surrounding him. The population which surrounds him in this moment is no different to himself; he himself is no different to his son. Acts of selflessness are not only needed by the ones who cry for it as he realised anyone known to himself needed love as well. Don't put such blatant 'Thesis statements' in a creative. It adds to the cheesiness and becomes a case of show not tell. Andy pondered as the rain soaked through to his bones.
The atmosphere around him was no longer thick and hazy; the crisp air was refreshing. This is actually a really cool ending, but I would love to have seen some mention about the thick and hazy fog somewhere earlier in the text. Back before the climax. It would be a really clever pathetic fallacy.
Andy’s hands trembled as he clasped on to the document which uncovered the truth. Crushing it in his fists, his hands pressed against his head, cringing in anguish. He never once questioned the position he held in his own life…. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the reality that he has never been, or will ever be, the father of his beloved son. Very nice use of language, good mood established already!
The air around him began to thicken, and he was fighting to breathe. His bones rattled at the realisation, and tremors shook his body as he sat awake through the night. Awesome figurative language
Andy groggily struggled to remain normality as he mechanically went through his morning routine. Taking his newspaper underarm, the morning stroll to the office was hostile, attempting to absorb the streetscape to distract his mind, and taking no notice of the beggar on his way. Throughout the day reality sent tremors through his whole being.
Familiarity was drifting further away from him upon returning home each day. The actuality of the relationship with his son strained his compassion. Interactions became merely an act to preserve normality. I'm noticing repetition of word choice. 'Normality' and 'tremors' stand out. Any particular reasons? Any time he looked into the boys eyes, anger grappled around his body like a vine strangling a fence. This simile has a bit of a bathos-effect. This means it takes something quite serious and powerful and turns it to an everyday situation. It's a little comedic, might be worth revisiting? Immense pressure clasped his body, and the only way to escape aggravation was to distance himself. Feeling a sense of self slip away, the truth was sucking away the compassion he had left.
Personal reality seemed distorted. The perception of the position in his own life was being broken down in his mind. Be careful to show and not tell for the majority of the story. Show us, through description and technique, or say it in a more creative way, how the perception of position has been broken down. Don't just say it, show it to us. Inadequacy pulsed through his veins as he questioned his position in the universe. The distance he felt from his son was internalised daily. Shattering the illusion for the 11 year old soul was too much to even consider. Actions and words lost meaning and heartbreak erupted any time the youngster cracked a smile. Andy couldn’t help but detach himself from the lie which now infiltrated his life. Time together became mechanical, with distance the only way out from ruining the illusion.
The umbrella worked hard to hold itself up in the morning’s torrential rain as Andy marched to his office. Fog accompanied the rain, navigating the distance ahead became difficult.
Standing impatiently on the corner, Andy unintentionally locked eyes with the beggar across the street. His limbs were shuddering from the bitter cold and the cardboard structure over his head was weeping under the weight of the rain. The misery in his eyes radiated through his being. 'Radiated' is a slightly positive word choice here, I think that choice could be a little better. Andy jolted at the similarity to the expressions of his son. Show us! Go into some details about what the character observes that reminds him of his son.
Guilt flooded throughout his body as he realised what he had done. Selfishness had taken over his heart and his mind in an attempt to blame the feigned relationship on the innocent child. This link is a bit of a stretch, it needs to be built up to with reflection and wordplay, just putting it out there straight away is, as you say, a tad cheesy. A build up will fix that!
He watched the beggar toss the structure from over his head, with the weak cardboard dissolving into the puddle beside him. Tremors flooded back into Andy's system, somehow annihilating the disgust and filling him with regret. Time seemed to slow down, making his mind dizzy with remorse. How selfish he had been to anyone who had crossed his path, disregarding other's existence in an attempt to validate his own. Again, the link to the rest of the story is a little bit weak. I'm not 100% believing this reaction by the protagonist.
Andy rushed across the street and apologetically passed the umbrella to the beggar, who graciously accepted his charity. It was then where he realised that he simultaneously had opened his heart to a stranger amidst the process of making himself a stranger to his son.
The blood pulsing through his veins had become purposeful again, feeding his heart and his mind with compassion, enlightening him with human emotion. A tremor of sensibility had shocked his system, and his eyed widened as he looked beyond the fog to absorb the streetscape surrounding him. The population which surrounds him in this moment is no different to himself; he himself is no different to his son. Acts of selflessness are not only needed by the ones who cry for it as he realised anyone known to himself needed love as well. Don't put such blatant 'Thesis statements' in a creative. It adds to the cheesiness and becomes a case of show not tell. Andy pondered as the rain soaked through to his bones.
The atmosphere around him was no longer thick and hazy; the crisp air was refreshing. This is actually a really cool ending, but I would love to have seen some mention about the thick and hazy fog somewhere earlier in the text. Back before the climax. It would be a really clever pathetic fallacy.
I think the concept you are exploring in the beginning, those themes of lost purpose and similar, are really powerful and you set them up extremely well. And I agree, very adaptable. You could adjust it in various ways to explore a variety of discovery concepts, so that's a massive bonus.
The story makes sense to me, absolutely. However, I think that the ending sequence seems a little forced. It is a tad cheesy, yes, but Discovery stories often are. The issue with me is the realism of the protagonists response. He's angry about the falseness of the relationship with his son (I'd like to see the reasons for this explored somehow, even if briefly), sees a homeless person who looks like him, and immediately changes. I don't believe that. The lack of build up accentuates the unusual nature of this response. I think it is a little bit of a stretch, and thus, conceptually isn't as strong as it could be. Thus, you need to include Thesis statements in the creative to draw the concept out, which doesn't make for believable storytelling. Essentially, you've forced the concept, rather than letting it come through naturally, if you follow me?
I think the premise is great and you should definitely stick with it. The way you set up the emotional state of the father is great. But I think the finish needs a re-think to be more conceptually natural. What exactly is the concept (you have a few here, but the big one) you want to push? How can you use a natural progression in character to show this concept? EG - If the father is feeling a loss of purpose, a natural next step would be to have some sort of interaction with his child which forces him to realise this. Perhaps you could go negative with it and he actually decides to leave (I'm a sucker for stories without happy endings, they are a nice change, I promise I'm not a pessimist ;)). That would be powerful, but may require tweaking to drive home a more negative perception of discovery. Perhaps the father leaves and then has some realisation similar to what you have done above, but with a build up so the progression seems more natural! In reality, 'flick of the switch' changes in opinion don't occur (unless something MASSIVELY significant happens in the story, like a death). We make realisations/discoveries over time. Stretch it out, build it up, make it believable ;)
Again I stress, I love this premise, and you've done some REALLY clever stuff with language. I just think the conceptual drive needs a bit of a rethink so it becomes more natural ;D I hope this helps brontem, great work!! ;D
Post by: brontem on May 21, 2016, 01:09:11 pm
I'll definitely keep changing and rewriting again and again, I 100% knew that this was nowhere near good enough :) thanks so much, and just a heads up, I'm going to keep putting this up until it's good enough ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 22, 2016, 10:40:20 pm
Hey thanks so much!! I totally get what you're saying by its forced ahahaha, aaaaand I'll probably take that unhappy ending idea and see what I can do ;D
I'll definitely keep changing and rewriting again and again, I 100% knew that this was nowhere near good enough :) thanks so much, and just a heads up, I'm going to keep putting this up until it's good enough ;D
Awesome, I look forward to it! Unhappy endings are a great way to set you apart, I mean hey, look at Game of Thrones as a prime example of how awesome it can be ;) would love you to keep posting it as you make changes!! Can't wait to see the next version, great job again ;D
Post by: brontem on May 23, 2016, 10:04:09 pm
I added a bit more here and there, but now I think maybe by adding to the story I might have disrupted the flow? And I think there's still a few 'holes' which may read a bit unusually (and the ending is still pretty vague) :D
Remember, please don't hesitate in ripping it to shreds if need be!!
Thanks again ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 24, 2016, 09:59:03 am
Hey!! Back again with the creative - thanks so much for the advice :) I did do a bit of moving around/revising things which sounded weird :)
I added a bit more here and there, but now I think maybe by adding to the story I might have disrupted the flow? And I think there's still a few 'holes' which may read a bit unusually (and the ending is still pretty vague) :D
Remember, please don't hesitate in ripping it to shreds if need be!!
Thanks again ;D
Hey again brontem! Thanks for posting, I've had another read to check for the flow in the current form!! Comments throughout ;D
Spoiler
Just as he suspected. The denial was simply wishful thinking.
Andy’s hands trembled as he clasped on to the document which uncovered the truth. Crushing it in his fists, his hands pressed against his head, cringing in anguish. He never once questioned the position he held in his own life…. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the reality that he has never been, or will ever be, the father of his beloved son.
The air around him began to thicken, and he was fighting to breathe. His bones rattled at the realisation, and tremors shook his body as he sat awake through the night. Still an effective introduction, really sets the atmosphere brilliantly.
Andy groggily struggled to maintain normality as he mechanically went through his morning routine. Taking his newspaper underarm, the morning stroll to the office was hostile, attempting to absorb the streetscape to distract his mind, and taking no notice of the beggar on his way. Throughout the day reality sent tremors through his whole being.
Familiarity was drifting further away from him upon returning home each day. The actuality of the relationship with his son strained his compassion. Interactions became merely an act of preservation. Any time he looked into the boy’s eyes, his body stung with fury. Immense pressure clasped around his being, and the only way to escape aggravation was to distance himself. Feeling a sense of self slip, the truth sucking away the compassion he had left.
The dinner table seemed as though it was held up by tension as it became the only link which joined them together. Whirling air echoed around the room, making occasional clatters which were offbeat to the automatic clinking of silverware on porcelain. Ha, that actually made me grin ear to ear. Powerful! Glances were avoided by the shadow which was cast by the broken overhead light.
That night remained vivid in his memory for months afterwards. The household fell into a routine which barely necessitated words. Andy would order take out most nights; placing his son's order on the table and retreat to the study. I love this more imagery-focused approach that you are taking here, I'd even try to do this a bit more in previous paragraphs!! It's absolutely brilliant.
As the night dragged on the room would slowly fall into darkness - the only light the synthetic glow of his computer screen. When the television began to blare from the other room Andy would quieten the distraction with three sharp knocks on the adjoining wall. By the time he emerged the night had crept into morning and there was no sign of his son. Excellent atmosphere created, structurally this is really great. That statement, "no sign of his son," is quite conclusive, the mood is set and I now wait for the climax.
The umbrella worked hard to hold itself up in the morning’s torrential rain as Andy marched to his office. Fog accompanied the rain; navigating the distance ahead became difficult.
Standing impatiently on the corner, Andy unintentionally locked eyes with the beggar across the street. His limbs were shuddering from the bitter cold and the cardboard structure over his head was weeping under the weight of the rain. The misery in his eyes pulsed through his being, the striking resemblance of his withdrawn stare and disheartened demeanour struck through to Andy’s core; he jolted at the similarity to the expressions of his son. I would still love to see some examples of this. Extend it a bit more, this is one of the bits that makes the ending a bit unrealistic. How was the link drawn? Recount specific situations or link to language/phrases in the prior section, make the reader believe this reaction. You spend HEAPS of time going into the effect, but only about a line on the cause, if that makes sense?
He watched the beggar toss the structure from over his head, with the weak cardboard dissolving into the puddle beside him. Tremors flooded back into Andy's system, somehow annihilating the disgust and filling him with regret. Time seemed to slow down, making his mind dizzy with remorse.
His stomach twisted as shame soaked through to his bone. Chills pierced every cell in his body as he realised what he had done. The daze which swept his brain unravelled memories of the months passed; Andy was unsettled by the selfishness which had taken over his heart and his mind, in an attempt to blame the feigned relationship on the innocent child.
The blood rushing through his veins lost all purpose, his pulse weakened to a pathetic beat. His heart and his mind flooded with disregard; condemning him from human emotion. The hazy streetscape became suffocating; the air condensed around him as he gasped for breath.
Fog enveloped his body as it filled with disgust. He felt undeserving of the protection which the umbrella provided and dropped it by his side. The bitter wind made the raindrops prickle his skin; the world around him was blurred by a thick haze as his fingertips were gnawed by frost.
The atmosphere around him became murkier with every breath as he disappeared into the bleary mist. [d]I like the new, more negative approach, but it still feels somewhat anticlimactic.
Andy’s hands trembled as he clasped on to the document which uncovered the truth. Crushing it in his fists, his hands pressed against his head, cringing in anguish. He never once questioned the position he held in his own life…. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the reality that he has never been, or will ever be, the father of his beloved son.
The air around him began to thicken, and he was fighting to breathe. His bones rattled at the realisation, and tremors shook his body as he sat awake through the night. Still an effective introduction, really sets the atmosphere brilliantly.
Andy groggily struggled to maintain normality as he mechanically went through his morning routine. Taking his newspaper underarm, the morning stroll to the office was hostile, attempting to absorb the streetscape to distract his mind, and taking no notice of the beggar on his way. Throughout the day reality sent tremors through his whole being.
Familiarity was drifting further away from him upon returning home each day. The actuality of the relationship with his son strained his compassion. Interactions became merely an act of preservation. Any time he looked into the boy’s eyes, his body stung with fury. Immense pressure clasped around his being, and the only way to escape aggravation was to distance himself. Feeling a sense of self slip, the truth sucking away the compassion he had left.
The dinner table seemed as though it was held up by tension as it became the only link which joined them together. Whirling air echoed around the room, making occasional clatters which were offbeat to the automatic clinking of silverware on porcelain. Ha, that actually made me grin ear to ear. Powerful! Glances were avoided by the shadow which was cast by the broken overhead light.
That night remained vivid in his memory for months afterwards. The household fell into a routine which barely necessitated words. Andy would order take out most nights; placing his son's order on the table and retreat to the study. I love this more imagery-focused approach that you are taking here, I'd even try to do this a bit more in previous paragraphs!! It's absolutely brilliant.
As the night dragged on the room would slowly fall into darkness - the only light the synthetic glow of his computer screen. When the television began to blare from the other room Andy would quieten the distraction with three sharp knocks on the adjoining wall. By the time he emerged the night had crept into morning and there was no sign of his son. Excellent atmosphere created, structurally this is really great. That statement, "no sign of his son," is quite conclusive, the mood is set and I now wait for the climax.
The umbrella worked hard to hold itself up in the morning’s torrential rain as Andy marched to his office. Fog accompanied the rain; navigating the distance ahead became difficult.
Standing impatiently on the corner, Andy unintentionally locked eyes with the beggar across the street. His limbs were shuddering from the bitter cold and the cardboard structure over his head was weeping under the weight of the rain. The misery in his eyes pulsed through his being, the striking resemblance of his withdrawn stare and disheartened demeanour struck through to Andy’s core; he jolted at the similarity to the expressions of his son. I would still love to see some examples of this. Extend it a bit more, this is one of the bits that makes the ending a bit unrealistic. How was the link drawn? Recount specific situations or link to language/phrases in the prior section, make the reader believe this reaction. You spend HEAPS of time going into the effect, but only about a line on the cause, if that makes sense?
He watched the beggar toss the structure from over his head, with the weak cardboard dissolving into the puddle beside him. Tremors flooded back into Andy's system, somehow annihilating the disgust and filling him with regret. Time seemed to slow down, making his mind dizzy with remorse.
His stomach twisted as shame soaked through to his bone. Chills pierced every cell in his body as he realised what he had done. The daze which swept his brain unravelled memories of the months passed; Andy was unsettled by the selfishness which had taken over his heart and his mind, in an attempt to blame the feigned relationship on the innocent child.
The blood rushing through his veins lost all purpose, his pulse weakened to a pathetic beat. His heart and his mind flooded with disregard; condemning him from human emotion. The hazy streetscape became suffocating; the air condensed around him as he gasped for breath.
Fog enveloped his body as it filled with disgust. He felt undeserving of the protection which the umbrella provided and dropped it by his side. The bitter wind made the raindrops prickle his skin; the world around him was blurred by a thick haze as his fingertips were gnawed by frost.
The atmosphere around him became murkier with every breath as he disappeared into the bleary mist. [d]I like the new, more negative approach, but it still feels somewhat anticlimactic.
The first half of this story is absolutely brilliant. Atmosphere set excellently, really sets up the concepts you are going to explore really well. I'd not touch much of it (except of course to make it suit the latter half if it gets changed), it is absolutely fantastic ;D
I think the second half still needs some work. The cheesiness is definitely gone, so brilliant job on that, the negative ending helps a lot to making the outcome match the tone you are setting and your language style. Works well :) however, it still feels anticlimactic, out of nowhere and forced. I think the best way to explain why, for me as a reader, is cause and effect. Think about an effective story arc (remember those little graphs that you drew that had a peak at the climax), it has a build up (a cause) and a cool down (an effect). You have pulled out the back half of that graph, extended the effect, and it works quite well. However, it reads a little strange, because the cause was only explored very briefly.
Essentially, it goes like this. Saw a beggar, looks/acts like the son (2 sentences). Oh my God sadness (4-5 paragraphs).
This corresponds to a lopsided graph and it, at least for me, is a little off putting. Hopefully this is making sense because it actually took me a while to realise what was throwing me aha! ;D
I'd suggest you build up to the realisation a little bit more. Perhaps even have the man interact with the beggar in some way over time as a 'replacement' for interacting with the son (that has the potential to be the cheesiest thing in the history of cheddar though, so maybe not, aha!). Maybe have him notice little things about the beggar each day that remind him of the son. Maybe use interaction with the beggar as a metaphor for the paternal relationship. At the start of the story (before he gets the letter) he chats every day, interacts, etc. Then after the letter he ignores the beggar. One day the beggar is gone (symbolic for the son being gone as well, sad ending). I'm vomiting ideas here a bit, but the approach is totally your call. What I need is a greater justification for the final effects on the protagonist, if that makes sense.
Besides that, your language style is excellent, and as I said the first half of the story is brilliant. This is a super powerful story waiting to be realised properly, can't wait to see what you do with it because your writing style is exceptional!! ;D
Post by: brontem on May 26, 2016, 08:03:47 pm
I got a friend to read over it and mentioned that some of the tenses may be a bit mixed up.. I tried my best to fix them but I've read it so much I probably have missed something :P
Again.. rip it to shreds where you see fit!!
Thanks so much again!! :D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 27, 2016, 03:02:46 pm
Hey!! I've taken your guidance again and tweaked my story about :) I really do appreciate the help I'm getting so thank you for that ;D I can definitely see it coming together more, but the more review the better!!
I got a friend to read over it and mentioned that some of the tenses may be a bit mixed up.. I tried my best to fix them but I've read it so much I probably have missed something :P
Again.. rip it to shreds where you see fit!!
Thanks so much again!! :D
Hey Brontem! Awesome, sounds great, happy to keep giving you feedback as it comes together for you!! ;D I'll try to keep an eye on tense issues in this read for you ;D
Spoiler
Just as he suspected. The denial was simply wishful thinking.
Andy’s hands trembled as he clasped on to the document which uncovered the truth. Crushing it in his fists, his hands pressed against his head, cringing in anguish. He never once questioned the position he held in his own life…. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the reality that he has never been, or will ever be, the father of his beloved son. I actually think 'had' was more correct in that sentence!
The air around him began to thicken, and he was fighting to breathe. His bones rattled at the realisation, and tremors shook his body as he sat awake through the night.
Andygroggily struggled to maintain normality as he mechanically went through his morning routine. Taking his newspaper underarm, the morning stroll to the office was hostile, attempting to absorb the streetscape to distract his mind, and taking no notice of the beggar on his way. The wording in that sentence was a little bit askew, it might need a tweak. Throughout the day reality sent tremors through his whole being.
Familiarity was drifting further away from him upon returning home each day. The actuality of the relationship with his son strained his compassion. Interactions became merely an act of preservation. Any time he looked into the boy’s eyes, his body stung with fury. Immense pressure clasped around his being, and the only way to escape aggravation was to distance himself. Feeling a sense of self slip, the truth sucking away the compassion he had left. Something iffy about this sentence too, I think it is tense, perhaps 'sucked?'
The dinner table seemed as though it was held up by tension as it became the only link which joined them together. Whirling air echoed around the room, making occasional clatters which were offbeat to the automatic clinking of silverware on porcelain. Glances were avoided by the shadow which was cast by the broken overhead light.
That night remained vivid in his memory for months afterwards. The household fell into a routine which barely necessitated words. Andy would order take out most nights; placing his son's order on the table and retreat to the study. As the night dragged on the room would slowly fall into darkness - the only light the synthetic glow of his computer screen. When the television began to blare from the other room Andy would quieten the distraction with three sharp knocks on the adjoining wall. By the time he emerged the night had crept into morning and there was no sign of his son.
The umbrella worked hard to hold itself up in the morning’s torrential rain as Andy marched to his office. Fog accompanied the rain; navigating the distance ahead became difficult.
Standing impatiently on the corner, Andy gains focus through the misty streetscape and is intrigued by the lonely beggar, withered on the other side. Sunlight attempted to infiltrate the sky; only making weak streams down to the earth. The glisten of the beams irritates Andy’s stare even further - all those nights spent at fluorescent screens have temporarily deteriorated his sight. 'Have' should be 'had.'
Rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear them, Andy unintentionally locks eyes with the beggar across the street. His limbs were shuddering from the bitter cold and the cardboard structure over his head was weeping under the weight of the rain. The atmosphere is now not only thick with fog, but washed with tension. I like that you are dragging this out more, gives it a greater sense of tension.
The wind is howling in his ears and a familiar yet abrupt metallic racket pulses through his mind. Andy winces; the ear splitting rattles nauseate him. He tries to regain his stance but his vision of the beggar is still blurred by the heavy shadows from the clouds overhead.
The misery in his eyes pulsed through his being, the familiarity of his withdrawn stare and disheartened demeanour struck through to Andy’s core. The withered figure is far from Andy’s reach but the guilt is all too familiar. Ooooh, that last sentence or two and its more subtle approach was great. This is developing much better!
He watched the beggar toss the structure from over his head, with the weak cardboard dissolving into the puddle beside him. Tremors flooded back into Andy's system, somehow annihilating the disgust and filling him with regret. Time seemed to slow down, making his mind dizzy with remorse.
His stomach twisted as shame soaked through to his bone. Chills pierced every cell in his body as he realised what he had done. The daze which swept his brain unravelled memories of the months passed; Andy was unsettled by the selfishness which had taken over his heart and his mind, in an attempt to blame the feigned relationship on the innocent child. Watching the helpless man let his makeshift home disintegrate around him left Andy agitated; he felt this moment bore an unsettling affinity with the demise of his own attempt at fatherhood. Andy had damaged the father-son bond beyond repair. I feel like this final realisation now needs to be stated more powerfully, the build up is now there. Now it needs some UMPH, if you catch me. Like these last two sentences say what needs to be said, but as a reader I don't get much impact, or drama. Try playing with things like sentence length or repetition to really drive it home, I think this is the chance to be LESS descriptive, and just, "Holy shit, that is my son." Differentiate it from the very descriptive nature of the rest of your text.
The blood rushing through his veins lost all purpose, his pulse weakened to a pathetic beat. His heart and his mind flooded with disregard; condemning him from human emotion. The hazy streetscape became suffocating; the air condensed around him as he gasped for breath.
Fog enveloped his body as it filled with disgust. He felt undeserving of the protection which the umbrella provided and dropped it by his side. Cool touch! The bitter wind made the raindrops prickle his skin; the world around him was blurred by a thick haze as his fingertips were gnawed by frost.
The atmosphere around him became murkier with every breath as he disappeared into the bleary mist. I think this ending could be a little more powerful too; maybe bring the beggar in more? The beggar is the catalyst to this whole thing, maybe Andy watches HIM walk away into the mist (an obvious but effective metaphor). I'll leave you with it, but it just needs something more.
Andy’s hands trembled as he clasped on to the document which uncovered the truth. Crushing it in his fists, his hands pressed against his head, cringing in anguish. He never once questioned the position he held in his own life…. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the reality that he has never been, or will ever be, the father of his beloved son. I actually think 'had' was more correct in that sentence!
The air around him began to thicken, and he was fighting to breathe. His bones rattled at the realisation, and tremors shook his body as he sat awake through the night.
Andy
Familiarity was drifting further away from him upon returning home each day. The actuality of the relationship with his son strained his compassion. Interactions became merely an act of preservation. Any time he looked into the boy’s eyes, his body stung with fury. Immense pressure clasped around his being, and the only way to escape aggravation was to distance himself. Feeling a sense of self slip, the truth sucking away the compassion he had left. Something iffy about this sentence too, I think it is tense, perhaps 'sucked?'
The dinner table seemed as though it was held up by tension as it became the only link which joined them together. Whirling air echoed around the room, making occasional clatters which were offbeat to the automatic clinking of silverware on porcelain. Glances were avoided by the shadow which was cast by the broken overhead light.
That night remained vivid in his memory for months afterwards. The household fell into a routine which barely necessitated words. Andy would order take out most nights; placing his son's order on the table and retreat to the study. As the night dragged on the room would slowly fall into darkness - the only light the synthetic glow of his computer screen. When the television began to blare from the other room Andy would quieten the distraction with three sharp knocks on the adjoining wall. By the time he emerged the night had crept into morning and there was no sign of his son.
The umbrella worked hard to hold itself up in the morning’s torrential rain as Andy marched to his office. Fog accompanied the rain; navigating the distance ahead became difficult.
Standing impatiently on the corner, Andy gains focus through the misty streetscape and is intrigued by the lonely beggar, withered on the other side. Sunlight attempted to infiltrate the sky; only making weak streams down to the earth. The glisten of the beams irritates Andy’s stare even further - all those nights spent at fluorescent screens have temporarily deteriorated his sight. 'Have' should be 'had.'
Rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear them, Andy unintentionally locks eyes with the beggar across the street. His limbs were shuddering from the bitter cold and the cardboard structure over his head was weeping under the weight of the rain. The atmosphere is now not only thick with fog, but washed with tension. I like that you are dragging this out more, gives it a greater sense of tension.
The wind is howling in his ears and a familiar yet abrupt metallic racket pulses through his mind. Andy winces; the ear splitting rattles nauseate him. He tries to regain his stance but his vision of the beggar is still blurred by the heavy shadows from the clouds overhead.
The misery in his eyes pulsed through his being, the familiarity of his withdrawn stare and disheartened demeanour struck through to Andy’s core. The withered figure is far from Andy’s reach but the guilt is all too familiar. Ooooh, that last sentence or two and its more subtle approach was great. This is developing much better!
He watched the beggar toss the structure from over his head, with the weak cardboard dissolving into the puddle beside him. Tremors flooded back into Andy's system, somehow annihilating the disgust and filling him with regret. Time seemed to slow down, making his mind dizzy with remorse.
His stomach twisted as shame soaked through to his bone. Chills pierced every cell in his body as he realised what he had done. The daze which swept his brain unravelled memories of the months passed; Andy was unsettled by the selfishness which had taken over his heart and his mind, in an attempt to blame the feigned relationship on the innocent child. Watching the helpless man let his makeshift home disintegrate around him left Andy agitated; he felt this moment bore an unsettling affinity with the demise of his own attempt at fatherhood. Andy had damaged the father-son bond beyond repair. I feel like this final realisation now needs to be stated more powerfully, the build up is now there. Now it needs some UMPH, if you catch me. Like these last two sentences say what needs to be said, but as a reader I don't get much impact, or drama. Try playing with things like sentence length or repetition to really drive it home, I think this is the chance to be LESS descriptive, and just, "Holy shit, that is my son." Differentiate it from the very descriptive nature of the rest of your text.
The blood rushing through his veins lost all purpose, his pulse weakened to a pathetic beat. His heart and his mind flooded with disregard; condemning him from human emotion. The hazy streetscape became suffocating; the air condensed around him as he gasped for breath.
Fog enveloped his body as it filled with disgust. He felt undeserving of the protection which the umbrella provided and dropped it by his side. Cool touch! The bitter wind made the raindrops prickle his skin; the world around him was blurred by a thick haze as his fingertips were gnawed by frost.
The atmosphere around him became murkier with every breath as he disappeared into the bleary mist. I think this ending could be a little more powerful too; maybe bring the beggar in more? The beggar is the catalyst to this whole thing, maybe Andy watches HIM walk away into the mist (an obvious but effective metaphor). I'll leave you with it, but it just needs something more.
To start, it seems that there are more little issues with wording in this edit. It might be that you mentioning it made me more inclined to notice, but I didn't notice any tense issues in the last edit! Nothing made me stop and have to re-read a sentence in any case, which happened in this edit, so watch for that! I indicated a few sentences which made me double take and suggested an amendment ;D
That said, the build up to the climax is now much more effective. You draw it out and it feels more significant as a result, very very cool!! I think now your focus should go to really making the ending powerful. "He had broken the father son bond beyond repair," acts as the climax of that story. That sentence, and the paragraph preceding it, needs a little more impact. Shorter, punchier sentences might help. Have a play with that paragraph and see what you can do to really make it leap off the page.
As another wholistic comment, your text is very descriptive. There are times when you want to abandon that more elaborate style and just be blunt. Perhaps play with this as a way to make that paragraph more impactful for the audience.
Another thing you could try (you definitely don't need this, just an option if you feel creative) is try swapping to 1st person. My creatives were usually in 3rd, and my teacher suggested trying 1st person for one of my creatives. It ended up really improving it. It might be worth a go ;D I stress, I'm not specifically suggesting that you should do it, just an idea if you want to try it ;D
All this said, the story now flows really really well and I think it is awesomely effective, excellent work Brontem!! Please feel free to keep uploading the story and we'll keep providing feedback, I might ask Elyse to handle the next version so you can get a fresh set of eyes on it, Elyse may have some new feedback/ideas/fixes. That's the trouble with creatives, they are very objective, so its awesome to get it read by as many people as possible!! ;D
Post by: brontem on May 30, 2016, 06:03:33 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 31, 2016, 11:55:23 pm
Hello, back yet again ;D I fixed up some of the tense issues and redid some of the parts that were pointed out :) I can totally see it coming together now ;D. Here's the next edit!! Thanks so much!! :D
Welcome back!! ;D great to hear! I love that feeling of having something come together ;D you know the drill, comments throughout ;D
Spoiler
Just as he suspected. The denial was simply wishful thinking.
Andy’s hands trembled as he clasped on to the document which uncovered the truth. Crushing it in his fists, his hands pressed against his head, cringing in anguish. He never once questioned the position he held in his own life…. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the reality that he had never been, or will ever be, the father of his beloved son
The air around him began to thicken, and he was fighting to breathe. His bones rattled at the realisation, and tremors shook his body as he sat awake through the night.
Andy struggled to maintain normality as he mechanically went through his morning routine. Taking his newspaper underarm, the morning stroll to the office was hostile. He attempted to distract his mind by pondering the streetscape, but took no notice of the beggar on his way. Throughout the day reality sent tremors through his whole being.
Familiarity was drifting further away from him upon returning home each day. The actuality of the relationship with his son strained his compassion. Interactions became merely an act of preservation. Any time he looked into the boy’s eyes, his body stung with fury. Immense pressure clasped around his being, and the only way to escape aggravation was to distance himself. Feeling a sense of self slip, the truth sucked away the compassion he had left.
The dinner table seemed as though it was held up by tension as it became the only link which joined them together. Whirling air echoed around the room, making occasional clatters which were offbeat to the automatic clinking of silverware on porcelain. Glances were avoided by the shadow which was cast by the broken overhead light.
That night remained vivid in his memory for months afterwards. The household fell into a routine which barely necessitated words. Andy would order take out most nights; after placing his son's order on the table he would retreat to the study. As the night dragged on the room would slowly fall into darkness - the only light the synthetic glow of his computer screen. When the television began to blare from the other room Andy would quieten the distraction with three sharp knocks on the adjoining wall. By the time he emerged the night had crept into morning and there was no sign of his son. Introduction still works wonderfully, keep refining this as you see fit, I love it ;D although, as an idea, maybe bring the beggar in a second time (second walk to work?), so he pops up twice before the end?
The umbrella worked hard to hold itself up in the morning’s torrential rain as Andy marched to his office. Fog accompanied the rain; navigating the distance ahead became difficult. I still love this pathetic fallacy!
Standing impatiently on the corner, Andy gains focus through the misty streetscape and is intrigued by the lonely beggar, withered on the other side. I think a sight swap around might assist here, slide the description of the beggar below up to here. It feels more natural: Notice the beggar, describe him, a little bit more natural than jumping back to it later in my opinion? Sunlight attempted to infiltrate the sky; only making weak streams down to the earth. The glisten of the beams irritates Andy’s stare even further - all those nights spent at fluorescent screens had temporarily deteriorated his sight.
Rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear them, Andy unintentionally locks eyes with the beggar across the street. His limbs were shuddering from the bitter cold and the cardboard structure over his head was weeping under the weight of the rain. The atmosphere is now not only thick with fog, but washed with tension.
The wind howled in his ears and a familiar, yet abrupt metallic racket pulsed through his mind. Andy winced; the ear splitting rattles were nauseating. He tried to regain his stance but his vision of the beggar was still blurred by the heavy shadows from the clouds overhead.
The misery in his eyes pulsed through his being, the familiarity of his withdrawn stare and disheartened demeanour struck through to Andy’s core. The withered figure was far from Andy’s reach, but the guilt was all too familiar. Very nice build up so far, sets an excellent tone.
He watched the beggar toss the structure from over his head. The weak cardboard dssolved into the puddle beside him. Tremors flooded back into Andy's system, somehow annihilating the disgust and filling him with regret. Time seemed to slow down, making his mind dizzy with remorse.
His stomach twisted as shame soaked through to his bone. Chills pierced every cell in his body as he realised what he had done. The daze which swept his brain unravelled memories of the months passed; Andy was unsettled by the selfishness which had taken over his heart and his mind, in an attempt to blame the feigned relationship on the innocent child.
Watching the helpless man let his makeshift home disintegrate around him left Andy agitated. Something a bit more creative here than agitated might work, perhaps a good chance for a technique (to show off?)? He felt this moment bore an unsettling affinity with the demise of his own attempt at fatherhood.
The metallic clinking of cutlery echoed back into his mind... The vacant household. Routine interactions. Continuous misery. Andy had damaged the father-son bond beyond repair. Ahhh, cool, yep this is what we need, that first bit. Take things from this moment and compare them to things in the first half of the story. Those subtle links are crazy powerful. I'd cut back some of the more verbose emotive description from above and do more of what you do here to build up instead, it works really, really well.
The blood rushing through his veins lost all purpose, his pulse weakened to a pathetic beat. His heart and his mind flooded with disregard; condemning him from human emotion. The hazy streetscape became suffocating; the air condensed around him as he gasped for breath.
Fog enveloped his body as it filled with disgust. He felt undeserving of the protection which the umbrella provided and dropped it by his side. The bitter wind made the raindrops prickle his skin; the world around him was blurred by a thick haze as his fingertips were gnawed by frost. Really, really nice work here.
The atmosphere around him became murkier with every breath as he watched the beggar disappear into the bleary mist. I'd like to see a teensy bit more here, like even just adding "...with every breath as he watched the beggar turn away, abandon the crumpled cardboard roof now melting into the pavement, and walk away into the bleary mist." Something like this just to accentuate the walk away a little bit more, but I think the beggar walking away is definitely the way to go ;D
Andy’s hands trembled as he clasped on to the document which uncovered the truth. Crushing it in his fists, his hands pressed against his head, cringing in anguish. He never once questioned the position he held in his own life…. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the reality that he had never been, or will ever be, the father of his beloved son
The air around him began to thicken, and he was fighting to breathe. His bones rattled at the realisation, and tremors shook his body as he sat awake through the night.
Andy struggled to maintain normality as he mechanically went through his morning routine. Taking his newspaper underarm, the morning stroll to the office was hostile. He attempted to distract his mind by pondering the streetscape, but took no notice of the beggar on his way. Throughout the day reality sent tremors through his whole being.
Familiarity was drifting further away from him upon returning home each day. The actuality of the relationship with his son strained his compassion. Interactions became merely an act of preservation. Any time he looked into the boy’s eyes, his body stung with fury. Immense pressure clasped around his being, and the only way to escape aggravation was to distance himself. Feeling a sense of self slip, the truth sucked away the compassion he had left.
The dinner table seemed as though it was held up by tension as it became the only link which joined them together. Whirling air echoed around the room, making occasional clatters which were offbeat to the automatic clinking of silverware on porcelain. Glances were avoided by the shadow which was cast by the broken overhead light.
That night remained vivid in his memory for months afterwards. The household fell into a routine which barely necessitated words. Andy would order take out most nights; after placing his son's order on the table he would retreat to the study. As the night dragged on the room would slowly fall into darkness - the only light the synthetic glow of his computer screen. When the television began to blare from the other room Andy would quieten the distraction with three sharp knocks on the adjoining wall. By the time he emerged the night had crept into morning and there was no sign of his son. Introduction still works wonderfully, keep refining this as you see fit, I love it ;D although, as an idea, maybe bring the beggar in a second time (second walk to work?), so he pops up twice before the end?
The umbrella worked hard to hold itself up in the morning’s torrential rain as Andy marched to his office. Fog accompanied the rain; navigating the distance ahead became difficult. I still love this pathetic fallacy!
Standing impatiently on the corner, Andy gains focus through the misty streetscape and is intrigued by the lonely beggar, withered on the other side. I think a sight swap around might assist here, slide the description of the beggar below up to here. It feels more natural: Notice the beggar, describe him, a little bit more natural than jumping back to it later in my opinion? Sunlight attempted to infiltrate the sky; only making weak streams down to the earth. The glisten of the beams irritates Andy’s stare even further - all those nights spent at fluorescent screens had temporarily deteriorated his sight.
Rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear them, Andy unintentionally locks eyes with the beggar across the street. His limbs were shuddering from the bitter cold and the cardboard structure over his head was weeping under the weight of the rain. The atmosphere is now not only thick with fog, but washed with tension.
The wind howled in his ears and a familiar, yet abrupt metallic racket pulsed through his mind. Andy winced; the ear splitting rattles were nauseating. He tried to regain his stance but his vision of the beggar was still blurred by the heavy shadows from the clouds overhead.
The misery in his eyes pulsed through his being, the familiarity of his withdrawn stare and disheartened demeanour struck through to Andy’s core. The withered figure was far from Andy’s reach, but the guilt was all too familiar. Very nice build up so far, sets an excellent tone.
He watched the beggar toss the structure from over his head. The weak cardboard dssolved into the puddle beside him. Tremors flooded back into Andy's system, somehow annihilating the disgust and filling him with regret. Time seemed to slow down, making his mind dizzy with remorse.
His stomach twisted as shame soaked through to his bone. Chills pierced every cell in his body as he realised what he had done. The daze which swept his brain unravelled memories of the months passed; Andy was unsettled by the selfishness which had taken over his heart and his mind, in an attempt to blame the feigned relationship on the innocent child.
Watching the helpless man let his makeshift home disintegrate around him left Andy agitated. Something a bit more creative here than agitated might work, perhaps a good chance for a technique (to show off?)? He felt this moment bore an unsettling affinity with the demise of his own attempt at fatherhood.
The metallic clinking of cutlery echoed back into his mind... The vacant household. Routine interactions. Continuous misery. Andy had damaged the father-son bond beyond repair. Ahhh, cool, yep this is what we need, that first bit. Take things from this moment and compare them to things in the first half of the story. Those subtle links are crazy powerful. I'd cut back some of the more verbose emotive description from above and do more of what you do here to build up instead, it works really, really well.
The blood rushing through his veins lost all purpose, his pulse weakened to a pathetic beat. His heart and his mind flooded with disregard; condemning him from human emotion. The hazy streetscape became suffocating; the air condensed around him as he gasped for breath.
Fog enveloped his body as it filled with disgust. He felt undeserving of the protection which the umbrella provided and dropped it by his side. The bitter wind made the raindrops prickle his skin; the world around him was blurred by a thick haze as his fingertips were gnawed by frost. Really, really nice work here.
The atmosphere around him became murkier with every breath as he watched the beggar disappear into the bleary mist. I'd like to see a teensy bit more here, like even just adding "...with every breath as he watched the beggar turn away, abandon the crumpled cardboard roof now melting into the pavement, and walk away into the bleary mist." Something like this just to accentuate the walk away a little bit more, but I think the beggar walking away is definitely the way to go ;D
Ohhhh, I know totally what you mean about it all coming together. This is good, really good!
All your pieces are there. Basically my suggestions revolve around shifting the order of a few things, and pretty much, taking things you already do and do MORE of them. Linking back to the clinking of porcelain in the first section? Genius, bloody brilliant. I'd love to see more of that, more linking to section 1 to bring everything full circle. More description of experiences that the father had with his son, the lack of interaction, that are paralleled in this sudden interaction. More of that, and you'll have brought this where it needs to be, and you'll be on an absolute winner here.
Comparing this version to where it started, wow, it has come so far. You should be so super proud of yourself, this version is INCREDIBLE!! ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on June 01, 2016, 08:58:24 pm
Hello, back yet again ;D I fixed up some of the tense issues and redid some of the parts that were pointed out :) I can totally see it coming together now ;D. Here's the next edit!! Thanks so much!! :D
If you haven't already, I think the next step in your writing here is to try apply it to a stimulus. In fact, to several stimuli. The reason being, Jamon is suggesting you play with the order a bit. So you want to do this in a way that you know you're re-arranging the story in the best interests of potential stimulus. It's a small little trick, but it gives you piece of mind that you've dealt with a stimulus, or many, early, so that later on when you feel like you have the perfect story, you can do it with confidence that you can handle a stimulus coming your way! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on June 05, 2016, 08:05:37 pm
hi Elyse!! I am back with some serious editing, please help me make this great for trials!! Forever grateful for your help :D
Hello! You're so kind. I can't wait to read it!
As usual, here is your original creative without any of my own comments:
Spoiler
With Knowledge comes power.
Oppenheimer was unaware that his brilliance would unleash calamity upon mankind: the first atomic bomb, 1945.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world.”
The rest was history.
She had read somewhere that the cure for cancer was being suppressed between the calloused palms of business firms and medical institutions. Little did she know the repercussion/repercussionS? of leaking this wealth of Knowledge Is this a capital K for a reason?into society’s deprived soul.
She called it justice.
You and I would call it corruption. I seriously love how I'm brought into the story like this. This is just so so impressive. An excellent technique!
***
Dr Samitha bathed her luscious charcoal hair unctuously with lavender Amla oil. So I just googled what Amla is, and it is an Indian gooseberry? Maybe Amla is a common word and I've just always managed to avoid it somehow. But if I'm not the only one who wasn't immediately familiar with this word, then your marker might be confused too. If it is important that it is Indian, then definitely keep it in there. If you are using it simply because it sounds unique, then I suggest going for a slightly more common but still unique oil. You don't want something to be so unique that it becomes abstract and detracts from the purpose. I also think there are a lot of adjectives here. I love "charcoal" hair. I don't love luscious. This is just my own opinion. Charcoal has a really vivid imagery. Luscious, not so intense.Her sunken eyes weathered from years of reading, revising, and rendering, were framed delicately with her fragmented glasses that sandwiched the crook of her nose. Fragmented as in broken? For some reason, delicately and fragmented seem to be a little jarring, particularly when partnered with "sandwiched" and "crook." There's a lot of imagery in a very small space.
She hoisted the scissors against her hairline, which burnt cold against her tender dark skin, hungry for the feminine locks. It was like an anesthetic to her pitiful gendered existence at work; the hammer that could shatter the glass ceiling. OMG. Amazing! Seriously, amazing!
She thought against it.
Soon all her hard work, in the domain of rigid gender constructs would be acknowledged. She would succeed without sacrificing her femininity to truly pave the way.
Hair tightly held back and teeth clenched, Dr Samitha staggered between the familiar suffocating magnolia walls brushed with undertones of bleach. She scavenged through myriads of medical chronicles and hunched methodically over the lab table.
Her heart poignantly whimpered as visions of her mother’s pained crinkled face that ironed into eternal tranquility This bit here appears to me as a little confusing/unnecessary. had flooded before her. The patches of hair cleaved to her bald scalp as she rested against the linen pillow inertly.
1080 days of dedication.
She held the test tube against the fluorescent light for clarity and squinted at the immune system culture of T cell components – years of trial, error and perfection funneled into the glassware. With a generous drop from a micropipette, her eyes remained hesitantly locked to the lens of the electron microscope plated with diaphanous silver. Dr Samitha used her paraphernalia to genetically engineer a CD19 receptor onto the T & B cells amongst the tumorous cells.
Deep palpitations throbbed against her ear drums. Hot air smothered against her throat, rivulets of sweat adhered to skin. The smell of bleach tickled her nostrils as she unconsciously held her breath.
The T-cells crowded the cancerous cells like a flock of scavenging vultures surrounding a prey.
Dr Samitha gripped the table until her pale fingers barren of colour were nostalgic for sensation. She elevated the translucent solution against the stark light in awe, a tearful blurry view.
They would never understand her sacrifice.
Her eyes hesitantly lingered over the AAAS card to inform this scientific breakthrough that would pave history. She would be sitting in the hall of fame beside Francis Crick and James Watson. There's some medical jargon that you can use without the reader knowing the meaning and thats fine, because it is necessary for setting the scene. AAAS card is something I don't know about, but I'm curious in case it is an important part of the story.
So why was she holding back?
She stretched her hand for the phone but found herself staggering back, a dark curtain drooped over her mind, lulling her to vertigo.
***
She found herself standing on the edge of a cliff, an unfamiliarly barren landscape lying below. The East Wind mockingly whistled over the sterile concrete jungle wrapped with smog which seethed over the billboard in the distance that declared the winner for 2060’s game show. She realised that she was glimpsing into a future she would never have envisaged.
“Not quite what you imagined, my dear?” her dead mother’s voice crystallised the cold air. Samitha stood frozen, still stunned by the desolately overpopulous landscape which stretched before her.
“My darling daughter, as much as it pains me to tell you after your years of toil and sacrifice, what you see before you is a result of your cure; overpopulation, corruption…
The pharmaceutical companies created a monopoly and patented to control the manufacture of the drugs. The rich on Wall Street are thriving on your success by stripping the middleclass and poor. If only you could see the common man’s face permeating gloom not joy, working for pittance to survive.”
A window into what was hoped to be utopia was replaced with dystopia.
***
She wept.
So why was she holding back?
Her grip on the test tube tensed.
She could pay off her hefty university fees; compensate those years of slavery as a victim to the heinous act of cancer; to shower in fame and shed the limelight on gender inequality. Because you mentioned Wall Street, I'm inclined to think this is American. But when you talk about University fees (for the reason that they most commonly call them Colleges but also because more often than not they need to pay upfront, no hecs like us), I imagine that you're talking about Australia. It's a small detail, but be as consistent as possible.
Her grip on the test tube constricted further and the smell of bleach heightened.
They will never understand her sacrifice.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world.”
The test tube fractured under pressure, the laceration caking her hand in a rich maroon tapestry.
With Knowledge comes power – a power too rich in magnitude to tame.
Oppenheimer was unaware that his brilliance would unleash calamity upon mankind: the first atomic bomb, 1945.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world.”
The rest was history.
She had read somewhere that the cure for cancer was being suppressed between the calloused palms of business firms and medical institutions. Little did she know the repercussion/repercussionS? of leaking this wealth of Knowledge Is this a capital K for a reason?into society’s deprived soul.
She called it justice.
You and I would call it corruption. I seriously love how I'm brought into the story like this. This is just so so impressive. An excellent technique!
***
Dr Samitha bathed her luscious charcoal hair unctuously with lavender Amla oil. So I just googled what Amla is, and it is an Indian gooseberry? Maybe Amla is a common word and I've just always managed to avoid it somehow. But if I'm not the only one who wasn't immediately familiar with this word, then your marker might be confused too. If it is important that it is Indian, then definitely keep it in there. If you are using it simply because it sounds unique, then I suggest going for a slightly more common but still unique oil. You don't want something to be so unique that it becomes abstract and detracts from the purpose. I also think there are a lot of adjectives here. I love "charcoal" hair. I don't love luscious. This is just my own opinion. Charcoal has a really vivid imagery. Luscious, not so intense.Her sunken eyes weathered from years of reading, revising, and rendering, were framed delicately with her fragmented glasses that sandwiched the crook of her nose. Fragmented as in broken? For some reason, delicately and fragmented seem to be a little jarring, particularly when partnered with "sandwiched" and "crook." There's a lot of imagery in a very small space.
She hoisted the scissors against her hairline, which burnt cold against her tender dark skin, hungry for the feminine locks. It was like an anesthetic to her pitiful gendered existence at work; the hammer that could shatter the glass ceiling. OMG. Amazing! Seriously, amazing!
She thought against it.
Soon all her hard work, in the domain of rigid gender constructs would be acknowledged. She would succeed without sacrificing her femininity to truly pave the way.
Hair tightly held back and teeth clenched, Dr Samitha staggered between the familiar suffocating magnolia walls brushed with undertones of bleach. She scavenged through myriads of medical chronicles and hunched methodically over the lab table.
Her heart poignantly whimpered as visions of her mother’s pained crinkled face that ironed into eternal tranquility This bit here appears to me as a little confusing/unnecessary. had flooded before her. The patches of hair cleaved to her bald scalp as she rested against the linen pillow inertly.
1080 days of dedication.
She held the test tube against the fluorescent light for clarity and squinted at the immune system culture of T cell components – years of trial, error and perfection funneled into the glassware. With a generous drop from a micropipette, her eyes remained hesitantly locked to the lens of the electron microscope plated with diaphanous silver. Dr Samitha used her paraphernalia to genetically engineer a CD19 receptor onto the T & B cells amongst the tumorous cells.
Deep palpitations throbbed against her ear drums. Hot air smothered against her throat, rivulets of sweat adhered to skin. The smell of bleach tickled her nostrils as she unconsciously held her breath.
The T-cells crowded the cancerous cells like a flock of scavenging vultures surrounding a prey.
Dr Samitha gripped the table until her pale fingers barren of colour were nostalgic for sensation. She elevated the translucent solution against the stark light in awe, a tearful blurry view.
They would never understand her sacrifice.
Her eyes hesitantly lingered over the AAAS card to inform this scientific breakthrough that would pave history. She would be sitting in the hall of fame beside Francis Crick and James Watson. There's some medical jargon that you can use without the reader knowing the meaning and thats fine, because it is necessary for setting the scene. AAAS card is something I don't know about, but I'm curious in case it is an important part of the story.
So why was she holding back?
She stretched her hand for the phone but found herself staggering back, a dark curtain drooped over her mind, lulling her to vertigo.
***
She found herself standing on the edge of a cliff, an unfamiliarly barren landscape lying below. The East Wind mockingly whistled over the sterile concrete jungle wrapped with smog which seethed over the billboard in the distance that declared the winner for 2060’s game show. She realised that she was glimpsing into a future she would never have envisaged.
“Not quite what you imagined, my dear?” her dead mother’s voice crystallised the cold air. Samitha stood frozen, still stunned by the desolately overpopulous landscape which stretched before her.
“My darling daughter, as much as it pains me to tell you after your years of toil and sacrifice, what you see before you is a result of your cure; overpopulation, corruption…
The pharmaceutical companies created a monopoly and patented to control the manufacture of the drugs. The rich on Wall Street are thriving on your success by stripping the middleclass and poor. If only you could see the common man’s face permeating gloom not joy, working for pittance to survive.”
A window into what was hoped to be utopia was replaced with dystopia.
***
She wept.
So why was she holding back?
Her grip on the test tube tensed.
She could pay off her hefty university fees; compensate those years of slavery as a victim to the heinous act of cancer; to shower in fame and shed the limelight on gender inequality. Because you mentioned Wall Street, I'm inclined to think this is American. But when you talk about University fees (for the reason that they most commonly call them Colleges but also because more often than not they need to pay upfront, no hecs like us), I imagine that you're talking about Australia. It's a small detail, but be as consistent as possible.
Her grip on the test tube constricted further and the smell of bleach heightened.
They will never understand her sacrifice.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world.”
The test tube fractured under pressure, the laceration caking her hand in a rich maroon tapestry.
With Knowledge comes power – a power too rich in magnitude to tame.
Amazing! At this point I feel like I've been really taken on a journey. Which is great, incredible, and magnificent. I'm just going to drop some end points down the end here. Feel free to post back if you have any questions. Your work at this point isn't going to benefit from me trying to change your structure or anything like that, because that just doesn't need to happen. Where there are parts that are overly descriptive, I've pointed them out. I don't think you should discard the great language all together, but consider limiting it so that what you do choose to use is very distinct. I loved the glass ceiling reference and the fact that she was a woman. I'm curious if there is a way that you could make this more complex and sophisticated but I can't put my finger on exactly how. I think that perhaps alikening her womanhood to a broader paradigm of oppression, capitalism, who knows, might work really well. Unfortunately I don't have the answer and it will take a lot of thinking. I just want to see that really deep imagery of her womanhood come to life again later on. It shouldn't detract from the wider narrative, but it should add that extra layer. What do you think? Am I talking in a different language here or does this seem like a possibility?
All in all, this is a simply wonderful creative. Your language is sophisticated, your idea is complex but clear, and your execution of it all is really admirable.
I haven't given a lot of feedback, but that's because there's not a lot to give. Have you applied this to a stimulus yet? You should have a look around and give that a go. Please feel free to post the creative again or send a post back to flesh out any ideas! You're doing AMAZING
Post by: smiley2101 on June 06, 2016, 07:41:01 pm
Just a question; what do you mean by "I think that perhaps alikening her womanhood to a broader paradigm of oppression, capitalism, who knows, might work really well" - just a bit confused here but I feel like its something that would really lift my creative
Post by: elysepopplewell on June 06, 2016, 08:09:05 pm
You are a life-saver Elyse! thank you!
Just a question; what do you mean by "I think that perhaps alikening her womanhood to a broader paradigm of oppression, capitalism, who knows, might work really well" - just a bit confused here but I feel like its something that would really lift my creative
No worries, thanks for clarifying! Basically I mean, if we really put this in context (year, country, political happenings, eg. communism, capitalism) then you could make a connection to the idea that this woman has not just made a big move for herself, but a move for womankind. It's about taking her issue from being an isolated event and turning it into a narrative that is familiar to all or most women of her age/country, etc.
In Extension 1, creatives are really extended to be set in a context, and to resonate being just the isolated story. Basically, your story is at such a sophisticated level, that I'm just suggesting a way to strengthen it.
When you write the story, do you have a clear idea of country, year, and all of these kind of bigger details? You don't have to write them all in the story, but having a clear vision will naturally show in your writing with authenticity!
Post by: Jimmy Barnes on June 08, 2016, 06:55:37 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on June 09, 2016, 10:37:06 am
A discovery creative I made the other day, any feedback whatsoever would be appreciated as you two have been amazing for all my other subjects
You're so kind! Absolutely we can have a look :)
Here is your original creative, in the spoiler:
Spoiler
His face had become a canvas, intricate slithers of scar tissue snaked across his sanguine face. His cheek peeled off the white sheets while the sterile scent of a hospital ward swept into his nostrils. A fresh wave of blood flowed out of his smouldered cheek as his neck muscles strained to hold his head, a miasma of somnolence drifting across his body until his head returned the maroon sheets.
-
He had gained consciousness again, a swathe of sterile bandages wrapped around his face, and his arms, and his legs. Fading in and out of consciousness, a translucent tube spiralled downwards, obscured by the face of a surgeon looking him in the eyes. The surgeons head moved, a bright, fluorescent light piercing his eyes, encompassing his vision as his head rolled back.
-
He sat upright in the hospital bed, scissors slicing through the bandage obscuring his face, then the bandage on his arms, then the bandage on his legs. As the feathery dressings floated to the floor, he opened his eyes, raising his arm into vision. A charred husk of its former self, patches of skin missing, surrounded by glossy black scar tissue. The nurse handed him a hand mirror, walking out with her head facing the floor. His eyes traced her outline, returning to the mirror that had grown heavier in his hand. The face that returned his glance was not his own, an amalgamation of scars and burnt tissue, as if someone had painstakingly dripped red candle wax onto his face. He threw the mirror away in disgust.
Light drifted in through the window onto the shattered remnants of the mirror, catching a tear streaming down a man’s face, pooling in the shallow crevices hollowed out from his ghastly wounds.
-
He hobbled down the street, grey hoodie obfuscating his face as best as it could. The physiotherapist’s house was a block away, what felt like an eternity. Head facing the pavement, he couldn’t see the looks of disgust, the looks of pity, the looks of shame.
A distant wailing pierced through the barriers he built up. As the sound faded away, the images arose from their slumber, assaulting his mind all at once. A collage of pictures, the fire truck, putting on his fireman overalls, the burning house, the wooden stairs collapsing under his weight, losing consciousness as the flames began to lap at his face.
He turned and knocked on the door, a young lady greeting him with a smile. As his head lifted, her smile began to crack at the edges, fading through pursed lips.
-
Their meetings grew more frequent. He slowly gained mobility in his arms and knees again. He sat on a padded bench while she stood in front, slowly extending his knee. Searing pains sliced through his lower body, accompanied by a sharp inhale. She looked him in the eyes as she stopped the movement. The sun reflected of her brunette hair, catching the edges of her sky blue eyes. A small smile crept into the edges of her mouth while she looked at him. The first person in the passing months that didn’t look at him and recoil in disgust.
-
The frequent trips continued, the judgmental stares in the street continued, the harsh whispers continued and the haphazard eye contact grew more frequent. He walked down the street to her house everyday, careful to always wear a hoodie. The windows, the windscreens and the mirrors followed in his shadow every time he left, waiting for an opportunity to remind him of the shell of a man he had become.
Yet she stood at the door every visit, no longer appalled by the repulsive knots of intricately merged flesh that made up the entirety of his face. Always with a smile, a genuine smile stemming from sincere kindness. He knew she was doing it out of necessity, yet the butterflies emerged whenever the edges of her lips reached up for her cheeks.
-
The dim lighting in the bathroom dulled his features, the only hope for fostering a sense of self-confidence. He tightened the tie around his neck, the discoloured skin protesting against the soft fabric. The blazer felt foreign, grasping at the edges of his broad shoulders. With one last contemptible glance at himself in the mirror, he turned and left, grasping his pocket to make sure the movie ticket had not fallen out.
-
It was weird to start. He had associated her with pain, she always pushed him to stretch further and try harder. Now the physiotherapist stood in front of him, the movie had finished. The moonlight bounced across the trees, reflecting onto the wisps of her hair flowing in the cool midsummers breeze.
It was unnatural at first, but his lips began to creak and groan, working out the cobwebs of idleness. Curling at the edges, a smile began to cross his lips while he looked at her. An ephemeral gesture, the smile vanished as commotion broke out behind her. She turned, a reflective café tarp slowly drifted in the breeze, the moonlight emphasising his burn wounds. She turned around, his eyes had dropped to the floor.
He couldn’t comprehend why she was here. Was it out of pity? Was it out of a masochistic pleasure? He felt the breeze flow through his hair as a soft hand touched his jaw, beckoning him to lift his head.
She was there. She stood there, no other care in the world. He took it all in within a second, her soft features, the effulgence of the moon reflecting across her face, her sky blue eyes. Those two humble pools of water gazed up at him. She pulled him closer, his face centimetres from hers. Looking deep into her eyes, he saw the truth. She didn’t see his scars, she didn’t see the hideousness he knew, she only saw him.
Lips millimetres apart, they closed their eyes.
-
He had gained consciousness again, a swathe of sterile bandages wrapped around his face, and his arms, and his legs. Fading in and out of consciousness, a translucent tube spiralled downwards, obscured by the face of a surgeon looking him in the eyes. The surgeons head moved, a bright, fluorescent light piercing his eyes, encompassing his vision as his head rolled back.
-
He sat upright in the hospital bed, scissors slicing through the bandage obscuring his face, then the bandage on his arms, then the bandage on his legs. As the feathery dressings floated to the floor, he opened his eyes, raising his arm into vision. A charred husk of its former self, patches of skin missing, surrounded by glossy black scar tissue. The nurse handed him a hand mirror, walking out with her head facing the floor. His eyes traced her outline, returning to the mirror that had grown heavier in his hand. The face that returned his glance was not his own, an amalgamation of scars and burnt tissue, as if someone had painstakingly dripped red candle wax onto his face. He threw the mirror away in disgust.
Light drifted in through the window onto the shattered remnants of the mirror, catching a tear streaming down a man’s face, pooling in the shallow crevices hollowed out from his ghastly wounds.
-
He hobbled down the street, grey hoodie obfuscating his face as best as it could. The physiotherapist’s house was a block away, what felt like an eternity. Head facing the pavement, he couldn’t see the looks of disgust, the looks of pity, the looks of shame.
A distant wailing pierced through the barriers he built up. As the sound faded away, the images arose from their slumber, assaulting his mind all at once. A collage of pictures, the fire truck, putting on his fireman overalls, the burning house, the wooden stairs collapsing under his weight, losing consciousness as the flames began to lap at his face.
He turned and knocked on the door, a young lady greeting him with a smile. As his head lifted, her smile began to crack at the edges, fading through pursed lips.
-
Their meetings grew more frequent. He slowly gained mobility in his arms and knees again. He sat on a padded bench while she stood in front, slowly extending his knee. Searing pains sliced through his lower body, accompanied by a sharp inhale. She looked him in the eyes as she stopped the movement. The sun reflected of her brunette hair, catching the edges of her sky blue eyes. A small smile crept into the edges of her mouth while she looked at him. The first person in the passing months that didn’t look at him and recoil in disgust.
-
The frequent trips continued, the judgmental stares in the street continued, the harsh whispers continued and the haphazard eye contact grew more frequent. He walked down the street to her house everyday, careful to always wear a hoodie. The windows, the windscreens and the mirrors followed in his shadow every time he left, waiting for an opportunity to remind him of the shell of a man he had become.
Yet she stood at the door every visit, no longer appalled by the repulsive knots of intricately merged flesh that made up the entirety of his face. Always with a smile, a genuine smile stemming from sincere kindness. He knew she was doing it out of necessity, yet the butterflies emerged whenever the edges of her lips reached up for her cheeks.
-
The dim lighting in the bathroom dulled his features, the only hope for fostering a sense of self-confidence. He tightened the tie around his neck, the discoloured skin protesting against the soft fabric. The blazer felt foreign, grasping at the edges of his broad shoulders. With one last contemptible glance at himself in the mirror, he turned and left, grasping his pocket to make sure the movie ticket had not fallen out.
-
It was weird to start. He had associated her with pain, she always pushed him to stretch further and try harder. Now the physiotherapist stood in front of him, the movie had finished. The moonlight bounced across the trees, reflecting onto the wisps of her hair flowing in the cool midsummers breeze.
It was unnatural at first, but his lips began to creak and groan, working out the cobwebs of idleness. Curling at the edges, a smile began to cross his lips while he looked at her. An ephemeral gesture, the smile vanished as commotion broke out behind her. She turned, a reflective café tarp slowly drifted in the breeze, the moonlight emphasising his burn wounds. She turned around, his eyes had dropped to the floor.
He couldn’t comprehend why she was here. Was it out of pity? Was it out of a masochistic pleasure? He felt the breeze flow through his hair as a soft hand touched his jaw, beckoning him to lift his head.
She was there. She stood there, no other care in the world. He took it all in within a second, her soft features, the effulgence of the moon reflecting across her face, her sky blue eyes. Those two humble pools of water gazed up at him. She pulled him closer, his face centimetres from hers. Looking deep into her eyes, he saw the truth. She didn’t see his scars, she didn’t see the hideousness he knew, she only saw him.
Lips millimetres apart, they closed their eyes.
Here is your creative with my own comments throughout in bold font:
Spoiler
His face had become a canvas, intricate slithers of scar tissue snaked across his sanguine face. His cheek peeled off the white sheets while the sterile scent of a hospital ward swept into his nostrils. A fresh wave of blood flowed out of his smouldered cheek as his neck muscles strained to hold his head, a miasma of somnolence drifting across his body until his head returned the maroon sheets. Great intro - there is a lot going on but when I read it slowly I could really appreciate all of the strong imagery. The "white sheets" have me confused - I can't work out what this is? If it was flaky dehydrated skin, I'd understand. But because it says "the" I'm thinking it is something different? Also - miasma of somnolence. My understanding of miasma is that it is an unpleasant smell. Upon googling, I realise it is also a atmosphere. Perhaps this is just my ignorance, but I wanted to let you know that it confused me for a second, just so that you have an outsiders opinion :)
-
He had gained consciousness again, a swathe of sterile bandages wrapped around his face, and his arms, and his legs. Fading in and out of consciousness, a translucent tube spiralled downwards, obscured by the face of a surgeon looking him in the eyes. The surgeons head moved, a bright, fluorescent light piercing his eyes, encompassing his vision as his head rolled back. The imagery here is clear and crisp. I really enjoy this. Although your first paragraph works, this also has merit for the fact that the imagery isn't deep and complex, but really explicit.
-
He sat upright in the hospital bed, scissors slicing through the bandage obscuring his face, then the bandage on his arms, then the bandage on his legs. As the feathery dressings floated to the floor, he opened his eyes, raising his arm into vision. A charred husk of its former self, patches of skin missing, surrounded by glossy black scar tissue. The nurse handed him a hand mirror, walking out with her head facing the floor. His eyes traced her outline, returning to the mirror that had grown heavier in his hand. The face that returned his glance was not his own, an amalgamation of scars and burnt tissue, as if someone had painstakingly dripped red candle wax onto his face. He threw the mirror away in disgust. No major feedback here - I'm still following and I'm very engaged. I think the distinct breaks in the paragraphs work to make this very digestable!
Light drifted in through the window onto the shattered remnants of the mirror, catching a tear streaming down a man’s face, pooling in the shallow crevices hollowed out from his ghastly wounds. Something that has always stuck with me, that my own HSC teacher (also a HSC marker) taught me, is that the way people describe tears and crying is rarely original. Streaming down a face doesn't speak to me as being unique. This is such a small thing, of course. But I just want to let you know so that you have the opportunity to make this a particularly unique, stand out description, if you wanted to :)
-
He hobbled down the street, grey hoodie obfuscating his face as best as it could. The physiotherapist’s house was a block away, what felt like an eternity. Head facing the pavement, he couldn’t see the looks of disgust, the looks of pity, the looks of shame.
A distant wailing pierced through the barriers he built up. As the sound faded away, the images arose from their slumber, assaulting his mind all at once. A collage of pictures, the fire truck, putting on his fireman overalls, the burning house, the wooden stairs collapsing under his weight, losing consciousness as the flames began to lap at his face.
He turned and knocked on the door, a young lady greeting him with a smile. As his head lifted, her smile began to crack at the edges, fading through pursed lips.
-
Their meetings grew more frequent. He slowly gained mobility in his arms and knees again. He sat on a padded bench while she stood in front, slowly extending his knee. Searing pains sliced through his lower body, accompanied by a sharp inhale. She looked him in the eyes as she stopped the movement. The sun reflected of her brunette hair, catching the edges of her sky blue eyes. A small smile crept into the edges of her mouth while she looked at him. The first person in the passing months that didn’t look at him and recoil in disgust.
-
The frequent trips continued, the judgmental stares in the street continued, the harsh whispers continued and the haphazard eye contact grew more frequent. He walked down the street to her house everyday, careful to always wear a hoodie. The windows, the windscreens and the mirrors followed in his shadow every time he left, waiting for an opportunity to remind him of the shell of a man he had become.
Yet she stood at the door every visit, no longer appalled by the repulsive knots of intricately merged flesh that made up the entirety of his face. I think removing "intricately" would make this sentence clearer. I understand the intricate nature of it, but to me, "merged flesh" is more potent! Always with a smile, a genuine smile stemming from sincere kindness. He knew she was doing it out of necessity, yet the butterflies emerged whenever the edges of her lips reached up for her cheeks. This is wonderful imagery of a smile - I have never come across it before. Magnificent!
-
The dim lighting in the bathroom dulled his features, the only hope for fostering a sense of self-confidence. He tightened the tie around his neck, the discoloured skin protesting against the soft fabric. The blazer felt foreign, grasping at the edges of his broad shoulders. With one last contemptible glance at himself in the mirror, he turned and left, grasping his pocket to make sure the movie ticket had not fallen out.
-
It was weird to start. He had associated her with pain, she always pushed him to stretch further and try harder. Now the physiotherapist stood in front of him, the movie had finished. The moonlight bounced across the trees, reflecting onto the wisps of her hair flowing in the cool midsummers breeze.
It was unnatural at first, but his lips began to creak and groan, working out the cobwebs of idleness. Curling at the edges, a smile began to cross his lips while he looked at her. An ephemeral gesture, the smile vanished as commotion broke out behind her. She turned, a reflective café tarp slowly drifted in the breeze, the moonlight emphasising his burn wounds. She turned around, his eyes had dropped to the floor.
He couldn’t comprehend why she was here. Was it out of pity? Was it out of a masochistic pleasure? He felt the breeze flow through his hair as a soft hand touched his jaw, beckoning him to lift his head.
She was there. She stood there, no other care in the world. He took it all in within a second, her soft features, the effulgence of the moon reflecting across her face, her sky blue eyes. Those two humble pools of water gazed up at him. She pulled him closer, his face centimetres from hers. Looking deep into her eyes, he saw the truth. She didn’t see his scars, she didn’t see the hideousness he knew, she only saw him.
Lips millimetres apart, they closed their eyes.
-
He had gained consciousness again, a swathe of sterile bandages wrapped around his face, and his arms, and his legs. Fading in and out of consciousness, a translucent tube spiralled downwards, obscured by the face of a surgeon looking him in the eyes. The surgeons head moved, a bright, fluorescent light piercing his eyes, encompassing his vision as his head rolled back. The imagery here is clear and crisp. I really enjoy this. Although your first paragraph works, this also has merit for the fact that the imagery isn't deep and complex, but really explicit.
-
He sat upright in the hospital bed, scissors slicing through the bandage obscuring his face, then the bandage on his arms, then the bandage on his legs. As the feathery dressings floated to the floor, he opened his eyes, raising his arm into vision. A charred husk of its former self, patches of skin missing, surrounded by glossy black scar tissue. The nurse handed him a hand mirror, walking out with her head facing the floor. His eyes traced her outline, returning to the mirror that had grown heavier in his hand. The face that returned his glance was not his own, an amalgamation of scars and burnt tissue, as if someone had painstakingly dripped red candle wax onto his face. He threw the mirror away in disgust. No major feedback here - I'm still following and I'm very engaged. I think the distinct breaks in the paragraphs work to make this very digestable!
Light drifted in through the window onto the shattered remnants of the mirror, catching a tear streaming down a man’s face, pooling in the shallow crevices hollowed out from his ghastly wounds. Something that has always stuck with me, that my own HSC teacher (also a HSC marker) taught me, is that the way people describe tears and crying is rarely original. Streaming down a face doesn't speak to me as being unique. This is such a small thing, of course. But I just want to let you know so that you have the opportunity to make this a particularly unique, stand out description, if you wanted to :)
-
He hobbled down the street, grey hoodie obfuscating his face as best as it could. The physiotherapist’s house was a block away, what felt like an eternity. Head facing the pavement, he couldn’t see the looks of disgust, the looks of pity, the looks of shame.
A distant wailing pierced through the barriers he built up. As the sound faded away, the images arose from their slumber, assaulting his mind all at once. A collage of pictures, the fire truck, putting on his fireman overalls, the burning house, the wooden stairs collapsing under his weight, losing consciousness as the flames began to lap at his face.
He turned and knocked on the door, a young lady greeting him with a smile. As his head lifted, her smile began to crack at the edges, fading through pursed lips.
-
Their meetings grew more frequent. He slowly gained mobility in his arms and knees again. He sat on a padded bench while she stood in front, slowly extending his knee. Searing pains sliced through his lower body, accompanied by a sharp inhale. She looked him in the eyes as she stopped the movement. The sun reflected of her brunette hair, catching the edges of her sky blue eyes. A small smile crept into the edges of her mouth while she looked at him. The first person in the passing months that didn’t look at him and recoil in disgust.
-
The frequent trips continued, the judgmental stares in the street continued, the harsh whispers continued and the haphazard eye contact grew more frequent. He walked down the street to her house everyday, careful to always wear a hoodie. The windows, the windscreens and the mirrors followed in his shadow every time he left, waiting for an opportunity to remind him of the shell of a man he had become.
Yet she stood at the door every visit, no longer appalled by the repulsive knots of intricately merged flesh that made up the entirety of his face. I think removing "intricately" would make this sentence clearer. I understand the intricate nature of it, but to me, "merged flesh" is more potent! Always with a smile, a genuine smile stemming from sincere kindness. He knew she was doing it out of necessity, yet the butterflies emerged whenever the edges of her lips reached up for her cheeks. This is wonderful imagery of a smile - I have never come across it before. Magnificent!
-
The dim lighting in the bathroom dulled his features, the only hope for fostering a sense of self-confidence. He tightened the tie around his neck, the discoloured skin protesting against the soft fabric. The blazer felt foreign, grasping at the edges of his broad shoulders. With one last contemptible glance at himself in the mirror, he turned and left, grasping his pocket to make sure the movie ticket had not fallen out.
-
It was weird to start. He had associated her with pain, she always pushed him to stretch further and try harder. Now the physiotherapist stood in front of him, the movie had finished. The moonlight bounced across the trees, reflecting onto the wisps of her hair flowing in the cool midsummers breeze.
It was unnatural at first, but his lips began to creak and groan, working out the cobwebs of idleness. Curling at the edges, a smile began to cross his lips while he looked at her. An ephemeral gesture, the smile vanished as commotion broke out behind her. She turned, a reflective café tarp slowly drifted in the breeze, the moonlight emphasising his burn wounds. She turned around, his eyes had dropped to the floor.
He couldn’t comprehend why she was here. Was it out of pity? Was it out of a masochistic pleasure? He felt the breeze flow through his hair as a soft hand touched his jaw, beckoning him to lift his head.
She was there. She stood there, no other care in the world. He took it all in within a second, her soft features, the effulgence of the moon reflecting across her face, her sky blue eyes. Those two humble pools of water gazed up at him. She pulled him closer, his face centimetres from hers. Looking deep into her eyes, he saw the truth. She didn’t see his scars, she didn’t see the hideousness he knew, she only saw him.
Lips millimetres apart, they closed their eyes.
Wow!
Your story is very simple in its plot, it's very delicate. Your story relies on being enhanced by strong imagery, which you also definitely excel at. However, if I take one thing away from this essay as an improvement, is the use of complicated vocabulary that seems like it is being used for the sake of it. Perhaps this is language you use daily and frequently, in which case, they will be harder for you to identify. There are a few words that stick out to me as being used in a way that actually limits the effectiveness of the total imagery. As I pointed out, miasma, somnolence, obfuscating, are a few I'm pointing out. The imagery is so gentle yet vivid, and these words just jar it, in my opinion.
The discovery is clear here. A spiritual and emotional discovery is made here, very clearly. There are also many other elements of the rubric, such as the unplanned nature, yet also, the planned nature, of discovery. You should be very pleased with this work.
For the sake of proposing a challenge, I'm wondering what you would do if your stimulus required you to talk specifically about a physical discovery. I think with a few tweaks, you could definitely do it. What do you think? Have a look through the rubric and pick out a few pieces, and then apply it to your piece. I think you're at a stage before trials where you have the time to do this, to ensure that your story is as adaptable as possible!
Congratulations on a great piece. I hope to hear back from you :)
Post by: Jimmy Barnes on June 10, 2016, 11:07:45 am
Post by: elysepopplewell on June 10, 2016, 01:34:48 pm
Thanks a tonne for the feedback, i appreciate it a lot and i'll be making a fair few edits then adapting it like you suggested
So glad to hear it! Can't wait to see what you come up with :)
Post by: abradley on June 11, 2016, 06:11:34 pm
I attended the ATAR Notes lecture at ICMS today and thought you were an amazing presenter with such useful and unique pieces of information. So thank you.
Anyway, I have a Discovery creative writing piece that I am struggling with and would absolutely love any feedback or suggestions you have to offer! I received 13/15 for it however am looking to make it better, particularly the conclusion.
Thank you so much
Alex
Post by: elysepopplewell on June 12, 2016, 09:54:23 pm
Hi Elyse
I attended the ATAR Notes lecture at ICMS today and thought you were an amazing presenter with such useful and unique pieces of information. So thank you.
Anyway, I have a Discovery creative writing piece that I am struggling with and would absolutely love any feedback or suggestions you have to offer! I received 13/15 for it however am looking to make it better, particularly the conclusion.
Thank you so much
Alex
Hi! I'm so glad you came along and enjoyed it, thank you so much for your kind words. It really means a lot to me!
I love that you received such a good mark but are looking to make it better still!
I'll definitely have a look now for you. Creative feedback is different to essay feedback in that I am likely to comment on areas of the text rather than specific sentences. You'll see what I mean :)
Your creative is in the spoiler here in its original form:
Spoiler
Fletcher the Flogger. Known throughout the fleet as “FF”- purposely hidden behind the cabin hatch- watched on sardonically as a fight between two cabin boys escalated to the point of bloodshed.
After years at sea, observing acts he considered unnatural, serving under a hierarchy that was rigid and resistant to change, FF had become what he once hated in others. A man with no empathy, a man with a short temper, and a man who relished power. The sea had been a hard master, totally indiscriminate. Short and stout, with a ruddy complexion, FF, ruled with authority based on fear. Step out of line and a brutal flogging would be pleasurably unleashed upon wayward sailor scum. As second in charge, every sailor was inferior to him, especially the blacks.
Fighting was not allowed on FF’s watch, but he still made a mental bet about the outcome of this fight. Either way, both would receive a twenty-five lashes. Ali, a crew member from North Africa, with few spoken words of English and skin as dark as night was considered the lowest of low aboard the vessel. Ali winced, as the other cabin boy tackled him, a clean shoulder-to-shoulder hit, arching his spine. Punch after punch. Ali slumped on to the planks of the lower deck bleeding, but conscious, the smell of iron and blood overwhelming the ship's usual fetid odour. Deserving. Wretched scum.
FF’s pleasure in Ali’s pain was interrupted by the raucous cry of a sailor---
“LAND! “Look! Over there!!” shouted the ship’s powder monkey, jerking “FF” back to reality. At last, there was the prospect of getting off this cursed ship if only for a short time. Turning starboard, he gazed out upon the horizon. It looked pleasant enough. Small trees at the edge of the coastline gave way to undulating hills covered in straggly growth interspersed with larger gums. Various species of birds wheeled overhead and plumes of white smoke presumably from cooking fires were evident along the river mouth. The land was red, angry almost, and the sun high above him created a haze which seemed to entrap the passion welling up out of a sun-baked earth. Apart from the birds, nothing moved in the oppressive heat. “FF” crossed himself, Limeys were not built for this kind of heat, he thought to himself, exhausted.
The Captain upon hearing the excitement roused his drunken mass onto the deck ordering a landing boat to be launched. “FF”, was to take command of the shore party and he quickly selected several crew members including the bruised Ali to man the oars. On command, the boat crew bent their backs. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. The wind seemed to whisper their goal- ‘ land, land, land’. After what seemed like eternity, the small boat grounded to a halt. Determined to be the first ashore, FF leapt out of the boat with unusual haste only to trip and gash his leg on a concealed rock. The crew muffled their delight. Pain thought FF - just an illusory sensation that his mind could shut down. Put it aside he told himself.
“Well…” muttered someone. The birds had stopped flying, the insects sought refuge elsewhere and even the leaves on the gum trees hung tired and limp. Three figures, their shapes distorted by the heat, appeared from the undergrowth and approached the party. “FF” noticed immediately that their skin was almost black. Barbarians! Naked except for a rudimentary cloth tied around their loins and carrying long spears. Keeping his pistol close, FF surveyed the blacks. His heart now hammering like a piston in his chest as the overwhelming sensation in his leg distracted him from the task at hand.
Beads of sweat dotted his lip and a murky haze of black clouded his senses. FF collapsed. A native stepped forwarded. Reaching into his pouch secured around his waist, he withdrew a bunch of leaves, herbs and unrecognisable dried objects, pressing it into the open gash on FF’s leg. The crew looked on mesmerized. After what seemed like an eternity, FF roused from his daze and the ache in his leg had all but ceased.
FF bowed his head in a gesture of thanks. A wide smile lit up the black face opposite him. Contact had been made, a dialogue was in progress. He was taken back; perhaps these primitive people knew more than he thought. As he caught the eye of Ali, and an almost imperceptible flash of understanding passed between them.
A fiery yellow orb of radiance slowly sank beneath the horizon, and threads of light lingered in the sky. The heat had dissipated and the clouds held the promise of a calm, serene night. For perhaps the first time in his life, FF felt an inner sense of peace. A simple act of kindness made my someone who expected nothing in return. Respect. Strangely enough he felt at home in this foreign land.
Looking out towards the HMS bobbing up and down just beyond the breakers FF considered that perhaps, deep down they were all the same. Maybe they were people with feelings, with pride, with aspirations. Maybe colour did not matter. Maybe language was unimportant. Maybe power was irrelevant.
Looking out towards the HMS bobbing up and down just beyond the breakers FF considered that perhaps, deep down they were all the same. Maybe they were people with feelings, with pride, with aspirations. Maybe colour did not matter. Maybe language was unimportant. Maybe power was irrelevant.
CONCLUSION (desperately needs work to make better—more show and less tell— highlighting FF’s individual discovery which forces him to re-evaluate his narrow world view and question his own morality- A simple act of kindness made by someone who expected nothing in return, transforms his attitude and serves to inspire him, discovering that he is capable of acceptance and respect.
Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated….
After years at sea, observing acts he considered unnatural, serving under a hierarchy that was rigid and resistant to change, FF had become what he once hated in others. A man with no empathy, a man with a short temper, and a man who relished power. The sea had been a hard master, totally indiscriminate. Short and stout, with a ruddy complexion, FF, ruled with authority based on fear. Step out of line and a brutal flogging would be pleasurably unleashed upon wayward sailor scum. As second in charge, every sailor was inferior to him, especially the blacks.
Fighting was not allowed on FF’s watch, but he still made a mental bet about the outcome of this fight. Either way, both would receive a twenty-five lashes. Ali, a crew member from North Africa, with few spoken words of English and skin as dark as night was considered the lowest of low aboard the vessel. Ali winced, as the other cabin boy tackled him, a clean shoulder-to-shoulder hit, arching his spine. Punch after punch. Ali slumped on to the planks of the lower deck bleeding, but conscious, the smell of iron and blood overwhelming the ship's usual fetid odour. Deserving. Wretched scum.
FF’s pleasure in Ali’s pain was interrupted by the raucous cry of a sailor---
“LAND! “Look! Over there!!” shouted the ship’s powder monkey, jerking “FF” back to reality. At last, there was the prospect of getting off this cursed ship if only for a short time. Turning starboard, he gazed out upon the horizon. It looked pleasant enough. Small trees at the edge of the coastline gave way to undulating hills covered in straggly growth interspersed with larger gums. Various species of birds wheeled overhead and plumes of white smoke presumably from cooking fires were evident along the river mouth. The land was red, angry almost, and the sun high above him created a haze which seemed to entrap the passion welling up out of a sun-baked earth. Apart from the birds, nothing moved in the oppressive heat. “FF” crossed himself, Limeys were not built for this kind of heat, he thought to himself, exhausted.
The Captain upon hearing the excitement roused his drunken mass onto the deck ordering a landing boat to be launched. “FF”, was to take command of the shore party and he quickly selected several crew members including the bruised Ali to man the oars. On command, the boat crew bent their backs. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. The wind seemed to whisper their goal- ‘ land, land, land’. After what seemed like eternity, the small boat grounded to a halt. Determined to be the first ashore, FF leapt out of the boat with unusual haste only to trip and gash his leg on a concealed rock. The crew muffled their delight. Pain thought FF - just an illusory sensation that his mind could shut down. Put it aside he told himself.
“Well…” muttered someone. The birds had stopped flying, the insects sought refuge elsewhere and even the leaves on the gum trees hung tired and limp. Three figures, their shapes distorted by the heat, appeared from the undergrowth and approached the party. “FF” noticed immediately that their skin was almost black. Barbarians! Naked except for a rudimentary cloth tied around their loins and carrying long spears. Keeping his pistol close, FF surveyed the blacks. His heart now hammering like a piston in his chest as the overwhelming sensation in his leg distracted him from the task at hand.
Beads of sweat dotted his lip and a murky haze of black clouded his senses. FF collapsed. A native stepped forwarded. Reaching into his pouch secured around his waist, he withdrew a bunch of leaves, herbs and unrecognisable dried objects, pressing it into the open gash on FF’s leg. The crew looked on mesmerized. After what seemed like an eternity, FF roused from his daze and the ache in his leg had all but ceased.
FF bowed his head in a gesture of thanks. A wide smile lit up the black face opposite him. Contact had been made, a dialogue was in progress. He was taken back; perhaps these primitive people knew more than he thought. As he caught the eye of Ali, and an almost imperceptible flash of understanding passed between them.
A fiery yellow orb of radiance slowly sank beneath the horizon, and threads of light lingered in the sky. The heat had dissipated and the clouds held the promise of a calm, serene night. For perhaps the first time in his life, FF felt an inner sense of peace. A simple act of kindness made my someone who expected nothing in return. Respect. Strangely enough he felt at home in this foreign land.
Looking out towards the HMS bobbing up and down just beyond the breakers FF considered that perhaps, deep down they were all the same. Maybe they were people with feelings, with pride, with aspirations. Maybe colour did not matter. Maybe language was unimportant. Maybe power was irrelevant.
Looking out towards the HMS bobbing up and down just beyond the breakers FF considered that perhaps, deep down they were all the same. Maybe they were people with feelings, with pride, with aspirations. Maybe colour did not matter. Maybe language was unimportant. Maybe power was irrelevant.
CONCLUSION (desperately needs work to make better—more show and less tell— highlighting FF’s individual discovery which forces him to re-evaluate his narrow world view and question his own morality- A simple act of kindness made by someone who expected nothing in return, transforms his attitude and serves to inspire him, discovering that he is capable of acceptance and respect.
Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated….
Here, I'll post your creative again, but with my own comments written in bold throughout:
Spoiler
Fletcher the Flogger. Known throughout the fleet as “FF”- purposely hidden behind the cabin hatch- watched on sardonically as a fight between two cabin boys escalated to the point of bloodshed. I've read a lot of creatives, and so far none have been set at sea. So this is original already!
After years at sea, observing acts he considered unnatural and serving under a hierarchy that was rigid and resistant to change, FF had become what he once hated in others. A man with no empathy, a man with a short temper, and a man who relished power. The sea had been a hard master, totally indiscriminate. Gives me chills this sentence! Short and stout, with a ruddy complexion, FF, ruled with authority based on fear. Step out of line and a brutal flogging would be pleasurably unleashed upon wayward sailor scum. As second in charge, every sailor was inferior to him, especially the blacks.
Fighting was not allowed on FF’s watch, but he still made a mental bet about the outcome of this fight. Either way, both would receive a twenty-five lashes. Ali, a crew member from North Africa, with few spoken words of English and skin as dark as night was considered the lowest of low aboard the vessel. Ali winced, as the other cabin boy tackled him, a clean shoulder-to-shoulder hit, arching his spine. Punch after punch. Ali slumped on to the planks of the lower deck bleeding, but conscious, the smell of iron and blood overwhelming the ship's usual fetid odour. Deserving. Wretched scum. Fetid works - but I think you can do more here. So far the ship is described to me as manly, difficult, hierarchical, etc. But I'm yet to taste the salt water or smell fish scales, and I really want you to flesh this out and bring that to life more. It doesn't have to be in this moment in the text, but when I read "fetid" it made me realise that I'm yet to be taking on a journey of sea sickness, of scurvy, of tinned tuna. Giving the text this extra layer consistently throughout has the potential to gain you a whole extra mark, I believe.
FF’s pleasure in Ali’s pain was interrupted by the raucous cry of a sailor---
“LAND! “Look! Over there!!” shouted the ship’s powder monkey, jerking “FF” back to reality. At last, there was the prospect of getting off this cursed ship if only for a short time. Turning starboard, he gazed out upon the horizon. It looked pleasant enough. Small trees at the edge of the coastline gave way to undulating hills covered in straggly growth interspersed with larger gums. Various species of birds wheeled overhead and plumes of white smoke presumably from cooking fires were evident along the river mouth. The land was red, angry almost, and the sun high above him created a haze which seemed to entrap the passion welling up out of a sun-baked earth. Apart from the birds, nothing moved in the oppressive heat. “FF” crossed himself, Limeys were not built for this kind of heat, he thought to himself, exhausted.
The Captain, (comma) upon hearing the excitement, (comma) roused his drunken mass onto the deck ordering a landing boat to be launched. “FF”, was to take command of the shore party and he quickly selected several crew members including the bruised Ali to man the oars. On command, the boat crew bent their backs. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. The wind seemed to whisper their goal- ‘ land, land, land’. Love this! After what seemed like eternity, the small boat grounded to a halt. Determined to be the first ashore, FF leapt out of the boat with unusual haste only to trip and gash his leg on aconcealed I think this could be a better description. Perhaps a rock covered in shells, with periwinkles, moss. These are the small opportunities that I think you should take to set the scene more. rock. The crew muffled their delight. Pain, comma thought FF, comma - just an illusory sensation that his mind could shut down. Put it aside he told himself. The second last sentence here is a little awkward, even with a comma splice. I didn't know the flow in which to read it.
“Well…” muttered someone. The birds had stopped flying, the insects sought refuge elsewhere and even the leaves on the gum trees hung tired and limp. Three figures, their shapes distorted by the heat, appeared from the undergrowth and approached the party. “FF” noticed immediately that their skin was almost black. Barbarians! Naked except for a rudimentary cloth tied around their loins and carrying long spears. Keeping his pistol close, FF surveyed the blacks. His heart now hammering like a piston in his chest as the overwhelming sensation in his leg distracted him from the task at hand.
Beads of sweat dotted his lip and a murky haze of black clouded his senses. FF collapsed. A native stepped forwarded. Reaching into his pouch secured around his waist, he withdrew a bunch of leaves, herbs and unrecognisable dried objects, pressing it into the open gash on FF’s leg. The crew looked on mesmerized. After what seemed like an eternity, FF roused from his daze and the ache in his leg had all but ceased.
FF bowed his head in a gesture of thanks. A wide smile lit up the black face opposite him. Contact had been made, a dialogue was in progress. He was taken back; perhaps these primitive Not sure about the word primitive here. Because as they are called primitive, they are being realised are not primitive in the same sentence. Consider adjusting :)people knew more than he thought. As he caught the eye of Ali, and an almost imperceptible flash of understanding passed between them.
A fiery yellow orb of radiance slowly sank beneath the horizon, and threads of light lingered in the sky. The heat had dissipated and the clouds held the promise of a calm, serene night. For perhaps the first time in his life, FF felt an inner sense of peace. A simple act of kindness made my someone who expected nothing in return. Respect. Strangely enough he felt at home in this foreign land.
Looking out towards the HMS bobbing up and down just beyond the breakers FF considered that perhaps, deep down they were all the same. Maybe they were people with feelings, with pride, with aspirations. Maybe colour did not matter. Maybe language was unimportant. Maybe power was irrelevant.
Looking out towards the HMS bobbing up and down just beyond the breakers FF considered that perhaps, deep down they were all the same. Maybe they were people with feelings, with pride, with aspirations. Maybe colour did not matter. Maybe language was unimportant. Maybe power was irrelevant.
CONCLUSION (desperately needs work to make better—more show and less tell— highlighting FF’s individual discovery which forces him to re-evaluate his narrow world view and question his own morality- A simple act of kindness made by someone who expected nothing in return, transforms his attitude and serves to inspire him, discovering that he is capable of acceptance and respect.
Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated….
After years at sea, observing acts he considered unnatural and serving under a hierarchy that was rigid and resistant to change, FF had become what he once hated in others. A man with no empathy, a man with a short temper, and a man who relished power. The sea had been a hard master, totally indiscriminate. Gives me chills this sentence! Short and stout, with a ruddy complexion, FF, ruled with authority based on fear. Step out of line and a brutal flogging would be pleasurably unleashed upon wayward sailor scum. As second in charge, every sailor was inferior to him, especially the blacks.
Fighting was not allowed on FF’s watch, but he still made a mental bet about the outcome of this fight. Either way, both would receive a twenty-five lashes. Ali, a crew member from North Africa, with few spoken words of English and skin as dark as night was considered the lowest of low aboard the vessel. Ali winced, as the other cabin boy tackled him, a clean shoulder-to-shoulder hit, arching his spine. Punch after punch. Ali slumped on to the planks of the lower deck bleeding, but conscious, the smell of iron and blood overwhelming the ship's usual fetid odour. Deserving. Wretched scum. Fetid works - but I think you can do more here. So far the ship is described to me as manly, difficult, hierarchical, etc. But I'm yet to taste the salt water or smell fish scales, and I really want you to flesh this out and bring that to life more. It doesn't have to be in this moment in the text, but when I read "fetid" it made me realise that I'm yet to be taking on a journey of sea sickness, of scurvy, of tinned tuna. Giving the text this extra layer consistently throughout has the potential to gain you a whole extra mark, I believe.
FF’s pleasure in Ali’s pain was interrupted by the raucous cry of a sailor---
“LAND! “Look! Over there!!” shouted the ship’s powder monkey, jerking “FF” back to reality. At last, there was the prospect of getting off this cursed ship if only for a short time. Turning starboard, he gazed out upon the horizon. It looked pleasant enough. Small trees at the edge of the coastline gave way to undulating hills covered in straggly growth interspersed with larger gums. Various species of birds wheeled overhead and plumes of white smoke presumably from cooking fires were evident along the river mouth. The land was red, angry almost, and the sun high above him created a haze which seemed to entrap the passion welling up out of a sun-baked earth. Apart from the birds, nothing moved in the oppressive heat. “FF” crossed himself, Limeys were not built for this kind of heat, he thought to himself, exhausted.
The Captain, (comma) upon hearing the excitement, (comma) roused his drunken mass onto the deck ordering a landing boat to be launched. “FF”, was to take command of the shore party and he quickly selected several crew members including the bruised Ali to man the oars. On command, the boat crew bent their backs. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. The wind seemed to whisper their goal- ‘ land, land, land’. Love this! After what seemed like eternity, the small boat grounded to a halt. Determined to be the first ashore, FF leapt out of the boat with unusual haste only to trip and gash his leg on a
“Well…” muttered someone. The birds had stopped flying, the insects sought refuge elsewhere and even the leaves on the gum trees hung tired and limp. Three figures, their shapes distorted by the heat, appeared from the undergrowth and approached the party. “FF” noticed immediately that their skin was almost black. Barbarians! Naked except for a rudimentary cloth tied around their loins and carrying long spears. Keeping his pistol close, FF surveyed the blacks. His heart now hammering like a piston in his chest as the overwhelming sensation in his leg distracted him from the task at hand.
Beads of sweat dotted his lip and a murky haze of black clouded his senses. FF collapsed. A native stepped forwarded. Reaching into his pouch secured around his waist, he withdrew a bunch of leaves, herbs and unrecognisable dried objects, pressing it into the open gash on FF’s leg. The crew looked on mesmerized. After what seemed like an eternity, FF roused from his daze and the ache in his leg had all but ceased.
FF bowed his head in a gesture of thanks. A wide smile lit up the black face opposite him. Contact had been made, a dialogue was in progress. He was taken back; perhaps these primitive Not sure about the word primitive here. Because as they are called primitive, they are being realised are not primitive in the same sentence. Consider adjusting :)people knew more than he thought. As he caught the eye of Ali, and an almost imperceptible flash of understanding passed between them.
A fiery yellow orb of radiance slowly sank beneath the horizon, and threads of light lingered in the sky. The heat had dissipated and the clouds held the promise of a calm, serene night. For perhaps the first time in his life, FF felt an inner sense of peace. A simple act of kindness made my someone who expected nothing in return. Respect. Strangely enough he felt at home in this foreign land.
Looking out towards the HMS bobbing up and down just beyond the breakers FF considered that perhaps, deep down they were all the same. Maybe they were people with feelings, with pride, with aspirations. Maybe colour did not matter. Maybe language was unimportant. Maybe power was irrelevant.
Looking out towards the HMS bobbing up and down just beyond the breakers FF considered that perhaps, deep down they were all the same. Maybe they were people with feelings, with pride, with aspirations. Maybe colour did not matter. Maybe language was unimportant. Maybe power was irrelevant.
CONCLUSION (desperately needs work to make better—more show and less tell— highlighting FF’s individual discovery which forces him to re-evaluate his narrow world view and question his own morality- A simple act of kindness made by someone who expected nothing in return, transforms his attitude and serves to inspire him, discovering that he is capable of acceptance and respect.
Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated….
Okay great work! Seriously! There are some sentences that stick out so wonderfully, but at the same time, the story is never trying too hard. I think one area of improvement is setting the sea scene more. I know the discovery happens on land, but the important imagery gives significance to the part of the story that sets the foundation for discovery. I think the conclusion could be a reflection on the values held so strictly at sea, and how irrelevant they are in this new world. How the sea was a master teacher - this could be turned into a bit of a moral metaphor. You could suggest that the sea is an indiscriminate force. By this, I mean, the sea surrounds all people everywhere, and FF had a considerable connection to it. Each person, no matter the colour of their skin, would get knocked around at sea the same, everyone bleeds red, everyone cries tears. The sea is indiscriminate, and perhaps people should be too. When This is just an idea floating in my head, perhaps you don't agree with it and thats fine, this is your creative work! I think this would tie nicely into the conclusion. I'm interested to know what you think? We can flesh this out more if you like.
Also, FF. It sticks out to me. When I read FF's, I am sorry to say I read it as an acronym for, "For F**k's sake!" Now, I don't suggest a marker would read it like this, but it read awkwardly for me. I wasn't sure whether to read it as "F F" or "Double F" in my head. This isn't something that necessarily needs to change, but I'm giving you a reader's impression. Perhaps it would work to refer to FF as Fletcher occasionally throughout, or Fletcher the Flogger. This is just to remind the reader what FF stands for, because it is revealed so early on.
The discovery is strong in this! Physical, ethnographical, emotional, spiritual, intellectual. It is all there! I don't think you'll have trouble adapting this to the rubric at all! You should be really proud :)
Let me know what you think about the conclusion! :)
Post by: abradley on June 14, 2016, 11:25:09 am
The sea as an 'indiscriminate force' is such a unique concept and I will definitely try and work this into my creative piece.
I totally understand what you mean about 'FF', it does read a bit strange. Anyway thank you again for taking the time to read this, it really helps and takes the stress off just a little bit :)
xx
Alex
Post by: elysepopplewell on June 14, 2016, 11:53:11 am
Thank you so much Elyse. Your feedback is so valuable and very much appreciated!!
The sea as an 'indiscriminate force' is such a unique concept and I will definitely try and work this into my creative piece.
I totally understand what you mean about 'FF', it does read a bit strange. Anyway thank you again for taking the time to read this, it really helps and takes the stress off just a little bit :)
xx
Alex
Not a problem at all! I'm super excited to see where you go with this. I'm very excited to know about the sea metaphor, if you choose to pursue that. It has a lot of potential. Be sure to check back in!
All the best :) :) :)
Elyse
Post by: jamonwindeyer on June 14, 2016, 11:29:59 pm
Post by: isabellabucceri1 on June 21, 2016, 06:35:36 pm
I put the kettle on to boil and walked over to the balcony, grasping onto the rusty umber railing as I began to study the city’s luminosity. I felt a giddy sensation running through my body as the wind stirred those few fine filaments of cloud against a completely unblemished background, almost hypnotic. A moment of absolute stillness…
A car’s incessant beeping disturbs my deep trance; the balcony began to feel smaller and smaller, almost claustrophobic.
I look over to the terraces and balconies of the top floors I once so adored, always filled with men wearing perfectly pressed blazers and women in elaborate and voluminous gowns, all draped in luxury while waiters would glide by with trays of attractively presented hors d'oeuvres.
Now, all that stood out was the pompous man who swirled his glass of claret in his capacious palm bragging about his new yacht, how the guest’s fake laughs would muffle the distasteful music, how the wine flowed and so too did their pretentious anecdotes, and how the phony small talk slowly became utterly unendurable.
I looked above to the authentically elegant Japanese restaurant I once admired, with its distinctive yet subtle aroma of miso soup that lingered in the air, its ambience of dim lighting, classical interior and quite lounge music, kimono garbed waitresses placing warm disposable towels in a sealed plastic container and bamboo chopsticks to each table.
Now, all that stood out was the nauseating pretentious customers who all arched their backs, locked their eyes and swiped their fingers mindlessly absorbed in their phones, as their moments of laughter were instantly whipped away as soon as the shutter of the lens was heard.
I looked further up, to the once laudable sight of hopeful hardworking men and women, keenly typing away at their computers, full of energy as they eagerly answer customer calls with pleasant and attentive expressions.
Now all that stood out was the dull scene of a spacious office occupied by employees all wearing the same basic black or blue shirts sitting at desks in long rows. All weary of the long night, some on jittery highs while sipping their coffees, others struggling to keep both eyes open. Their lofty boss, with a certain austerity to him, walked through the aisles, expeditiously they would begin adjusting their jackets, brushing away their in-n-out burger wrappings, and straightening their hunched backs.
The whistle of the kettle broke into my thoughts ….
A sudden hesitation shook my body, stepping back, and walking inside to be seated again at my barren desk to view the stark solid, inert, strips of white paper that still sits before me. The only movement I can make now is a circular motion at my temples to ease this oncoming headache, the absence of creativity is forming an aura of bleakness around me. my mind suddenly panics as I look at the clock, only to realize It’s been 8 hours… 8 long hours…. even the greatest amount of coffee can’t keep me awake for much longer
My mind slowly drifts into the unconsciousness, uncontrollably sinking into a lucid dream.
I find myself crossing the Eighth Avenue up at 81st street and walking into central park, such a place to leave the pulse of the city so decisively, and step away abruptly from one of the big avenues and be among these trees. My mind switched scenes, placing me on a red bench facing a small pond with a picturesque arching bridge, there to my right five or six ducks swam languidly in the foreground, their delicate forward glide appeared to take nothing from them, concealing completely what I knew to be the arduous paddling going on in the water, a father and his son firmly manoeuvring their rowboats, while the shadow of dragonflies reflected in the water… a timeless shot of a midsummer afternoon
I was awakening to the subtle dimensions of reality, an authentic feeling of moving beyond limited thinking, beyond lethal censorship…. completely liberated me, it felt as if the rains had finally come, stirring up life in the dry land. It wasn’t a voice saying you are ready to write nor was it an idea or a full-blown image, it was very nearly nothing, the tick of creativity held hidden in what I suddenly discovered was a mere cleanse of my mind.
I was touched in the core of my reverie by one of those unaccountable inner shifts……
Waking up in a sweat, I frantically began searching for my coveted mustard coloured pen, as a yearning tingle ran through my mind, like a certain magic was twitching my hands with an urgency to write. A euphoric sensation infused every part of my body, as words began flowing through my pen.
Like a guiding light, my writing moves me through the path, the way back is made of reflection
Post by: jamonwindeyer on June 21, 2016, 09:35:20 pm
Hello! I am doing Esl English and struggling to write a good creative writing. Can you please read over my creative and tell me how to improve? Any feedback would be excellent. Thanks! :)
Hey Kimmie! Sorry for the delay in getting some feedback for you, the markers have had university exams the last few days, busy times!! Your creative is attached with some comments throughout:
Spoiler
Imagine an event where a person makes an unexpected discovery. Write a diary entry which explores his or her response to this discovery.
It was the day the chipping of her usual melodic voice begin to change to melancholia, I forced myself not to believe it, but as the day walks by, it was heaving closer. Darkness closed upon me like the shutting of an eye, wrapped about me in a stifling embrace. I like the tone you are creating here, and great use of simile! I never expected that a time would come that she would leave. She was the only one I had here. I feel like a paragraph break would serve you well here, since you shift into a new idea! I would never forget the day at the Airport. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, but my throat was as empty and dry like the African desert. I tried so hard to hide the pains but it was so obvious. My life and my world totally changed. The hardest part was when she walked away through the door. I heard a voice saying, ‘this is it’. ‘This is the end’. My eyes were drowning with tears; she was trying to make me believe it would be fine but she couldn’t help her emotions either. Excellent mood created in this opening paragraph, very effective imagery. A few little syntax errors though, be careful!
I had no other choice but to move states, I had to move so I could be supported. A totally different place. I had to conform to the new lifestyle and a different educational system. I'd like to see a little more show, a little less tell. Show me how the lifestyle has changed with some real experiences and examples! Show, don't tell! Any time I go home I felt some part of me was missing. I had to live with him and his wife. Living with her was like being in the forest with a wild lion. I was drowned in anxiety and depression each day. The acceptance of the reality was impossible. First day of school was agonizing; the building was huge as a castle. I really like the figurative language, but be careful not to overdo it with the similes; there has been quite a few in a short period of time. Maybe vary it up a little! It felt like being surrounded by totally different creatures. I felt isolated from the world. It was the largest school I’d ever attended. Within the first year, I struggled academically as the level of learning was different. In the second year, that is when I started seeing the potential in me, and I started using the pain as a motivation to study. Anytime that woman would condemn me, I felt stronger, I began to realised that I am the only one to redeem myself from this slavery. I believed that education was the only key to success and the only way to redeem myself and bring her back. That is when I discovered that in life everything happens for a purpose. If I was still there, I wouldn’t have gotten the education she and I wanted, I would have depended on her and I would have never have gotten stronger. Those experiences made me stronger and make me realised that those big dreams were possible to achieve.
In life we should be grateful for the challenges we face as you don’t know what it will bring tomorrow. ‘The pain you feel today could be your strength tomorrow’ Nice way to bring it home.
It was the day the chipping of her usual melodic voice begin to change to melancholia, I forced myself not to believe it, but as the day walks by, it was heaving closer. Darkness closed upon me like the shutting of an eye, wrapped about me in a stifling embrace. I like the tone you are creating here, and great use of simile! I never expected that a time would come that she would leave. She was the only one I had here. I feel like a paragraph break would serve you well here, since you shift into a new idea! I would never forget the day at the Airport. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, but my throat was as empty and dry like the African desert. I tried so hard to hide the pains but it was so obvious. My life and my world totally changed. The hardest part was when she walked away through the door. I heard a voice saying, ‘this is it’. ‘This is the end’. My eyes were drowning with tears; she was trying to make me believe it would be fine but she couldn’t help her emotions either. Excellent mood created in this opening paragraph, very effective imagery. A few little syntax errors though, be careful!
I had no other choice but to move states, I had to move so I could be supported. A totally different place. I had to conform to the new lifestyle and a different educational system. I'd like to see a little more show, a little less tell. Show me how the lifestyle has changed with some real experiences and examples! Show, don't tell! Any time I go home I felt some part of me was missing. I had to live with him and his wife. Living with her was like being in the forest with a wild lion. I was drowned in anxiety and depression each day. The acceptance of the reality was impossible. First day of school was agonizing; the building was huge as a castle. I really like the figurative language, but be careful not to overdo it with the similes; there has been quite a few in a short period of time. Maybe vary it up a little! It felt like being surrounded by totally different creatures. I felt isolated from the world. It was the largest school I’d ever attended. Within the first year, I struggled academically as the level of learning was different. In the second year, that is when I started seeing the potential in me, and I started using the pain as a motivation to study. Anytime that woman would condemn me, I felt stronger, I began to realised that I am the only one to redeem myself from this slavery. I believed that education was the only key to success and the only way to redeem myself and bring her back. That is when I discovered that in life everything happens for a purpose. If I was still there, I wouldn’t have gotten the education she and I wanted, I would have depended on her and I would have never have gotten stronger. Those experiences made me stronger and make me realised that those big dreams were possible to achieve.
In life we should be grateful for the challenges we face as you don’t know what it will bring tomorrow. ‘The pain you feel today could be your strength tomorrow’ Nice way to bring it home.
I really like the idea of this creative! It's short, but it packs a punch and works quite well! A very nice, aggressive-ish tone created and this complements quite nicely.
My big piece of feedback would be to adapt your writing style to the diary entry style a little bit more. Add a "Dear Diary," at the start, make the language a little bit more personal, a little bit more free flow (longer sentences, less figurative language and more description) to really suit that text type. Addressing the question in that way would be a great improvement, and might also make the plot a little clearer ;D
My other piece of feedback would be, show don't tell. Instead of telling me, "I was drowned in anxiety and depression each day," give me some experiences that show this ("I would lock myself in my room and let the ringing of the radio drown out my disgusting sobs and choking cries.") See how there I SHOWED you depression, I didn't have to tell you the character was depressed, you just know. Work on doing this a little more throughout your response.
That said, this creative is cool! It sets a really great tone and has a great premise, a little work on meeting the question style, and perhaps being a little more descriptive, would make it even better ;D great work Kimmie!! ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on June 21, 2016, 09:40:54 pm
Compose a piece of imaginative writing which explores how an unexpected discovery can transform an individual.
...
Hey there Isabella! Welcome to the forums and thanks for posting!! ;D
Unfortunately, we can only give you one piece of feedback for every 5 ATAR Notes posts you make (full rules for essay marking available here)! This is to ensure that we can keep the service accessible for the active members of the ATAR Notes community. So, you just need to hang around a bit to get a few more posts! You might want to start by introducing yourself in our Discussion Thread! Besides that, hang around, ask some questions, give some ideas of ways you study, and then send me a PM or post again in this thread to let me know when you hit the threshold!
Post by: isabel_lorenz1 on June 27, 2016, 07:56:53 am
She gazed at her two girls whilst they occupied themselves in the backyard. One was ever so Sunkist and blessed with lengthy limbs whilst the other secretly fumed in envy. Applying her routine makeup was accompanied by ocean views that matched her Tahitian blue eyes – her life seemed perfect.
As their father’s matte black Jeep rolled in the driveway, the siblings flocked inside to say hello to their daddy.
‘New hair darling, I like it’, the businessman whispered as he struck her glossy lips and grabbed her size 0 waist.
She radiated rays of joy; surprised her $450 new locks even caught his paltry attention span. He went on to bombard his children with smooches before slipping into his VB singlet and thongs as he impatiently waited for his wife’s Beef Stroganoff.
Once dinner had been served and the father crashed next to his empty beer bottle, the children flocked to their mother’s lap on the leather sofa.
‘Mummy, what’s that thing on your chest’, Penelope wondered.
‘oh darling, it was your father’s first gift to me when we met at the Debutante Ball’, tussling her diamond encrusted chest.
She went on to stress that if her pretty daughter continued to uphold a sweet image and learnt how to be a devoted housewife, she’d find someone,
‘Just as gorgeous and affectionate as your dad’, plaiting her daughter’s thick golden mane.
‘Where’s Candice’, Penny asked as her mother continued to style her hair.
She finally looked around to see where her chubby and less aesthetically appealing daughter was, unsurprised to catch her glaring at gleaming white lights.
‘Candice, we just ate’, her voice elevated, before whispering under her breath,
‘Gosh that girl can eat’.
Penny and her mother laughed as their stumpy family member retreated from the fridge to her room.
Penny continued to jump around the living room and her mothers back until a loud screech ruptured.
‘MUMMYYY, what’s that all over your back’
She jumped in shock assuming some freakish 8-legged creature was strangling her backside.
‘What is it darling????’ she exclaimed in fear
‘All that fat on your back mummy I’ve never seen it before’, Penny naively replied.
Suffocated by shame, she became resentful by her daughter’s acknowledgement of her weight gain. She was in awe that her once toned and trimmed body had become the victim of blossoming love handles. Waves of confusion penetrated her mind, as she could not fathom why her low-carb diet in conjunction with her vigorous paving of the pavement had not assisted her. As she store at the mirror, tears were shed for her deterring self-confidence.
She needed answers.
‘Miss Bianca Wheeler’, the tall, luscious blonde nurse inquired.
Bianca, wearing what felt like maternity gear compared to the bodice dresses she typically donned followed the nurse.
‘Your test results came through, we know the reason for your rapid weight gain’
Bianca’s eyes fell like tree during a super storm, her heels began to click quicker than her pounding heart, she rubbed my silver texture in panic.
The nurse persevered with the heart wrenching news,
‘Unfortunately, you have been diagnosed with ‘Cashmere disease’,
Bianca’s neck felt like a convulsing tremor line.
‘The unpreventable weight gain can be attributed to this rare autoimmune condition which currently, has no cure’
Her heart broke. Looking at her growing legs, she waved goodbye to her favourite miniskirt. Once an embodiment of self-confident and beauty, she couldn’t brave the harsh lighting of her bathroom or a glimpse of her reflection. How could she tell her husband?
As time grew, so did her waistline. Lacking energy to get out of bed and play sandcastles on the beach with her girls, and attend fancy dinner dates with her husband, tore the family sideways. She had to quit her job as an accomplished secretary as she couldn’t bear the frequent acknowledgements of her rapid weight gain and inflammation. The only place she felt warmth and tenderness
was at the local cinemas on a Tuesday afternoon. She felt unjudged here, watching the sheer beauty of the actresses who captured the hearts of their male counterparts. She was constantly reminded of the romance her thyroid condition robbed her off, forcing her to sleep in another bed. She didn’t receive hourly messages of affection like before. She didn’t know her purpose anymore.
Returning home to find her husband’s early arrival, his anger was apparent.
‘I told you to have the house cleaned for tonight, what the f*** have you been doing for the last 3 hours’
Flustered in awkwardness, she quickly tried to lick the buttery smear off her mouth. She reeked of popcorn. He scanned his former beauty queen from top to bottom and struggled to come to terms with her physicality.
‘Bianca, I think it’ll be better if you go to the holiday house over the weekend’
Her temperature rising, cheekbones throttling, she wrestled with her impending tears.
‘Take the kids as well’
She took a lengthy, focused look at these surroundings for the last time.
Bianca raffled with me, stormed out of the house with her kids and reversed out of her Peugeot, which was becoming a squeeze.
Candice sprinted to her mum, with her big brown eyes sparkling as she squealed
‘Mummy, I still love you forever’
A cold shiver rushed through her spine, her veins engulfed in shallowness and vanity began to shrivel as she lengthened her swollen arms for a family hug.
‘and, mummy will ALWAYS love you, no matter what Candy’, she warmly grappled her second daughter that she had neglected for so long. Her seemingly regretful eyes began to whimper as she realised. Entrenched in layers of thick clothing to hide her apparent flaws, her sweaty and heated body was breathless. She took her jet-black sweater off and resurged in confidence.
‘I may have put on a few pounds, but I have raised two beautiful girls, have a 6 year university degree and a well-paying job and I can run a house’, she whispered to herself, afraid her children would hear.
‘Mummy, we don’t need daddy’, Penny exulted, adding
‘All he does is come home from work and go to sleep anyways’
Bianca cackled, mesmerised that her vanity and infatuation with a socially superior man had not rubbed off on her children.
She looked down at me once more, rolled her eyes repeatedly before speeding towards the highway to go to her parent’s house. As she paused at a red light, she tore my fragile self off her neck as I caught a glimpse of cold air. Bianca roared in excitement as she removed all connections to the man who robbed her of her individuality. She played the country station louder as she turned left onto the Castlereagh Highway. Shock appeared on her face as my body sat on the bed of her window. She tapped me repeatedly and suddenly I felt the cold of the highway ground.
‘Mummy, where we going’, Penelope asked as the sound of the Peugeot become increasingly distal.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on June 27, 2016, 03:18:54 pm
Shallow Living.
...
Hey there Isabel! Welcome to the forums and thanks for posting!! ;D
Unfortunately, we can only give you one piece of feedback for every 5 ATAR Notes posts you make (full rules for essay marking available here)! This is to ensure that we can keep the service accessible for the active members of the ATAR Notes community. You are only two posts off! So, you just need to hang around a bit to get a few more posts! You might want to start by introducing yourself in our Discussion Thread! Besides that, hang around, ask some questions, give some ideas of ways you study, and then send me a PM or post again in this thread to let me know when you hit the threshold!
Post by: brontem on June 27, 2016, 08:55:01 pm
(btw let me know if I don't have enough posts or something?? I'm not too sure what's going on haha)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on June 27, 2016, 11:57:30 pm
Hey!! :) I handed in my creative which we collaborated on (thank you btw) and I gave it in to my teacher and I've got it back.. The only problem is I am really stuck now!! ??? There's a few words/sentences which have been changed around to match up with what my teacher said but in terms of plot/structure/discovery/etc I don't have a clue :-\. I've attached it again with teachers comments at the bottom in red, and I don't exactly need it marked this time around, but I just need some direction. Thank you so much!! :D
(btw let me know if I don't have enough posts or something?? I'm not too sure what's going on haha)
Hey Brontem! You are all sweet. The new rules are a tad different aha, but basically, if you post 5 times you get an essay marked. If you want an easy guideline, post once a day throughout the week, then get an essay marked every weekend. Something like that ;D
So, some direction for your creative! Let me chat about each piece of feedback in turn:
1. At times you push too hard with excessive descriptions – try to have more variation with some sections quite bare or listing/stream of consciousness, short 1 or 2 word sentences or paragraphs etc.
I mentioned this in some of my feedback and so I agree with this. Basically, descriptions are fabulous, but when it is constant description it becomes laborious for the reader. Same for over-use of techniques like pathetic fallacy.
Have you ever written in a diary/blog? You don't describe a whole lot, you just let thoughts spill onto the page. This is what your story would benefit from to break things up!
I was given a cool piece of advice about this once, because I used to (and probably still do) often have the same issue. Go through each paragraph and, unless you think it REALLY needs to be there, take out an adjective. It just de-fluffs your writing a bit. By no means a hard and fast rule, but it might be worth a go for you! Other than this, try not to include descriptive sentences unless you, as the author, can justify why you are bothering to describe it. If you can't come up with an idea about Discovery that you are developing through that description, then you can consider removing it!
Surprise the reader with something unexpected
Hmm, perhaps we can look at a bit of a plot twist somewhere. I don't personally think this is absolutely necessary, but doing something different will definitely help you stand out amongst the sea of responses that little bit more! Are there any ideas you have been playing with that might add a bit of zing to the story? Unexpected twists?
The other option here is an unconventional structural feature. Two suggestions:
- Flashbacks: These can be cool way to show development of relationships over time (and thus, for you, discoveries). Perhaps flashback to before the revelation? Take a near identical situation (like the dinner table), one before the revelation, one after? Write using very similar sentence structures, but just different words (kind of like the same song but different lyrics)
- Alternate Narrator/Subjects: You could also look at swapping to the son's point of view. Perhaps the unexpected thing for a reader is that the son knew all along, and goes to live with his biological father after trying so hard to show is paternal father that he still loved him? Or something, but this could be something to explore ;D
Reasonable discovery concept but what does he discover about himself?
Basically it seems that your teacher feels the discovery of self could be accentuated a little more, or be a little more concrete. I think this would just involve playing with the ending sequence somewhat, accentuating some specific aspect of the Father's personality that has been altered or changed. I think handling this should come after handling the prior two points, because adjusting the story could adjust this too ;D
I hope this little rant gave you a few ideas!! Once you've had a bit more of a play with it definitely post it again for another mark!! I will definitely get Elyse to look at the next one, I think this is due for a fresh set of eyes and some new ideas and perspectives.
In saying that, you are in the upper range now (mid B range is 11 or 12 out of 15), and it won't take much more work to get it even higher!! You should be so happy with the work you've put in, getting marks in the 12+ range for creatives is bloody hard, and this is a fantastic piece. Great work! ;D
Post by: shazzzzzz on July 04, 2016, 12:28:21 pm
You just have to mark the second creative writing but I've attached the original, just for reference.
Thank you so much!!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 05, 2016, 07:29:30 am
Hey there! So this is my discovery creative writing, it was originally written as a hand in so I went a little overboard with the word amount, I got full marks on it however I knew I couldn't write the original story in 40 minutes so I have another version which I've cut down to a word amount which I can write in 40 minutes so could you mark the second version and tell me if I've cut out too much and I've made it worse or if it's still a good story, where I could improve etc.
You just have to mark the second creative writing but I've attached the original, just for reference.
Thank you so much!!
Hey there! Totally cool - can do this for you!
Here is your creative without any of my own comments:
Spoiler
SOLDIER, SOLDIER
The declaration of war had been abrupt, a small land locked country no one had noticed, was named the enemy. There were no previous hostilities, no past wrongs, nothing that warned of an oncoming conflict. She remembered seeing images of the nation’s landscape in a picture book she read as a child, mountain peaks lined the horizon while wild flowers painted the ground yellow. The land was home to three hundred farmers, five hundred chickens and eighty horses. A fact she could not ignore when she enlisted was before the war the enemy had listed foxes as the biggest threat.
The announcement of the war was a day etched into the minds of all that heard it. Each report of the conflict was accompanied by the same image; a bulb headed creature bound in bleached skin whose eyes held nothing. There was no one who hadn’t seen the image, no one who wasn’t disturbed to their very core. The President of her country was the first to make the crisis public; he was a lanky man, whose most defining feature was that he didn’t have one. He revealed that foreign representatives had investigated the neighbouring country and discovered an infestation of aliens. The creature’s violent behaviour endangered them all. They would not respond to diplomacy, hope of peaceful negotiations were non-existent.
The war consumed them all. Every citizen of her country was forced to know who the enemy was. Or rather what they were. Children could even recite the physiological weakness of the enemy and if asked could describe how to kill one, a six inch stab to the gut without mercy .A nursery rhyme had been introduced describing the process to kill, she sang it at school. Cartoons glorified the war; the desire to enlist began with the children, with her. Animosity towards the enemy seeped out of every corner, eventually the whole country overflowed with hatred. Rumours floated that the war was a government creation to distract the country from debt; others believed it was a front to disguise a failing Presidents grab at power.
When the initial attack was made, it was her side that launched the first rockets. Justification of the act was never disclosed. What was given was a well worded speech by the President, made to spur the patriotism of the citizens. The words of the most powerful man of her country had weaved around her heart; she was convinced the enemy was beyond hope. She was twelve years old when she decided the military was her future. She wanted to fight, she wanted to protect. Later she realised the speech was simply propaganda, a response crafted to fool the masses, to fool her.
The enlistment forms had come to her home on her twentieth birthday. Her father congratulated her, her mother had cried tears of joy; she had brought honour to the family, it was a privilege to enlist. The training consisted solely of offence manoeuvres, defence was not an option. The belief of killed or be killed was hammered home. Her theory lessons taught her the deceptive nature of the enemy and how if need be they could disguise themselves as humans. She had excelled in all areas of the training with the prospect of a very distinguished future ahead of her.
Her deployment to the front lines of the war had not only reinforced but strengthened her resolution to guard her country. The first day on the enemy’s land had been filled with introductions; the highest authority at the base was General Rogers, a broad shouldered man whose facial hair resembled the end of a broom. He was an intimidating man with a presence that demanded respect whose loyalty to the sovereign was as infamous as his hatred for the enemy. The first task she was assigned was patrol of the field and if she were to locate an enemy target she was to, in the words of the General, ‘gut them like a fish’.
The enemy’s land was in one word, disfigured. The familiar images of the place she recalled from her childhood books were not gone but rather they weren’t the same. The jagged points of the mountains looked more like broken noses while the wild flowers grew erratically across the bombed earth. As she lurked through the field, inspecting every detail she breathed in the air that was sulphurous, heavy with the remains of the war. The trees stood tall but leafless with the rusted cars and abandoned homes stark against the horizon.
The stillness of the land was unsettling but it was the slight shake of a bush in the corner of her eye that caught her attention. She moved closer to the shrubbery with each step the grip on her combat knife tightened. A part of her wanted to believe it was just another soldier but she knew she was the only one there. With reluctance, in one swift movement she had positioned herself facing whatever was behind the bush in combat stance, she was ready to kill.
Below her a feeble man trembled by her feet, he was small with his skin forced to stretch over his protruding bones. His hands were covered in scars while his eyes sagged; they held a pain she could not understand. As he shook from fear, her eyebrows furrowed and she stepped back, the man was not what she expected. Her training had never covered encountering a human who wasn’t a soldier on the field. When the man realised he had not been attacked yet he looked up, meeting her eyes and he spoke, albeit in a language she could not decipher. His voice was coarse and sounded to her like rocks being ground up.
With every noise he made, she felt her chest get tighter and her legs becoming weaker, she was scared. This wasn’t supposed to happen; this wasn’t what she was supposed to do. She was to destroy the enemy, to come back home and be a hero. She couldn’t destroy a man whose only belonging was the emotional baggage he carried, she couldn’t kill him. And that’s when it clicked. Of course the enemy wouldn’t attack in their true forms; it’d be too easy for her to kill them. They slither into the field disguised as humans and like grubs burrow into one’s mind, convincing other’s to pity them, to let their guard down and then they strike.
She watched the man with knife in hand, the longer she waited the clearer his voice became and as he rose to his feet so did his confidence. Each step he took was one thought out carefully. The hold on her weapon was as steady as the oak tree behind her but her heart waivered like the single leaf that adorned it. Her breaths hitched with every movement he made and as he got closer she was deafened by the thumping of her own heart. A loud cry from the man ripped her away from her thoughts; in the few moments she had looked away from him, he had become hysterical.
The man cried out incomprehensible words, stumbling forward with desperation draping over him like an ill fitted coat. He reached into his pocket and the lone thought that remained in her mind was ‘weapon’. She stabbed the man in his abdomen, disgust had overcome her not because she had stolen a life but rather she had enjoyed the act. The sensation of pulling the knife out of the man’s stomach left a gratifying feeling in her chest. She let the man’s body hit the floor and waited for it to gradually deflate. The enemy, as she had learnt from her training, were beings made of intricate systems of gas encased in a thin skin that if punctured would result in the unavoidable consequence of death.
The man lay still on the floor; she stood over him and waited for the gas to escape but a red liquid slowly poured out of him instead, it was blood. This didn`t make sense, the enemy had no such thing in their bodies, when the enemy is stabbed they deflate; this was what she was taught, this was what she learnt. The calm that had come over her had quickly receded and she saw one thing only, the blood on her hands. Her mind scrambled for some explanation, her thoughts wandered to dark places; was the man human? Was the enemy human? Were the rumours true? No, they couldn’t be, she couldn’t let them be.
A murmuring sound drifted in her ears and her eyes darted towards the man, he was alive, barely. She moved closer to him, his hand moved out of his pocket and he held a picture towards his face, it was of him and a child. She heard a single word being repeated, Saira and as tears fall down his face he draws his last breath. A black hole appears in her chest, where her heart used to be and she feels all the joy she had once felt drain out of her. In big, bold, bright letters, the word ‘regret’ stands alone in her mind.
She looked towards the sky and screamed, as if she were questioning the powers of the universe, asking them what she had done to provoke such pain, asking what he had done to deserve such a fate. Her questions went unanswered. She wasn’t the same girl she was in the morning, in just an hour she felt she had aged. She stood up and walked deeper into the woods, she could longer fight in the war; she could no longer fight the enemy if they were as human as she was.
It’s easy if they're faceless, to hate the other side.
The declaration of war had been abrupt, a small land locked country no one had noticed, was named the enemy. There were no previous hostilities, no past wrongs, nothing that warned of an oncoming conflict. She remembered seeing images of the nation’s landscape in a picture book she read as a child, mountain peaks lined the horizon while wild flowers painted the ground yellow. The land was home to three hundred farmers, five hundred chickens and eighty horses. A fact she could not ignore when she enlisted was before the war the enemy had listed foxes as the biggest threat.
The announcement of the war was a day etched into the minds of all that heard it. Each report of the conflict was accompanied by the same image; a bulb headed creature bound in bleached skin whose eyes held nothing. There was no one who hadn’t seen the image, no one who wasn’t disturbed to their very core. The President of her country was the first to make the crisis public; he was a lanky man, whose most defining feature was that he didn’t have one. He revealed that foreign representatives had investigated the neighbouring country and discovered an infestation of aliens. The creature’s violent behaviour endangered them all. They would not respond to diplomacy, hope of peaceful negotiations were non-existent.
The war consumed them all. Every citizen of her country was forced to know who the enemy was. Or rather what they were. Children could even recite the physiological weakness of the enemy and if asked could describe how to kill one, a six inch stab to the gut without mercy .A nursery rhyme had been introduced describing the process to kill, she sang it at school. Cartoons glorified the war; the desire to enlist began with the children, with her. Animosity towards the enemy seeped out of every corner, eventually the whole country overflowed with hatred. Rumours floated that the war was a government creation to distract the country from debt; others believed it was a front to disguise a failing Presidents grab at power.
When the initial attack was made, it was her side that launched the first rockets. Justification of the act was never disclosed. What was given was a well worded speech by the President, made to spur the patriotism of the citizens. The words of the most powerful man of her country had weaved around her heart; she was convinced the enemy was beyond hope. She was twelve years old when she decided the military was her future. She wanted to fight, she wanted to protect. Later she realised the speech was simply propaganda, a response crafted to fool the masses, to fool her.
The enlistment forms had come to her home on her twentieth birthday. Her father congratulated her, her mother had cried tears of joy; she had brought honour to the family, it was a privilege to enlist. The training consisted solely of offence manoeuvres, defence was not an option. The belief of killed or be killed was hammered home. Her theory lessons taught her the deceptive nature of the enemy and how if need be they could disguise themselves as humans. She had excelled in all areas of the training with the prospect of a very distinguished future ahead of her.
Her deployment to the front lines of the war had not only reinforced but strengthened her resolution to guard her country. The first day on the enemy’s land had been filled with introductions; the highest authority at the base was General Rogers, a broad shouldered man whose facial hair resembled the end of a broom. He was an intimidating man with a presence that demanded respect whose loyalty to the sovereign was as infamous as his hatred for the enemy. The first task she was assigned was patrol of the field and if she were to locate an enemy target she was to, in the words of the General, ‘gut them like a fish’.
The enemy’s land was in one word, disfigured. The familiar images of the place she recalled from her childhood books were not gone but rather they weren’t the same. The jagged points of the mountains looked more like broken noses while the wild flowers grew erratically across the bombed earth. As she lurked through the field, inspecting every detail she breathed in the air that was sulphurous, heavy with the remains of the war. The trees stood tall but leafless with the rusted cars and abandoned homes stark against the horizon.
The stillness of the land was unsettling but it was the slight shake of a bush in the corner of her eye that caught her attention. She moved closer to the shrubbery with each step the grip on her combat knife tightened. A part of her wanted to believe it was just another soldier but she knew she was the only one there. With reluctance, in one swift movement she had positioned herself facing whatever was behind the bush in combat stance, she was ready to kill.
Below her a feeble man trembled by her feet, he was small with his skin forced to stretch over his protruding bones. His hands were covered in scars while his eyes sagged; they held a pain she could not understand. As he shook from fear, her eyebrows furrowed and she stepped back, the man was not what she expected. Her training had never covered encountering a human who wasn’t a soldier on the field. When the man realised he had not been attacked yet he looked up, meeting her eyes and he spoke, albeit in a language she could not decipher. His voice was coarse and sounded to her like rocks being ground up.
With every noise he made, she felt her chest get tighter and her legs becoming weaker, she was scared. This wasn’t supposed to happen; this wasn’t what she was supposed to do. She was to destroy the enemy, to come back home and be a hero. She couldn’t destroy a man whose only belonging was the emotional baggage he carried, she couldn’t kill him. And that’s when it clicked. Of course the enemy wouldn’t attack in their true forms; it’d be too easy for her to kill them. They slither into the field disguised as humans and like grubs burrow into one’s mind, convincing other’s to pity them, to let their guard down and then they strike.
She watched the man with knife in hand, the longer she waited the clearer his voice became and as he rose to his feet so did his confidence. Each step he took was one thought out carefully. The hold on her weapon was as steady as the oak tree behind her but her heart waivered like the single leaf that adorned it. Her breaths hitched with every movement he made and as he got closer she was deafened by the thumping of her own heart. A loud cry from the man ripped her away from her thoughts; in the few moments she had looked away from him, he had become hysterical.
The man cried out incomprehensible words, stumbling forward with desperation draping over him like an ill fitted coat. He reached into his pocket and the lone thought that remained in her mind was ‘weapon’. She stabbed the man in his abdomen, disgust had overcome her not because she had stolen a life but rather she had enjoyed the act. The sensation of pulling the knife out of the man’s stomach left a gratifying feeling in her chest. She let the man’s body hit the floor and waited for it to gradually deflate. The enemy, as she had learnt from her training, were beings made of intricate systems of gas encased in a thin skin that if punctured would result in the unavoidable consequence of death.
The man lay still on the floor; she stood over him and waited for the gas to escape but a red liquid slowly poured out of him instead, it was blood. This didn`t make sense, the enemy had no such thing in their bodies, when the enemy is stabbed they deflate; this was what she was taught, this was what she learnt. The calm that had come over her had quickly receded and she saw one thing only, the blood on her hands. Her mind scrambled for some explanation, her thoughts wandered to dark places; was the man human? Was the enemy human? Were the rumours true? No, they couldn’t be, she couldn’t let them be.
A murmuring sound drifted in her ears and her eyes darted towards the man, he was alive, barely. She moved closer to him, his hand moved out of his pocket and he held a picture towards his face, it was of him and a child. She heard a single word being repeated, Saira and as tears fall down his face he draws his last breath. A black hole appears in her chest, where her heart used to be and she feels all the joy she had once felt drain out of her. In big, bold, bright letters, the word ‘regret’ stands alone in her mind.
She looked towards the sky and screamed, as if she were questioning the powers of the universe, asking them what she had done to provoke such pain, asking what he had done to deserve such a fate. Her questions went unanswered. She wasn’t the same girl she was in the morning, in just an hour she felt she had aged. She stood up and walked deeper into the woods, she could longer fight in the war; she could no longer fight the enemy if they were as human as she was.
It’s easy if they're faceless, to hate the other side.
And here is your creative with my comments in bold throughout:
Spoiler
SOLDIER, SOLDIER
The declaration of war had been abrupt, a small land locked country not sure what you mean by this part? no one had noticed, was named the enemy. There were no previous hostilities, no past wrongs, nothing that warned of an oncoming conflict. She remembered seeing images of the nation’s landscape in a picture book she read as a child, mountain peaks lined the horizon while wild flowers painted the ground yellow. Great imagery!The land was home to three hundred farmers, five hundred chickens and eighty horses. A fact she could not ignore when she enlisted was before the war the enemy had listed foxes as the biggest threat. I also love this part. It's a bit humorous, but really chilling. Good combo!
The announcement of the war was a day etched into the minds of all that heard it. Each report of the conflict was accompanied by the same image; a bulb headed creature bound in bleached skin whose eyes held nothing. There was no one who hadn’t seen the image, no one who wasn’t disturbed to their very core. The President of her country was the first to make the crisis public; he was a lanky man, whose most defining feature was that he didn’t have one. LOVEEEEE THIS!!! He revealed that foreign representatives had investigated the neighbouring country and discovered an infestation of aliens. The creature’s violent behaviour endangered them all. They would not respond to diplomacy, hope of peaceful negotiations were non-existent.
The war consumed them all. Every citizen of her country was forced to know who the enemy was. Or rather what they were. Children could even recite the physiological weakness of the enemy and if asked could describe how to kill one, a six inch stab to the gut without mercy .A nursery rhyme had been introduced describing the process to kill, she sang it at school. Cartoons glorified the war; the desire to enlist began with the children, with her. Animosity towards the enemy seeped out of every corner, eventually the whole country overflowed with hatred. Rumours floated that the war was a government creation to distract the country from debt; others believed it was a front to disguise a failing Presidents grab at power.
When the initial attack was made, it was her side that launched the first rockets. Justification of the act was never disclosed. What was given was a well worded speech by the President, made to spur the patriotism of the citizens. The words of the most powerful man of her country had weaved around her heart; she was convinced the enemy was beyond hope. She was twelve years old when she decided the military was her future. She wanted to fight, she wanted to protect. Later she realised the speech was simply propaganda, a response crafted to fool the masses, to fool her.
The enlistment forms had come to her home on her twentieth birthday. Her father congratulated her, her mother had cried tears of joy; she had brought honour to the family, it was a privilege to enlist. The training consisted solely of offence manoeuvres, defence was not an option. The belief of killed or be killed was hammered home. Potentially consider using quotation marks or italics fo the "kill or be killed" idea just to make it clearer. And note that the first "killed" should be "kill." Her theory lessons taught her the deceptive nature of the enemy and how if need be they could disguise themselves as humans. She had excelled in all areas of the training with the prospect of a very distinguished future ahead of her.
Her deployment to the front lines of the war had not only reinforced, but strengthened, her resolution to guard her country. The first day on the enemy’s land had been filled with introductions; the highest authority at the base was General Rogers, a broad shouldered man whose facial hair resembled the end of a broom. I can imagine a man exactly like this...He was an intimidating man with a presence that demanded respect whose Make these two separate sentences. The truncated nature will be a reflection of his sternness. Change whose for his. loyalty to the sovereign was as infamous as his hatred for the enemy. The first task she was assigned was patrol of the field and if she were to locate an enemy target she was to, in the words of the General, ‘gut them like a fish’.
The enemy’s land was in one word, disfigured. The familiar images of the place she recalled from her childhood books were not gone but rather they weren’t the same. The jagged points of the mountains looked more like broken noses while the wild flowers grew erratically across the bombed earth. As she lurked through the field, inspecting every detail she breathed in the air that was sulphurous, heavy with the remains of the war. The trees stood tall but leafless with the rusted cars and abandoned homes stark against the horizon.
The stillness of the land was unsettling but it was the slight shake of a bush in the corner of her eye that caught her attention. She moved closer to the shrubbery with each step the grip on her combat knife tightened. A part of her wanted to believe it was just another soldier but she knew she was the only one there. With reluctance, in one swift movement she had positioned herself facing whatever was behind the bush in combat stance, she was ready to kill.
Below her a feeble man trembled by her feet, he was small with his skin forced to stretch over his protruding bones. His hands were covered in scars while his eyes sagged; they held a pain she could not understand. As he shook from fear, her eyebrows furrowed and she stepped back, the man was not what she expected. Her training had never covered encountering a human who wasn’t a soldier on the field. When the man realised he had not been attacked yet he looked up, meeting her eyes and he spoke, albeit in a language she could not decipher. His voice was coarse and sounded to her like rocks being ground up.
I'm just going to take this moment to say that what I really enjoy about this work is that the paragraphs are never too long. It makes the work easy to follow, and breaks it up really well into different little pockets of story progression. People fall into the habit of really long paragraphs in creative writing because they aren't sure when to make the break when they are reading a narrative. So you've done a really good job (whether you even realised it or not!) to make this accessible for a marker.
With every noise he made, she felt her chest get tighter and her legs becoming weaker, she was scared. This wasn’t supposed to happen; this wasn’t what she was supposed to do. She was to destroy the enemy, to come back home and be a hero. She couldn’t destroy a man whose only belonging was the emotional baggage he carried, she couldn’t kill him. You are doing awesome things with this imagery. "only belonging was the emotional baggage." YESSSS YESSS YESSSAnd that’s when it clicked. Of course the enemy wouldn’t attack in their true forms; it’d be too easy for her to kill them. They slither into the field disguised as humans and like grubs burrow into one’s mind, convincing other’s to pity them, to let their guard down and then they strike.
She watched the man with knife in hand, the longer she waited the clearer his voice became and as he rose to his feet so did his confidence. Each step he took was one thought out carefully. The hold on her weapon was as steady as the oak tree behind her but her heart waivered like the single leaf that adorned it. Her breaths hitched with every movement he made and as he got closer she was deafened by the thumping of her own heart. A loud cry from the man ripped her away from her thoughts; in the few moments she had looked away from him, he had become hysterical.
The man cried out incomprehensible words, stumbling forward with desperation draping over him like an ill fitted coat. He reached into his pocket and the lone thought that remained in her mind was ‘weapon’. She stabbed the man in his abdomen, disgust had overcome her not because she had stolen a life but rather she had enjoyed the act. I think the stabbing should be in its own sentence, potentially even in its own line. By this stage, you've slowly built us up to think there's a possibility that the man wouldn't be killed. Suddenly, he's dead. I read over it without even noticing for a second and then I was like "hold up go back!!!!????" This isn't your fault as a writer, but a marker will be reading this at a pretty decent speed. So you want to use your organisation of words on the page to highlight the most important parts.The sensation of pulling the knife out of the man’s stomach left a gratifying feeling in her chest. She let the man’s body hit the floor and waited for it to gradually deflate. The enemy, as she had learnt from her training, were beings made of intricate systems of gas encased in a thin skin that if punctured would result in the unavoidable consequence of death.
The man lay still on the floor; she stood over him and waited for the gas to escape but a red liquid slowly poured out of him instead, it was blood. I knew this was blood without you saying so. I'd take out the "it was blood" to ensure that you are showing you respect the reader enough to make the connection, thus engaging their own minds more because they feel like they have the responsibility but also the smarts to connect the dots. John Le Carre (novelist) does this well.This didn`t make sense, the enemy had no such thing in their bodies, when the enemy is stabbed they deflate; this was what she was taught, this was what she learnt. The calm that had come over her had quickly receded and she saw one thing only, the blood on her hands. Her mind scrambled for some explanation, her thoughts wandered to dark places; was the man human? Was the enemy human? Were the rumours true? No, they couldn’t be, she couldn’t let them be.
A murmuring sound drifted in her ears and her eyes darted towards the man, he was alive, barely. She moved closer to him, his hand moved out of his pocket and he held a picture towards his face, it was of him and a child. She heard a single word being repeated, Saira and as tears fall down his face he draws his last breath. A black hole appears in her chest, where her heart used to be and she feels all the joy she had once felt drain out of her. In big, bold, bright letters, the word ‘regret’ stands alone in her mind. I like that you use the word "stands" because it reminds me of the way a soldier stands at attention. Could you possibly allude to this further? I don't want to put words in your mouth, but perhaps something about the idea of saluting, standing at attention, marching, etc. Standing works as is, but I think it's something I'm perceptive to because I'm looking to improve your work. A marker will not be doing that, instead they will be looking for the techniques already existing.
She looked towards the sky and screamed, as if she were questioning the powers of the universe, asking them what she had done to provoke such pain, asking what he had done to deserve such a fate. Her questions went unanswered. She wasn’t the same girl she was in the morning, in just an hour she felt she had aged. She stood up and walked deeper into the woods, she could longer fight in the war; she could no longer fight the enemy if they were as human as she was.
It’s easy if they're faceless, to hate the other side.
The declaration of war had been abrupt, a small land locked country not sure what you mean by this part? no one had noticed, was named the enemy. There were no previous hostilities, no past wrongs, nothing that warned of an oncoming conflict. She remembered seeing images of the nation’s landscape in a picture book she read as a child, mountain peaks lined the horizon while wild flowers painted the ground yellow. Great imagery!The land was home to three hundred farmers, five hundred chickens and eighty horses. A fact she could not ignore when she enlisted was before the war the enemy had listed foxes as the biggest threat. I also love this part. It's a bit humorous, but really chilling. Good combo!
The announcement of the war was a day etched into the minds of all that heard it. Each report of the conflict was accompanied by the same image; a bulb headed creature bound in bleached skin whose eyes held nothing. There was no one who hadn’t seen the image, no one who wasn’t disturbed to their very core. The President of her country was the first to make the crisis public; he was a lanky man, whose most defining feature was that he didn’t have one. LOVEEEEE THIS!!! He revealed that foreign representatives had investigated the neighbouring country and discovered an infestation of aliens. The creature’s violent behaviour endangered them all. They would not respond to diplomacy, hope of peaceful negotiations were non-existent.
The war consumed them all. Every citizen of her country was forced to know who the enemy was. Or rather what they were. Children could even recite the physiological weakness of the enemy and if asked could describe how to kill one, a six inch stab to the gut without mercy .A nursery rhyme had been introduced describing the process to kill, she sang it at school. Cartoons glorified the war; the desire to enlist began with the children, with her. Animosity towards the enemy seeped out of every corner, eventually the whole country overflowed with hatred. Rumours floated that the war was a government creation to distract the country from debt; others believed it was a front to disguise a failing Presidents grab at power.
When the initial attack was made, it was her side that launched the first rockets. Justification of the act was never disclosed. What was given was a well worded speech by the President, made to spur the patriotism of the citizens. The words of the most powerful man of her country had weaved around her heart; she was convinced the enemy was beyond hope. She was twelve years old when she decided the military was her future. She wanted to fight, she wanted to protect. Later she realised the speech was simply propaganda, a response crafted to fool the masses, to fool her.
The enlistment forms had come to her home on her twentieth birthday. Her father congratulated her, her mother had cried tears of joy; she had brought honour to the family, it was a privilege to enlist. The training consisted solely of offence manoeuvres, defence was not an option. The belief of killed or be killed was hammered home. Potentially consider using quotation marks or italics fo the "kill or be killed" idea just to make it clearer. And note that the first "killed" should be "kill." Her theory lessons taught her the deceptive nature of the enemy and how if need be they could disguise themselves as humans. She had excelled in all areas of the training with the prospect of a very distinguished future ahead of her.
Her deployment to the front lines of the war had not only reinforced, but strengthened, her resolution to guard her country. The first day on the enemy’s land had been filled with introductions; the highest authority at the base was General Rogers, a broad shouldered man whose facial hair resembled the end of a broom. I can imagine a man exactly like this...He was an intimidating man with a presence that demanded respect
The enemy’s land was in one word, disfigured. The familiar images of the place she recalled from her childhood books were not gone but rather they weren’t the same. The jagged points of the mountains looked more like broken noses while the wild flowers grew erratically across the bombed earth. As she lurked through the field, inspecting every detail she breathed in the air that was sulphurous, heavy with the remains of the war. The trees stood tall but leafless with the rusted cars and abandoned homes stark against the horizon.
The stillness of the land was unsettling but it was the slight shake of a bush in the corner of her eye that caught her attention. She moved closer to the shrubbery with each step the grip on her combat knife tightened. A part of her wanted to believe it was just another soldier but she knew she was the only one there. With reluctance, in one swift movement she had positioned herself facing whatever was behind the bush in combat stance, she was ready to kill.
Below her a feeble man trembled by her feet, he was small with his skin forced to stretch over his protruding bones. His hands were covered in scars while his eyes sagged; they held a pain she could not understand. As he shook from fear, her eyebrows furrowed and she stepped back, the man was not what she expected. Her training had never covered encountering a human who wasn’t a soldier on the field. When the man realised he had not been attacked yet he looked up, meeting her eyes and he spoke, albeit in a language she could not decipher. His voice was coarse and sounded to her like rocks being ground up.
I'm just going to take this moment to say that what I really enjoy about this work is that the paragraphs are never too long. It makes the work easy to follow, and breaks it up really well into different little pockets of story progression. People fall into the habit of really long paragraphs in creative writing because they aren't sure when to make the break when they are reading a narrative. So you've done a really good job (whether you even realised it or not!) to make this accessible for a marker.
With every noise he made, she felt her chest get tighter and her legs becoming weaker, she was scared. This wasn’t supposed to happen; this wasn’t what she was supposed to do. She was to destroy the enemy, to come back home and be a hero. She couldn’t destroy a man whose only belonging was the emotional baggage he carried, she couldn’t kill him. You are doing awesome things with this imagery. "only belonging was the emotional baggage." YESSSS YESSS YESSSAnd that’s when it clicked. Of course the enemy wouldn’t attack in their true forms; it’d be too easy for her to kill them. They slither into the field disguised as humans and like grubs burrow into one’s mind, convincing other’s to pity them, to let their guard down and then they strike.
She watched the man with knife in hand, the longer she waited the clearer his voice became and as he rose to his feet so did his confidence. Each step he took was one thought out carefully. The hold on her weapon was as steady as the oak tree behind her but her heart waivered like the single leaf that adorned it. Her breaths hitched with every movement he made and as he got closer she was deafened by the thumping of her own heart. A loud cry from the man ripped her away from her thoughts; in the few moments she had looked away from him, he had become hysterical.
The man cried out incomprehensible words, stumbling forward with desperation draping over him like an ill fitted coat. He reached into his pocket and the lone thought that remained in her mind was ‘weapon’. She stabbed the man in his abdomen, disgust had overcome her not because she had stolen a life but rather she had enjoyed the act. I think the stabbing should be in its own sentence, potentially even in its own line. By this stage, you've slowly built us up to think there's a possibility that the man wouldn't be killed. Suddenly, he's dead. I read over it without even noticing for a second and then I was like "hold up go back!!!!????" This isn't your fault as a writer, but a marker will be reading this at a pretty decent speed. So you want to use your organisation of words on the page to highlight the most important parts.The sensation of pulling the knife out of the man’s stomach left a gratifying feeling in her chest. She let the man’s body hit the floor and waited for it to gradually deflate. The enemy, as she had learnt from her training, were beings made of intricate systems of gas encased in a thin skin that if punctured would result in the unavoidable consequence of death.
The man lay still on the floor; she stood over him and waited for the gas to escape but a red liquid slowly poured out of him instead, it was blood. I knew this was blood without you saying so. I'd take out the "it was blood" to ensure that you are showing you respect the reader enough to make the connection, thus engaging their own minds more because they feel like they have the responsibility but also the smarts to connect the dots. John Le Carre (novelist) does this well.This didn`t make sense, the enemy had no such thing in their bodies, when the enemy is stabbed they deflate; this was what she was taught, this was what she learnt. The calm that had come over her had quickly receded and she saw one thing only, the blood on her hands. Her mind scrambled for some explanation, her thoughts wandered to dark places; was the man human? Was the enemy human? Were the rumours true? No, they couldn’t be, she couldn’t let them be.
A murmuring sound drifted in her ears and her eyes darted towards the man, he was alive, barely. She moved closer to him, his hand moved out of his pocket and he held a picture towards his face, it was of him and a child. She heard a single word being repeated, Saira and as tears fall down his face he draws his last breath. A black hole appears in her chest, where her heart used to be and she feels all the joy she had once felt drain out of her. In big, bold, bright letters, the word ‘regret’ stands alone in her mind. I like that you use the word "stands" because it reminds me of the way a soldier stands at attention. Could you possibly allude to this further? I don't want to put words in your mouth, but perhaps something about the idea of saluting, standing at attention, marching, etc. Standing works as is, but I think it's something I'm perceptive to because I'm looking to improve your work. A marker will not be doing that, instead they will be looking for the techniques already existing.
She looked towards the sky and screamed, as if she were questioning the powers of the universe, asking them what she had done to provoke such pain, asking what he had done to deserve such a fate. Her questions went unanswered. She wasn’t the same girl she was in the morning, in just an hour she felt she had aged. She stood up and walked deeper into the woods, she could longer fight in the war; she could no longer fight the enemy if they were as human as she was.
It’s easy if they're faceless, to hate the other side.
What I love about this is how you tell the story in a way that isn't at all difficult to read, but at the same time, you show respect for the intelligence of your audience. I've suggested a few small literary things because right now your plot is seamless. You've made a physical discovery, an emotional discovery, a spiritual discovery even. The discovery was unplanned, the discovery was progressive rather than sudden. It's really nice. You didn't wait until the last sentence to drop a bomb, but instead planted it early so it unfolded wonderfully. Something else I like about this work is that there is a female protagonist, in a genre that is generally dominated by male protagonists. This gave a really fresh insight.
Only because I'm being picky and want you to think about this before getting caught: What will you do if the stimulus speaks of discoveries being planned? To me, I interpret this as a discovery that was not at all planned. But the rubric suggests discoveries can emerge from a careful planning process. What do you think? I just don't want you to panic in an exam, so I'll bring it up now!
You've done an AWESOME job here! You should be super chuffed. I don't think you've cut too much out, I think it sits with a really stark message in just the right amount of words.
Post by: conic curve on July 05, 2016, 01:06:11 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 05, 2016, 05:33:32 pm
How harshly are the creatives (and essays) marked? (i.e. are they marked just as hard as the HSC or harder than the HSC)
Hey there! Do you mean, how harshly we mark them? I wouldn't really determine our feedback as being harsh. We focus on areas to improve on to achieve the most marks possible rather than only providing a potential mark out of 25 (or whatever the essay requires). Sometimes students ask us to be really picky, and sometimes students just want to know if their thesis makes sense. Everything is tailored :)
Post by: shazzzzzz on July 05, 2016, 07:22:39 pm
Regarding the issue of if the question asks for something planned (or a discovery my story doesn't cover) I'm not really sure what I actually could do, in all honesty I would just write the story and hope for the best. Do you have any suggestions on how I could adapt it to fit other stimulus?
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 05, 2016, 08:00:23 pm
Thank you so much, elysepopplewell!! I appreciate the comments and totally agree with them, I'll include them in when I get the time :)
Regarding the issue of if the question asks for something planned (or a discovery my story doesn't cover) I'm not really sure what I actually could do, in all honesty I would just write the story and hope for the best. Do you have any suggestions on how I could adapt it to fit other stimulus?
There are a bunch of things you could do and none of them fit as seamlessly as the current themes. You could implement a letter, a flashback, or a dystopian element, like the government plans this national service not for defence, but to create a progressive state where everyone goes through this realisation with a coming of age. It will take some manipulation in all points of the story. I definitely don't mean to panic you at all, but your story is so sophisticated at this point so you have the opportunity to look ahead and see where you might be trapped, so that you don't fall trapped! :)
Post by: conic curve on July 05, 2016, 08:28:34 pm
Hey there! Do you mean, how harshly we mark them? I wouldn't really determine our feedback as being harsh. We focus on areas to improve on to achieve the most marks possible rather than only providing a potential mark out of 25 (or whatever the essay requires). Sometimes students ask us to be really picky, and sometimes students just want to know if their thesis makes sense. Everything is tailored :).
Fantastic. I'll just say next time I want my essay marked really harshly ;D
Post by: Nicki on July 05, 2016, 11:25:33 pm
if it's not too much trouble, could you please read over my creative and see if its any good? i just wanna say thank you to you and the rest of the team at atar notes, you've been a massive help this year with your amazing articles, assistance and resources, sometimes i take for granted how much support we really have as the workload seems to make me forget haha :)
The very peculiar city of Mumbai suffocated me. Why you ask? Dust. Visible to the naked eye like a foggy morning left me oblivious to what lied ahead. The roads, the people, the smoky sky, immersed in this infinite, amber dust. Luckily, I was cocooned in a car where I could stare in disbelief at India from the outside. The sun sparkling and biting at my skin like hot sand at the beach, beaming onto the street dogs who pranced along the paths as if they were people. Their ribs protruded out of their stomachs, their fur speckled in burnt orange dust. How do people breathe in this country? Constantly crammed by rickshaws and brown buildings? The driver harshly swerved left, on a red light may I add, only to arrive at a crowd of merged cars that masked any lane markings. Resting on the sun kissed window, a thousand beeps infiltrated the air, bursting through my eardrums. In the distance, Dancers swayed their hands in the air and jumped to the jingling bells. The beats of the drum gradually gained speed simultaneous with my heartbeat and next thing a slam on the window struck like lightning. To my utter shock, my eyes grew wide to see children in despair begging to me. Their jet black eyes just met the windows rim as they raised their hands and tapped their ashen nails at the glass.
‘‘Can you bear this chaos?’’ I bluntly confronted the driver.
‘’Madam, there is a saying my father has always told me, Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference’’.
‘’Okay? So you can bear this?’’
He just smiled but the sarcasm couldn’t have been any clearer. When pulling into my grandma’s driveway, sounds of laughter and joy which used to reside here unfortunately moved house and silence became the tenant. Before getting off, I sat there and wondered how I used to find India so special.
The door was open but pots and pans clanging together led me to confirmed this was the right house. The narrow hallway welcomed me to cemented floors and cracked walls. But suddenly like a blooming flower in a dry desert, my grandma appeared with the happiest face in the world.
‘’Beta! how are you! please sit, sit down, oh look at you! so grown up!”. She squeezed me with a hug that I dearly missed but she was quick to get back to her cooking. Her frail voice permeated through the house, and she continued to ask me how Australia was.
“Australia’s good” I quaveringly shouted as my body submerged itself onto the couch. Then a soft clutter of steel plates vibrated through the air, my head quickly pivoted to see grandma, like skilled waitress placing three large silver trays of food on the table.
“Eat’’ she warmly commanded. The smell of exotic spices thrived and blanketed the room. As they diffused in my throat, the flavours sent a warm sensation throughout my skin. But as I was enjoying my lunch, my grandfather’s picture captured my eyes. It stood static, directly in front of me, framed in a bed of tulsi and lotus flowers. My lips turned straight as I realised why I was here in the first place, the funeral.
Along the grey sea, a flock of people, all dressed in white hovered over towards my grandfather’s body. The purity of our white dresses dispersed the sunlight across his body, almost in celebration of the shining light that he was. I squeezed my grandma’s hand and we dawdled closer, fingers entangled when our glossy eyes became fixed on the body with a silhouette of precious fuchsias, honeys and violets. But with the ring of the bell, the prayers called for the burning and the crimson flames of fire tore through the flowers and my beloved grandfather, leaving nothing but ash. It’s sad to think it took a death in the family to bring me back to the place I was born. Where we live and where we are brought up somehow form who we think we are but it dawned on me how much I’ve missed my family and my home.
An orange and purple stained sky captivated a new light upon the city. I was in the car but this time with the window down as dust filled breeze softly flowed through my hair. I used to see boring shades of brown, but at dusk the streets filled with twinkling lights made the city brighter. Illuminating colours painted on the roads, the people and the sky. Bejewelled dresses swayed along the pathways mimicking the beauty of the people wearing them. The melodic racket of festive drums and beeping car horns soothed me. Young children ran through the streets as the playful street dogs chased them. I found myself giggling at the sight and the driver widely smiled at me, but this time there was no sarcasm, ‘’see madam, attitude does make a big difference’’. It was at this exact moment I remembered why this place was special, not because I came from here, but because it was apart of who I was.
Word Count: 847
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 06, 2016, 06:43:21 pm
Hi Elyse! :)
if it's not too much trouble, could you please read over my creative and see if its any good? i just wanna say thank you to you and the rest of the team at atar notes, you've been a massive help this year with your amazing articles, assistance and resources, sometimes i take for granted how much support we really have as the workload seems to make me forget haha :)
Hey Nicki! You're kind words really are so wonderful to read! I've sent you a private message about the creative/essay marking policy :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 07, 2016, 12:27:48 pm
Hi Elyse! :)
if it's not too much trouble, could you please read over my creative and see if its any good? i just wanna say thank you to you and the rest of the team at atar notes, you've been a massive help this year with your amazing articles, assistance and resources, sometimes i take for granted how much support we really have as the workload seems to make me forget haha :)
Hey Nicki! Good work on the five posts! :) I'll have a look at your creative now :) It is in the spoiler below, with my own comments written in bold font throughout :)
Spoiler
The very peculiar city of Mumbai suffocated me. Why you ask? Dust. Visible to the naked eye like a foggy morning, it left me oblivious to what lied ahead. The roads, the people, the smoky sky, immersed in this infinite, amber dust. Luckily, I was cocooned in a car where I could stare in disbelief at India from the outside. The sun sparkling and biting at my skin like hot sand at the beach, beaming onto the street dogs who pranced along the paths as if they were people. You've changed tense here accidentally, moving into the present tense when you were in the past tense. Decide which one you want to use and be consistent. I think the past tense works best :)Their ribs protruded out of their stomachs, their fur speckled in burnt orange dust. How do people breathe in this country? Constantly crammed by rickshaws and brown buildings? The driver harshly swerved left, on a red light may I add, only to arrive at a crowd of merged cars that masked any lane markings. Resting on the sun kissed window, to me this sounds descriptive for the sake of it, it doesn't actually add a lot to my visual understanding of the scene. Sun kissed? If you are going for warm, perhaps sun roasted, or simply, warm. Sun kissed is a cliche, which are best to avoid, but it also doesn't add positively to the image. So reconsider it :) a thousand beeps infiltrated the air, bursting through my eardrums. In the distance, Dancers swayed their hands in the air and jumped to the jingling bells. The beats of the drum gradually gained speed simultaneous with my heartbeat and next thing a slam on the window struck like lightning. To my utter shock, my eyes grew wide to see children in despair begging to me. Their jet black eyes just met the windows rim as they raised their hands and tapped their ashen nails at the glass. This is great! The jet black eyes, the window rims, really great!
‘‘Can you bear this chaos?’’ I bluntly confronted the driver.
‘’Madam, there is a saying my father has always told me, Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference’’.
‘’Okay? So you can bear this?’’ I have been getting a really strong voice from your character, through really subtle things. The first moment I got an understanding of the character was when it read "why, you ask?" at the beginning. You're very consistent with the voice. Great job!
He just smiled but the sarcasm couldn’t have been any clearer. When pulling into my grandma’s driveway, sounds of laughter and joy which used to reside here unfortunately moved house and silence became the tenant. Before getting off, I sat there and wondered how I used to find India so special.
The door was open but pots and pans clanging together led me to confirmed this was the right house. The narrow hallway welcomed me to cemented floors and cracked walls. But suddenly like a blooming flower in a dry desert, my grandma appeared with the happiest face in the world. Is it possible that you could identify a flower? I think if you identified a vibrant, sprouting flower like a lily, for example, but perhaps one that can be found in India, then you would be taken this analogy to the next level, just by ever so slightly enhancing the specificity, to provide the reader with an exact image.
‘’Beta! how are you!pPlease sit, sit down, oh look at you! s So grown up!”. She squeezed me with a hug that I dearly missed but she was quick to get back to her cooking. Her frail voice permeated through the house, and she continued to ask me how Australia was.
“Australia’s good” I quaveringly shouted as my body submerged itself onto the couch. Then a soft clutter of steel plates vibrated through the air, my head quickly pivoted to see grandma, like skilled waitress placing three large silver trays of food on the table.
“Eat’’ she warmly commanded. "Warmly commanded" how wonderful!The smell of exotic spices thrived and blanketed the room. As they diffused in my throat, the flavours sent a warm sensation throughout my skin. But as I was enjoying my lunch, my grandfather’s picture captured my eyes. Perhaps you could make a more clear link between the spices and your grandfather? Maybe they are the trigger for his image?It stood static, directly in front of me, framed in a bed of tulsi and lotus flowers. My lips turned straight as I realised why I was here in the first place, the funeral.
Is this a time lapse? Potentially do the *** (three stars) thing to separate here. Or, if you are writing this in an exam, leave a considerable amount of lines to indicate that time has escaped.
Along the grey sea, a flock of people, all dressed in white hovered over towards my grandfather’s body. The purity of our white dresses dispersed the sunlight across his body, almost in celebration of the shining light that he was. I squeezed my grandma’s hand and we dawdled closer, fingers entangled when our glossy eyes became fixed on the body with a silhouette of precious fuchsias, honeys and violets. But with the ring of the bell, the prayers called for the burning and the crimson flames of fire tore through the flowers and my beloved grandfather, leaving nothing but ash. I think this next sentence is a bit of a jump, so it deserves its own new line to give it prominence.It’s sad to think it took a death in the family to bring me back to the place I was born. Where we live and where we are brought up somehow form who we think we are but it dawned on me how much I’ve missed my family and my home.
An orange and purple stained sky captivated a new light upon the city. I was in the car but this time with the window down as dust filled breeze softly flowed through my hair. I used to see boring shades of brown, but at dusk the streets filled with twinkling lights made the city brighter. Illuminating colours painted on the roads, the people and the sky. Bejewelled dresses swayed along the pathways mimicking the beauty of the people wearing them. The melodic racket of festive drums and beeping car horns soothed me. Young children ran through the streets as the playful street dogs chased them. I found myself giggling at the sight and the driver widely smiled at me, but this time there was no sarcasm, ‘’see madam, attitude does make a big difference’’. It was at this exact moment I remembered why this place was special, not because I came from here, but because it was apart of who I was. I'm not clearly understanding why the last part is in the past tense. I think it would be more meaningful if it were in the present tense. "Who I am." Is there a reason you've chosen to do it this way? There very well may be a great reason and I'm just failing to see it right now! The discovery comes together really well at the end in both an emotional, spiritual and physical sense!
‘‘Can you bear this chaos?’’ I bluntly confronted the driver.
‘’Madam, there is a saying my father has always told me, Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference’’.
‘’Okay? So you can bear this?’’ I have been getting a really strong voice from your character, through really subtle things. The first moment I got an understanding of the character was when it read "why, you ask?" at the beginning. You're very consistent with the voice. Great job!
He just smiled but the sarcasm couldn’t have been any clearer. When pulling into my grandma’s driveway, sounds of laughter and joy which used to reside here unfortunately moved house and silence became the tenant. Before getting off, I sat there and wondered how I used to find India so special.
The door was open but pots and pans clanging together led me to confirm
‘’Beta! how are you!
“Australia’s good” I quaveringly shouted as my body submerged itself onto the couch. Then a soft clutter of steel plates vibrated through the air, my head quickly pivoted to see grandma, like skilled waitress placing three large silver trays of food on the table.
“Eat’’ she warmly commanded. "Warmly commanded" how wonderful!The smell of exotic spices thrived and blanketed the room. As they diffused in my throat, the flavours sent a warm sensation throughout my skin. But as I was enjoying my lunch, my grandfather’s picture captured my eyes. Perhaps you could make a more clear link between the spices and your grandfather? Maybe they are the trigger for his image?It stood static, directly in front of me, framed in a bed of tulsi and lotus flowers. My lips turned straight as I realised why I was here in the first place, the funeral.
Is this a time lapse? Potentially do the *** (three stars) thing to separate here. Or, if you are writing this in an exam, leave a considerable amount of lines to indicate that time has escaped.
Along the grey sea, a flock of people, all dressed in white hovered over towards my grandfather’s body. The purity of our white dresses dispersed the sunlight across his body, almost in celebration of the shining light that he was. I squeezed my grandma’s hand and we dawdled closer, fingers entangled when our glossy eyes became fixed on the body with a silhouette of precious fuchsias, honeys and violets. But with the ring of the bell, the prayers called for the burning and the crimson flames of fire tore through the flowers and my beloved grandfather, leaving nothing but ash. I think this next sentence is a bit of a jump, so it deserves its own new line to give it prominence.It’s sad to think it took a death in the family to bring me back to the place I was born. Where we live and where we are brought up somehow form who we think we are but it dawned on me how much I’ve missed my family and my home.
An orange and purple stained sky captivated a new light upon the city. I was in the car but this time with the window down as dust filled breeze softly flowed through my hair. I used to see boring shades of brown, but at dusk the streets filled with twinkling lights made the city brighter. Illuminating colours painted on the roads, the people and the sky. Bejewelled dresses swayed along the pathways mimicking the beauty of the people wearing them. The melodic racket of festive drums and beeping car horns soothed me. Young children ran through the streets as the playful street dogs chased them. I found myself giggling at the sight and the driver widely smiled at me, but this time there was no sarcasm, ‘’see madam, attitude does make a big difference’’. It was at this exact moment I remembered why this place was special, not because I came from here, but because it was apart of who I was. I'm not clearly understanding why the last part is in the past tense. I think it would be more meaningful if it were in the present tense. "Who I am." Is there a reason you've chosen to do it this way? There very well may be a great reason and I'm just failing to see it right now! The discovery comes together really well at the end in both an emotional, spiritual and physical sense!
You've used some wonderful imagery throughout this piece, especially in the last paragraph. Your discovery element is strong and the voice that you have created for your character is strong. You've put a lot of effort into the finer details here, it really pays off! I was completely taken on a journey to India here. I felt like I understood the grandmother/grandchild relationship without actually having a similar relationship myself, so that's impressive! I've filled out some areas of improvement throughout, and it is totally up to you if you want to take them on board or not, I don't want to cramp your style!
All the best, what a great piece! Let me know if you have any questions or anything you'd like to add! :)
Post by: tasiakuz on July 08, 2016, 01:27:51 pm
Would love your feedback on my creative for discovery - I wrote for the theme of renewed perceptions and the stimulus was a waterfall, just wondering how I can adapt it for trials, should I write a new one or should I change it into third person? Is it strong enough for discovery.
Thank-you so much, you're amazing for taking the time and effort to do this :)
Post by: Nicki on July 08, 2016, 08:16:19 pm
Hey Nicki! Good work on the five posts! :) I'll have a look at your creative now :) It is in the spoiler below, with my own comments written in bold font throughout :)SpoilerThe very peculiar city of Mumbai suffocated me. Why you ask? Dust. Visible to the naked eye like a foggy morning, it left me oblivious to what lied ahead. The roads, the people, the smoky sky, immersed in this infinite, amber dust. Luckily, I was cocooned in a car where I could stare in disbelief at India from the outside. The sun sparkling and biting at my skin like hot sand at the beach, beaming onto the street dogs who pranced along the paths as if they were people. You've changed tense here accidentally, moving into the present tense when you were in the past tense. Decide which one you want to use and be consistent. I think the past tense works best :)Their ribs protruded out of their stomachs, their fur speckled in burnt orange dust. How do people breathe in this country? Constantly crammed by rickshaws and brown buildings? The driver harshly swerved left, on a red light may I add, only to arrive at a crowd of merged cars that masked any lane markings. Resting on the sun kissed window, to me this sounds descriptive for the sake of it, it doesn't actually add a lot to my visual understanding of the scene. Sun kissed? If you are going for warm, perhaps sun roasted, or simply, warm. Sun kissed is a cliche, which are best to avoid, but it also doesn't add positively to the image. So reconsider it :) a thousand beeps infiltrated the air, bursting through my eardrums. In the distance, Dancers swayed their hands in the air and jumped to the jingling bells. The beats of the drum gradually gained speed simultaneous with my heartbeat and next thing a slam on the window struck like lightning. To my utter shock, my eyes grew wide to see children in despair begging to me. Their jet black eyes just met the windows rim as they raised their hands and tapped their ashen nails at the glass. This is great! The jet black eyes, the window rims, really great!
‘‘Can you bear this chaos?’’ I bluntly confronted the driver.
‘’Madam, there is a saying my father has always told me, Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference’’.
‘’Okay? So you can bear this?’’ I have been getting a really strong voice from your character, through really subtle things. The first moment I got an understanding of the character was when it read "why, you ask?" at the beginning. You're very consistent with the voice. Great job!
He just smiled but the sarcasm couldn’t have been any clearer. When pulling into my grandma’s driveway, sounds of laughter and joy which used to reside here unfortunately moved house and silence became the tenant. Before getting off, I sat there and wondered how I used to find India so special.
The door was open but pots and pans clanging together led me to confirmedthis was the right house. The narrow hallway welcomed me to cemented floors and cracked walls. But suddenly like a blooming flower in a dry desert, my grandma appeared with the happiest face in the world. Is it possible that you could identify a flower? I think if you identified a vibrant, sprouting flower like a lily, for example, but perhaps one that can be found in India, then you would be taken this analogy to the next level, just by ever so slightly enhancing the specificity, to provide the reader with an exact image.
‘’Beta! how are you!pPlease sit, sit down, oh look at you!sSo grown up!”. She squeezed me with a hug that I dearly missed but she was quick to get back to her cooking. Her frail voice permeated through the house, and she continued to ask me how Australia was.
“Australia’s good” I quaveringly shouted as my body submerged itself onto the couch. Then a soft clutter of steel plates vibrated through the air, my head quickly pivoted to see grandma, like skilled waitress placing three large silver trays of food on the table.
“Eat’’ she warmly commanded. "Warmly commanded" how wonderful!The smell of exotic spices thrived and blanketed the room. As they diffused in my throat, the flavours sent a warm sensation throughout my skin. But as I was enjoying my lunch, my grandfather’s picture captured my eyes. Perhaps you could make a more clear link between the spices and your grandfather? Maybe they are the trigger for his image?It stood static, directly in front of me, framed in a bed of tulsi and lotus flowers. My lips turned straight as I realised why I was here in the first place, the funeral.
Is this a time lapse? Potentially do the *** (three stars) thing to separate here. Or, if you are writing this in an exam, leave a considerable amount of lines to indicate that time has escaped.
Along the grey sea, a flock of people, all dressed in white hovered over towards my grandfather’s body. The purity of our white dresses dispersed the sunlight across his body, almost in celebration of the shining light that he was. I squeezed my grandma’s hand and we dawdled closer, fingers entangled when our glossy eyes became fixed on the body with a silhouette of precious fuchsias, honeys and violets. But with the ring of the bell, the prayers called for the burning and the crimson flames of fire tore through the flowers and my beloved grandfather, leaving nothing but ash. I think this next sentence is a bit of a jump, so it deserves its own new line to give it prominence.It’s sad to think it took a death in the family to bring me back to the place I was born. Where we live and where we are brought up somehow form who we think we are but it dawned on me how much I’ve missed my family and my home.
An orange and purple stained sky captivated a new light upon the city. I was in the car but this time with the window down as dust filled breeze softly flowed through my hair. I used to see boring shades of brown, but at dusk the streets filled with twinkling lights made the city brighter. Illuminating colours painted on the roads, the people and the sky. Bejewelled dresses swayed along the pathways mimicking the beauty of the people wearing them. The melodic racket of festive drums and beeping car horns soothed me. Young children ran through the streets as the playful street dogs chased them. I found myself giggling at the sight and the driver widely smiled at me, but this time there was no sarcasm, ‘’see madam, attitude does make a big difference’’. It was at this exact moment I remembered why this place was special, not because I came from here, but because it was apart of who I was. I'm not clearly understanding why the last part is in the past tense. I think it would be more meaningful if it were in the present tense. "Who I am." Is there a reason you've chosen to do it this way? There very well may be a great reason and I'm just failing to see it right now! The discovery comes together really well at the end in both an emotional, spiritual and physical sense!
You've used some wonderful imagery throughout this piece, especially in the last paragraph. Your discovery element is strong and the voice that you have created for your character is strong. You've put a lot of effort into the finer details here, it really pays off! I was completely taken on a journey to India here. I felt like I understood the grandmother/grandchild relationship without actually having a similar relationship myself, so that's impressive! I've filled out some areas of improvement throughout, and it is totally up to you if you want to take them on board or not, I don't want to cramp your style!
All the best, what a great piece! Let me know if you have any questions or anything you'd like to add! :)
Post by: hannahboardman98 on July 11, 2016, 09:41:44 am
Post by: kiara_mag on July 11, 2016, 07:39:59 pm
Thankyou!!
(2012) Our interests in the parallels between King Richard III and Looking for Richard is further enhanced by consideration of their marked differences in textual form
Throughout a multitude of texts, the composer aims to escalate their meaning to their relevant audience, using appropriate textual form in order to make their intentions understandable. Both Shakespeare’s play King Richard III and Al Pacino’s docu-drama Looking for Richard demonstrate this as they embrace completely different forms as a means to effectively provide a critique on the human condition. Pacino aims to connect his 20th century audience to Shakespeare’s work through the exploration of timeless themes, as he employs more cinematic features opposed to the plays theatrical composition. This is evident as both composers’ depict the theme of deceit and the impacts it has within the characters of a text; the contextual influences on the portrayal of Richard, especially the Elizabethan chain of being and modern sympathies; as well as the composers intentions of their piece to pose questions to his audience. Hence, the differences in Shakespeare and Pacino’s textual form assist the audience to draw parallels between text, context and composer, to enhance the text’s meaning and interest for the fitting audience.
Shakespeare uses his textual form, through the use of language techniques and stage directions, to express Richard’s deceit in a way that his Elizabethan audience can relate to and hence send forth his underlying message of the complex human condition. This is evident through the depiction of Richard’s deceitful nature and the supreme authority he has over other characters in the play, presented in Act 1 Scene 2: “Exeunt [all but Richard] corpse “I’ll have her but I will not keep her long”. Here, the stage direction with Richard communicating directly to the audience reveals his inner thoughts and deceitful nature. Through this, the audience is aware of Richard’s plans to manipulate other characters in the play, and consequently begin to look forward to the plays upcoming events. Furthermore, the possessive connotations of the verb ‘have’ regarding Lady Anne, reflects Richard’s desire to exert extreme authority, and his deceptive nature as he is planning to ‘not keep her long’. With these literary techniques, Shakespeare presents his audience with a critique on human nature, causing them to appreciate his characterisation of Richard’s deceitful nature.
Al Pacino also attempts to connect his contemporary audience to the play’s complexities, and embodies the theme of deceit throughout his documentary with various cinematic techniques. His use of cross cuts and interviews to inform the audience of his intentions highlights this, exemplified through his portrayal of the above mentioned lines. Instead of simply using literary techniques to express Richard’s plans to essentially use Lady Anne, Pacino combines the dialogue with interviews of Scholars who explain Richard’s objective. Through this, Pacino is suggesting that modern audiences require explanation from Scholars and actors in order to understand Richard’s communications. The cut to Frederick’s anger of Pacino’s decision to provide professional explanations portrays the controversy that this created and Pacino’s struggle to reappropriate Shakespeare’s play in a way that 20th century viewers can appreciate. Therefore, it is evident that Shakespeare and Pacino’s textual form is essential in conveying the theme of deceit so that parallels can be drawn and can be appreciated by the audience.
A texts form and the events that occur within it are highly influenced by the composer’s context, enhancing the texts multiple levels of meaning and the audience’s appreciation of the piece. Shakespeare demonstrates this in King Richard III as his choices are largely directed by his Elizabethan audience, seen through its foundational concept of the Elizabethan chain of being. This is highlighted through Richard’s villainy as a result of his deformity, a reflection of the Elizabethan providentialism and justice. It was often believed by an Elizabethan audience that one who has a deformity, in this case Richard’s hunchback, is automatically villainous. The double entendre “Therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, I am determined to prove a villain” demonstrates this as it suggests that Richard’s actions are not only caused by his self determination, but by God’s providential power over all. Further, the contrast of ‘lover’ and ‘villain’ display how Richard is confined by Elizabethan society as his deformity is the sole reason that he cannot engage in the same activities as others, and hence resorts to be a villain. Kimball supports this notion as he proposes that “Shakespeare has exaggerated Richard’s deformity in order to body forth dramatically, visually, metaphorically, the corruption of his mind”. By depicting the Elizabethan ideals, Shakespeare’s audience were able to understand the text and therefore appreciate its critique on human nature.
Pacino’s context required him to reconstruct Richard III’s form and presentation as a means to exert the same meaning but in a way that is suitable for a contemporary audience. He uses film techniques opposed to Shakespeare’s exploitation of physical deformity to portray Richard’s villainy. This is because a contemporary audience is more inclined to sympathise with the physically disabled, and would not process this as paralleling with villainy. However, they do generally comprehend that dark colouring and lighting correspond with trouble. As a result, Pacino utilises dark costuming for Richard to accentuate his evil intentions and sharp lighting, revealing only half of his face to highlight his light and dark personality. In doing this, a 20th century audience is presented with Richard’s cunning personality and therefore the underlying message of human’s complex nature. Thus, Pacino uses the form of his documentary to depict Richard’s villainy in a way that his audience can understand so that their interests in Shakespeare’s work is enhanced.
Furthermore, Shakespeare and Pacino possess great authority in the creation of their texts and its form to express their beliefs and get their point across to the audience. Shakespeare achieves this through his play where he depicts the notion of good and evil to in turn provide a commentary on the human condition and pose questions to his audience. This is demonstrated as Shakespeare characterises Richard as the ‘vice’, as seen in Act III scene 1 “thus like the formal vice iniquity, I moralise two meanings with one word”. The connotations of iniquity emphasise Richard’s immoral nature, and therefore present the inhumanity that he possesses, a way in which Shakespeare explores the concept of what it means to be human. As Shakespeare continually depicts the vice throughout his play, and presents the lack of success that Richard achieves in his rise of power, he uses it as a means to reveal the foundational message of the consequences of evil. It is clear that Shakespeare uses his form to project his intended message.
Pacino on he other hand, attempts to create a documentary in a way to publicise his message of what makes Shakespeare relevant to contemporary audiences. This is evident as he clearly states at the beginning of the documentary “its always been a dream of mine to communicate how I feel about Shakespeare to other people”. The use of interviews with New Yorkers, regarding their opinions on Shakespeare frames the purpose of the project, and their predominantly negative responses sets up for the difficulties that Pacino endures in reappropriating Shakespeare’s work. In addition, the structure of the documentary, with numerous cross cuts of discussions, interviews, rehearsals and performances allows viewers to experience these struggles. Evidently, the form of the text is vital in understanding the composers aims, enhancing the audiences interest in the parallels between Looking for Richard and Shakespeare’s Richard III.
Therefore, composers use the form of their text to convey its underlying message in a way that is understandable for the intended audience. Al Pacino emphasises this as he reappropriates Shakespeare’s play King Richard III, but in a way that can be understood and appreciated by a 20th century audience. This is demonstrated as both composers depict the same ideas including deceit, the contexts influence on Richard’s characterisation as well as the notion of good and evil; however Pacino employs more dramatic techniques opposed to Shakespeare’s literary style. Through this, the audience is able to draw parallels between the two texts, and have an enhanced understanding of them as a product of context.
Post by: Ty510 on July 11, 2016, 09:57:03 pm
Thank you! :)
---
Family Portrait
I came home from a long day of work at the hospital and am greeted by my excited children at the door. They run towards me in a giant flurry and my husband smiles at me from across the room. I smile back at him with the same amount of love I have had for him since we were first married. As I place my bags on the ground and kick my shoes off I continue to walk into the living room. It is there I notice my old family portrait up on the mantlepiece above the fireplace. I pick it up slowly as all the memories flood back to me.
The world was filled with a shimmery light that bathed everything in a soft glow. The world was a wondrous place. As we played in the park, the sound of other children’s laughter filled my ears and the colours of the playground were so vibrant, like nothing I have ever seen since. My young self swung from the monkey bars and slid down the slide, giggling with my older sister. Then fighting. Then giggling again. She wasn’t a teenager yet so she still had time to play silly games with me.
Our house was not extravagant but it was homely. Pink rooms decorated with posters of ponies and teddy bears strewn across all of our floors. Games of make-believe left in time; dolls mid-makeovers. My mother stayed home with me everyday. The whole house was available for long games of hide and seek and the table free for arts and crafts. She built my interest for words and numbers and the world around us. She was my superhero and she could save us girls from anything. No problem too big for he. Nothing in the world could take her away from our loving family.
But then it did.
She said she would be back soon. She promised to bring lollies back from the grocery store. An hour passed. Then another. My father was so worried he had already called ten times. He called us all into the room, gathered us into the car and we left to find her.
The road was closed.
A gruesome scene had played out across the road. A head-on accident caused by a drunken driver, the police told us. They came over onto the wrong side of the road going unbelievably over the speed limit. A teenager it was. A young person mixed together with terrible decisions.
They lived though. My mother did not.
They pronounced her dead at the scene. Although the ambulance came fast there was nothing they could do. She had her seatbelt on but the force of the accident threw her around too much. A series of unfortunate events that led to the final beat of her heart. Her final breath. With no final words for us. Our loving family was left with no closure. We had lost our bright light.
The funeral came and went. I was so young all I could do was miss her. My sister was distraught and my father kept a dark expression for the entire proceedings. He, most of all, was angry. This shouldn’t have happened and could have been so easily avoided.
Nobody prepares you for what loss feels like. How long-lasting it truly is.
As I continue to stare into the portrait it brings back all of the memories that have plagued me. My family never did recover. My father was angry for many years, and eventually found solace in the emptiness that alcohol brings. He left us in the care of our grandparents when we were still young and we never saw much of him. When he did he was too drunken to even notice us and was only visiting to try to get some money off of his parents. Eventually he just never came back. It wasn’t until we were much older that we were able to seek him out, but we probably shouldn’t have. Drugs and alcohol turns you into a completely different person. Attempts at rehab were fruitless and eventually we gave up on him him. He never tried to bring us back into his life. I think we were too much of a reminder to him of what he was trying to forget so hard. We were constant reminders of the woman that he had lost so cruelly.
My sister though was left scarred; pictures of her unsmiling face adorn my mantelpiece. She tore through school and life with and angry and battered soul and allowed everybody to feel it. Hospital visits and suicide attempts paint her past. But she continued to always be there for me. She was incomplete when our mother died and was torn was our father abandoned us, but we loved each other. We continued on through each other and we would not let each other go. I could not count on both hands how hard it was to try to keep her in this world, but eventually she was able to move on, if only slightly. She found a meaning for life somewhere inside of herself and that was what she needed to find the strength to get some help, some education, a job and a purpose.
For myself, the world has been bleak and grey ever since. The world lost it’s lustre and it’s beauty and it’s purity. I was left with a loss of innocence and a forced maturity. I am hurt. I feel such immense pain everyday but I haved found people who help. The doctors label me with depression and anxiety but it’s not permanent. Although I have lived this way for many years, I have found someone to love and have since created a family to cherish. I have realised that we humans cannot change the direction of time. I cannot bring back what I have lost but I can make a change now. I can look forward into the new wonders I can find in life. I have found now that little bits of colour have started to come back now. As I look up above the mantelpiece I see our perfect wedding photo hung neatly on the wall. The sky has begun to shine once more every now and again. My children drag on my legs to play and I am pulled back into reality.
It is not that bad anymore.
Post by: sarah.murphy on July 12, 2016, 04:29:04 pm
Thanks
Peace rings all around the house, its 10pm and finally I can head to my room without being asked to do anything. The floorboards screech as I move to my room. Finally shutting the door and I am done for the day. Looking down, all that can be seen is evidence from the adventures I had today with my little brothers. Little bit of mashed potato, some apple pure and some all nutritious baby formula.
Don’t be mistaken, I love them to bits but at times they can be quite a handful, especially during the absence of mum. Mum has been doing her own thing since the divorce, meeting Trevor was a highlight.
Trevor and mum have shared 2 valentine’s days together, and looking at it, there is many more to come. Trevor wears a suit and tie everyday to work, and he is always home at 5:02pm for dinner. This was hard to comprehend at first, Dad was never like this, but overtime I liked the idea that we could all sit and enjoy each other’s company every day.
Last time I saw Dad, was the last time mum saw Dad; saying goodbye and leaving him. He didn’t want to be a family man, he only wanted to sleep and eat all day. He left us alone too many times to count on our hands and toes, that’s when mum cut it, that was enough for her.
An interruption of a smash takes me away from my thoughts; it has come from Mum and Trevor’s room. With an increasing heartbeat, I put a shirt on and run down the hallway. Mum’s head is bleeding; Trevor is standing on the other side of the bed, unaware of anything. I slam open the bathroom door, Trevor jumps, I grab some towels and lift mum up clearing up the mess. Mum starts to react, positioning her to lay down comfortably, she says, “call your father”. Trevor hasn’t moved, I leave the room to lock the room of the boys. By the time I get back to Mum’s room, Dad has already left.
Waiting for Dad felt like a lifetime, mum was more aware now, the complete opposite of Trevor, who did not move. Dad finally came in, had happened, he made sure mum was alright and then left the room. I changed the towels mum was using when Dad walked back him, he informed us the police were on their way. That is when Trevor went wide eyed.
He started pacing around the room, never around anyone, just in his own bubble. No one asked, they just let him do whatever. Dad was helping mum, a sight that was new to me. He changed her towels made her comfortable even got her some water. It was nice to see. Snapped back into reality, I realised I haven’t check on my bros, there still was silence coming from that part of the house, and thank god that they are still asleep. Making sure I don’t wake them up I go back to the other room.
Trevor returns to his statute state when the police walk in, they look around. Then they lay eyes on Trevor. The all look intently at each other for a moment, mum Dad and I are the only ones in the room that have no idea what is happening. The officers inspect the glass, small talk goes around of an “aggravated assault” and “second offence”. Lost in everything else around me, I sit by my mum and hold her hand. Dad leaves for a few minutes, returning to say that an ambulance is on its way, and that we should leave for the night.
Walking away from mum hurts the most, as I am now hopeless, she has to lay there and wait for better help. Shoving my clothes into a bag has never felt better. Walking into the boys room, they are both still asleep, so I tip toe around grabbing their necessities. Putting them in the stroller was the hardest part, failing at trying not to wake them up. Thank God there was no screaming or tantrums.
Strolling back to mum’s room, Trevor has his hands locked behind his back. I can faintly hear the officer’s talking to Dad, “she should consider herself lucky this time”. My head is spinning over and over, “this time”, are they saying that Trevor has done this before. It just isn’t like him, we all thought he was better than Dad ever was, obviously not.
Dad taps my arm, we start walking out of the place I once called home. Questioning if we would ever come back.
Post by: Sahar8642 on July 12, 2016, 08:20:14 pm
can you please read through my creative and advise me one what i should add or subtract?
Thank You so much for your time!
Noise and commotion. Relatives constantly talking over the top of each other. The perpetual smell of cinnamon wafting through the air.
They were the only memories I had of Pakistan. My parents always tried to cast my mind back to my childhood in Karachi – Sundays at the market, guests always at the house and overnight train rides to see my grandparents in Quetta. When I saw my father’s eyes welling up in nostalgia or my mother sighing at old photos I tried so hard to remember for them. But I never could. It always gnawed away at me. Why couldn’t they just accept that we weren’t there anymore?
Now, gazing out the car window at the green pastures dotted with bright-coloured farmhouses, I couldn’t picture a place any different. I had no desire to either. The teenage years of my life defined me, and they were spent here, the first six years seemed like just a broken dream.
When we arrived at school I climbed out and watched as the car pulled away, gradually becoming smaller until it was no more than a speck.
***
The other students treated me like a novelty. Wherever I walked in the school I had at least ten pairs of uniform blue or green eyes following me, watching with interest. The unimaginable horror when forced to speak out was only surpassed by the teasing that would ensue. Suffice to say, my efforts to conceal my accent failed. Miserably. My best friend, Lucy, caught the bus to school and played sport on the weekends; I was taken to school by both parents and spent Sundays driving to our closest Mosque over an hour away.
At lunchtime, I swapped my hot chickpea stew for Lucy’s perfectly dressed Caesar salad – it was our daily ritual.
“You always have the best food, Sabine.” I didn’t respond. “What’s up? You haven’t been yourself all day.”
“It’s just – my parents,” I hesitated. “They live in such an enclosed bubble, and they’re trying so hard to hold me there too. My father thinks I’m ashamed of being ethnic. God, I hate that word so much. Ethnic.”
“That’s not entirely untrue though, is it? Your being ashamed, I mean?” Lucy asked gently. Her amber eyes had a softness to them. She tried to understand, but without ever visiting the land of too many spices and too few clean toilets, that was an impossibility.
I looked out at the school courts, where most of our class was playing football.
“I guess not.”
***
When I came into the kitchen that night, my father was sitting at the head of the table staring into an ancient laptop; face wrinkled in concentration- A rare occurrence. As I helped my mother set the table for lentil lamb soup, he suddenly exclaimed, “That’s it! Sanah, it is perfect. This flight goes directly to Karachi. Then she can take the train to Quetta like we always used to...” he trailed off when he saw my expression.
“We are not moving back to Pakistan. You don’t have to worry,” he said bitterly.
The next hour was spent with both parents interchangeably explaining their profound plans for me to spend summer with my grandparents.
After their deliberation, my parents looked at me expectedly while I just sat there… dumbfounded. “You can’t...you can’t do that. I...I don’t want to go,” I managed to croak out. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my home for that long. I didn’t understand their twisted reasoning. I knew my grandparents would take one look at me and shake their heads at how “Westernised” I’d become. I didn’t want to be “shipped off,” as the kids from school would undoubtedly describe it.
My mother interrupted my thoughts. “Sabine, please. Just do one thing for this family; that is all we ask. You haven’t the slightest idea how much your grandparents miss you and want to see you,” her voice wavered as she spoke.
My heart and mind resisted with all their might, but I found myself nodding in defeat.
***
It was my first time on a plane since we had moved to Australia ten years before. It was strange to see what I call home to shrink into an insignificant speck. I imagined my parents standing below in our backyard pointing up at the sky. I wished one of them could be in my place right now.
After a grueling flight and train journey, I came to face my grandparents at the Quetta railway station. The gnawing in my stomach wouldn’t halt – not knowing what to say, and wondering whether they would even recognise me. But I needn’t have worried, as they spotted me immediately and I was in their embrace within a matter of seconds. “Finally.” My grandmother whispered through tears. “Finally you’re here.” As we held each other, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, almost like arriving home at night after a difficult day. They both looked exactly like their photo on the mantelpiece in our living room.
On my first day in Pakistan, the three of us spent half the night talking, and this continued almost every day afterwards. My grandparents wanted to hear every detail about my life, and after about a week I began to ask them questions too.
On my last night we went to an Eid Festival. As I put on my jeans, my grandmother looked at me in horror.
“Sabine, we are going to celebrate Eid. You must wear this,” she handed me a deep blue sari. “Haven’t your parents told you about Eid?”
I looked at the ground sheepishly. “They probably have, so many times. I mustn’t have been listening.”
Walking through the night-lit streets of Eid Festival, I realised that I had never seen so much colour in my life. Billowing yellow paper lanterns hung across gnarled oak branches, lighting up the deepest alcoves of the trees. The women wore flowing brightly coloured, beaded saris, their arms covered in intricate henna patterns; the men wore lose linen blouses and embellished drawstring pants.
My grandfather walked beside me.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. I never thought I’d admit it, but I wanted more than anything to stay for longer. The six weeks had passed in a blur and I had only just begun to reach some level of understanding.
***
Fruit and vegetable bazaars pulsating with the rhythms of everyday life. Endless hues of blue, green, red and gold. My grandparents’ modest but beautiful house nestled between others of its kind. Home.
They were only a fraction of the images I had of Pakistan. My mind overflowed with knowledge, memories and self-recognition. Next time my parents reminisced about our life in Pakistan, I wouldn’t turn my head away in discomfort. Instead, I would add to their recollections of the exuberant place. I would add photos to our albums, stories to the dinner table conversations and regard my parents with admiration; never shame.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 12, 2016, 09:59:07 pm
Also remember that to get a Creative marked, you must have 5 posts on ATAR Notes minimum!! Read the essay marking guidelines/rules in my description for more details, some of you will need a few more posts to qualify!! ;D
Post by: WLalex on July 12, 2016, 11:15:37 pm
Heyy could you please check my AOS creative? I'm not sure if the recollection structure is a good structure choice, and I have been told that I tell rather than show and I'm not too sure how to fix it.
Thank you! :)
---
Family Portrait
I came home from a long day of work at the hospital and am greeted by my excited children at the door. They run towards me in a giant flurry and my husband smiles at me from across the room. I smile back at him with the same amount of love I have had for him since we were first married. As I place my bags on the ground and kick my shoes off I continue to walk into the living room. It is there I notice my old family portrait up on the mantlepiece above the fireplace. I pick it up slowly as all the memories flood back to me.
The world was filled with a shimmery light that bathed everything in a soft glow. The world was a wondrous place. As we played in the park, the sound of other children’s laughter filled my ears and the colours of the playground were so vibrant, like nothing I have ever seen since. My young self swung from the monkey bars and slid down the slide, giggling with my older sister. Then fighting. Then giggling again. She wasn’t a teenager yet so she still had time to play silly games with me.
Our house was not extravagant but it was homely. Pink rooms decorated with posters of ponies and teddy bears strewn across all of our floors. Games of make-believe left in time; dolls mid-makeovers. My mother stayed home with me everyday. The whole house was available for long games of hide and seek and the table free for arts and crafts. She built my interest for words and numbers and the world around us. She was my superhero and she could save us girls from anything. No problem too big for he. Nothing in the world could take her away from our loving family.
But then it did.
She said she would be back soon. She promised to bring lollies back from the grocery store. An hour passed. Then another. My father was so worried he had already called ten times. He called us all into the room, gathered us into the car and we left to find her.
The road was closed.
A gruesome scene had played out across the road. A head-on accident caused by a drunken driver, the police told us. They came over onto the wrong side of the road going unbelievably over the speed limit. A teenager it was. A young person mixed together with terrible decisions.
They lived though. My mother did not.
They pronounced her dead at the scene. Although the ambulance came fast there was nothing they could do. She had her seatbelt on but the force of the accident threw her around too much. A series of unfortunate events that led to the final beat of her heart. Her final breath. With no final words for us. Our loving family was left with no closure. We had lost our bright light.
The funeral came and went. I was so young all I could do was miss her. My sister was distraught and my father kept a dark expression for the entire proceedings. He, most of all, was angry. This shouldn’t have happened and could have been so easily avoided.
Nobody prepares you for what loss feels like. How long-lasting it truly is.
As I continue to stare into the portrait it brings back all of the memories that have plagued me. My family never did recover. My father was angry for many years, and eventually found solace in the emptiness that alcohol brings. He left us in the care of our grandparents when we were still young and we never saw much of him. When he did he was too drunken to even notice us and was only visiting to try to get some money off of his parents. Eventually he just never came back. It wasn’t until we were much older that we were able to seek him out, but we probably shouldn’t have. Drugs and alcohol turns you into a completely different person. Attempts at rehab were fruitless and eventually we gave up on him him. He never tried to bring us back into his life. I think we were too much of a reminder to him of what he was trying to forget so hard. We were constant reminders of the woman that he had lost so cruelly.
My sister though was left scarred; pictures of her unsmiling face adorn my mantelpiece. She tore through school and life with and angry and battered soul and allowed everybody to feel it. Hospital visits and suicide attempts paint her past. But she continued to always be there for me. She was incomplete when our mother died and was torn was our father abandoned us, but we loved each other. We continued on through each other and we would not let each other go. I could not count on both hands how hard it was to try to keep her in this world, but eventually she was able to move on, if only slightly. She found a meaning for life somewhere inside of herself and that was what she needed to find the strength to get some help, some education, a job and a purpose.
For myself, the world has been bleak and grey ever since. The world lost it’s lustre and it’s beauty and it’s purity. I was left with a loss of innocence and a forced maturity. I am hurt. I feel such immense pain everyday but I haved found people who help. The doctors label me with depression and anxiety but it’s not permanent. Although I have lived this way for many years, I have found someone to love and have since created a family to cherish. I have realised that we humans cannot change the direction of time. I cannot bring back what I have lost but I can make a change now. I can look forward into the new wonders I can find in life. I have found now that little bits of colour have started to come back now. As I look up above the mantelpiece I see our perfect wedding photo hung neatly on the wall. The sky has begun to shine once more every now and again. My children drag on my legs to play and I am pulled back into reality.
It is not that bad anymore.
Hey Ty, thought i could help you out a bit here regards to showing not telling...ill do a small snippet to hopefully illustrate, my writing is in bold...
I came home from a long day of work at the hospital try alluding to a hospital without actually saying a hospital, maybe describe a patient or the sterilising walls?? - show where you have been rather than explicitly telling the reader and am to improve sophistication?syntax of your writing you should avoid using 'and am'...read it out loud, sounds bit funny right? greeted by my excited children at the door. how could you show this? maybe you felt the vibrations under your feet from them stampeding down the hallway? They run towards me in a giant flurry and my husband smiles at me from across the room. I smile back at him with the same amount of love I have had for him since we were first married. I reciprocate, the feeling of butterflies has never failed to cease...show that their love is still alive rather than telling
Hope this is helpful! Let me know
Alex :)
Post by: ssarahj on July 13, 2016, 09:01:24 am
Heyy could you please check my AOS creative? I'm not sure if the recollection structure is a good structure choice, and I have been told that I tell rather than show and I'm not too sure how to fix it.
Thank you! :)
Just to add onto WLAlex's idea of showing instead of telling:
Try to separate the flashback (the memories) from the 'present moment' of your story, this might mean adding **** between the 1st and 2nd paragraphs to show there's a change in time and/or place.
Also when you're writing the flashback, you could possibly try to bring the reader into the story more by using dialogue and give more sensory imagery about whats going on in (at the car accident, the funeral etc.) instead of just recounting the facts of what happened. For example, instead of "My father was angry for many years", really delve deeper into describing the alcoholism and the fact that he left his children, the anger should be implied so the reader can deduce that themselves.
Right now your story has strong bones it just needs some fleshing out to make the reader feel invested in your character's life and actually care about the trauma they've been through.
Understand (or at least pretend ;)) that your marker/teacher is quite smart and can figure out your story without you having to spell everything out for them. The beauty of creative writing is giving your reader just enough information to understand the story but letting them fill in the gaps with their own feelings and experiences.
I'm sure Elyse or Jamon will get onto marking your piece soon once the lectures are over so sit tight if we haven't given you enough feedback yet....
Sarah :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 13, 2016, 10:18:37 pm
Just to add onto WLAlex's idea of showing instead of telling:
Sarah :)
Hey Ty, thought i could help you out a bit here regards to showing not telling...ill do a small snippet to hopefully illustrate, my writing is in bold...
Hope this is helpful! Let me know
Alex :)
And THAT is the ATAR Notes spirit on perfect show, legendary work guys, absolutely legendary ;D
Indeed, Elyse and I will be back to it in the next couple of days, you guys have all absolutely EXPLODED the forums!!! Sit tight, we've started something amazing ;)
Post by: lha on July 14, 2016, 05:51:57 pm
Thank you!
Post by: sudodds on July 14, 2016, 11:41:26 pm
Thank you so much!
______________________________________________________________________
TERMINAL
I find the concept of words really interesting. How a random combination of 26 symbols that just happen to create a sound can have such an effect on us. Like “love”, just one word, one syllable, four letters long. So small, yet so big in its impact. Same with words like “hate,” “year” and “death.” It seems unfair to limit these words to fewer than five letters. To be honest, it seems unfair to limit them to words at all.
In all honesty, the word cancer doesn’t scare me very much. It was the other one...
“I’m afraid your condition is…” the doctor begins before being interrupted by the sight of my five-year-old daughter, hands glistening with the copious amounts of hand sanitizer that she continues to pump from the container. “I’m afraid your condition is…” My wife picks her up and carries her to the other side of the room, her reflection almost completely visible on the various titanium surfaces, as she sits her back down, only for my daughter to immediately pick up one of the many photographs on the doctor’s desk. “I’m afraid your condition is…” It’s a happy photograph, three children smiling as the sun beams down on their sun-blocked faces “I’m afraid your condition is…” In a couple of days, it will be the school holidays so I will be able to take her…
“Terminal.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid your condition is Terminal”.
‘Terminal’ is an interesting word. 8 letters, none repeated. Origins from the Latin word ‘Terminus,’ meaning ‘end’, with the first known usage being in 1744. It has 15 different definitions, 7 of which are adjectives, the others being nouns. In my case, we’re focused on definition number 3,
“Leading ultimately to death.”
A powerful word. I turn to my wife, but instead my eyes meet an old set of swings. “Tag! You’re it!” I hear my younger brother screams excitedly from behind, as he quickly jabs my shoulder. I turn around to see my tenth grade teacher, expectantly holding out her hand for the permission slip to Taronga Zoo. As I reach into my bag to get it, I find an old set of keys, I look up, and I am outside a tiny apartment complex, “Finally home!” exclaims my girlfriend, “Sandy?” I reply as she proceeds to throw my belongings out of the third floor window. “Does it always take this long?” The disgruntled customer complains as I make his coffee – A flat white with foam. I turn around to see my wife in a white dress. She’s so beautiful. Even as she gives birth to our first child, her picture stuck to the wall of my office cubicle. I sit in this cubicle for a while… and then everything goes black.
No more swing sets. No more school. No more crazy girlfriends, or customers. No more wife. No more daughter. No more office cubicle. Soon, that life will be over. My life will be over.
“Do your Medicare card?”
“Oh, yes…”
My wife rummages through her purse while simultaneously picking up a bunch of pamphlets from the counter. “What NOT to say to a cancer patient,” “How to deal with death,” “Cancer: what does this mean for you?” As if something like that could really be summed up on a double sided A5 sheet of paper. I look down at my daughter, perplexed at her stillness, to find her quietly sucking on a lollipop. One of the nurses must have given it it her. I hope she doesn’t know why.
“How long do I have?”
Numbers are pretty interesting as well. Not as interesting as words, but they have their moments. Did you know that there was a man in India that was able to prove that -1/12 equals infinity? I do wonder how long that took him to work out. Probably longer than three months, so I guess I will just have to think of something else to pass the time.
“Nous allons maintenant commencer notre desent à Paris.”
I love French words. Not only do they just sound more attractive than English ones, but they tend to be more expressive as well. Maybe it’s just me, but I believe “J’adore” comes a least a little bit closer than “love” in truly expressing the sentiment to someone. I’ll have to make sure to say “J’adore” many more times to my wife this trip.
“SD CARD FULL.”
A camera full of digital memories. You know, scientists believe that within a few years they will be able to download a human consciousness into a computer? A few years to late, so this camera will have to do. Looking at the pictures, you’d assume nothing was wrong. That we were just a regular family, on a regular holiday. We did all the normal touristy stuff, eat crepes, drink wine, visit the Eiffel tower, and watch a whole lot of British TV, because the BBC is the only English speaking channel at our hotel. Our daughter tucked tight in bed, we end up binge watching a whole season of this new show called Sisterless till 3am. We enjoy it so much, that we end up looking online to see if the next season has already aired, but it turns out that it won’t be for another eight months. It seems like such a small thing, but realizing that I’ll never know what happens next really depresses me. More than the chemo, more than the constant doctors visits, more than the bloody pamphlets! I know that sounds crazy. Like my wife said, “it’s just a TV show.” It is JUST that. The word “just” suggests that it is something simple, something easy to obtain. My wife suggests that we contact the creators and just ask, but in my opinion, that just wouldn’t be the same.
Notre Dame. Staring up at the beautiful mosaics and paintings, while drenched in a sea of coloured light gives me a sense of calm I haven’t felt in a long time. I’ve always been a huge art fan. From Michael Angelo to Picasso, Leonardo Da Vinci to Salvador Dali, the pure, raw expression that comes through art attracts me. They say a picture is worth 1000 words but I disagree. I believe it is so much more.
“Look at all the candles mummy!” My daughter exclaims with excitement, running over to the votive candles, Thousands of little, flickering gold teardrops, lit by people with intentions for souls. I wonder how many are for cancer patients.
While at the cathedral, the word God, unsurprisingly comes to mind. God. That’s another big one limited to 3 small letters. Anagram of dog as well. I’m not a very religious person. I guess I would call myself an atheist? I don’t know, again, it’s just another loaded word. But despite that, I would be lying if I said that the discovery of my limited time on this earth has not lead me to question whether I will receive unlimited time in another. I always thought the concept of an afterlife was silly, just a thing created by men who were afraid of their own mortality. But when you yourself are confronted with it, you begin to understand their desperation.
I light a votive candle for myself. I don’t know if that’s against the rules, but at least I know there will be at least one for a cancer patient.
It’s kind of funny looking back on this trip, and realizing that all of it, all of the happiness and joy it created, is because I have cancer. We had no plans to go to Paris before I was diagnosed, and even if we had, something would have stopped us, “It’s too expensive,” “It’s too far away.” “Who will look after the dog?”
I know the words juxtapose, but dying has actually made me feel more alive.
Realisation. An underestimated word, defined as “the act of becoming fully aware of something as a fact.” For example, you can realise you left your keys at home, or that you’ve already seen that episode of Friends, so you might as well change the channel. When I wake up to the morning of December 14th 2015, I realise that it will be my last day on earth. I pretend that everything is normal, however, a few minutes before I know it will all end, I ask to see my bucket list.
So many unchecked boxes. So many wasted opportunities. So many things that I will never have the chance to experience. I have nothing to say to my future self. But I have so much to say to my past.
Life. 4 letters, none repeated. According to the dictionary, there are 28 definitions, 25 nouns and 3 adjectives. But none of that matters. Life can only be defined by the living, and even without the cancer, I have been dead for so long.
I wish I had discovered that sooner.
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 14, 2016, 11:57:23 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 15, 2016, 10:49:47 am
Hi Elyse!
Would love your feedback on my creative for discovery - I wrote for the theme of renewed perceptions and the stimulus was a waterfall, just wondering how I can adapt it for trials, should I write a new one or should I change it into third person? Is it strong enough for discovery.
Thank-you so much, you're amazing for taking the time and effort to do this :)
Hi there! I'm so so sorry this has taken so long to get back to you! You know we're usually much faster, but with the trial lectures we held at UTS earlier in the week, we were so busy, and that coincided with an enormous surge on the forums! Thanks for your patience :)
Your original creative is here:
Spoiler
Unearthed
Tasia Kuznichenko
The downward pressure of rushing water embraced me, as the pure energy of the streams flowed into my veins, injecting me with exhilaration and life.
I had made it.
Ice-cold droplets banished the heat, releasing it from my body. Craning my head, I found my eyes sheltered from the stark sun, the lush foliage shading my remembrance of above. It triggered the journey I had undertaken before. The rocky path I followed, the one that had teased and coaxed me, for what was to come.
***
Overhead, the sky was suspended. At any moment, it could fall down upon me; its clouded grey pressing upon my skin and smothering the day from beginning. Fatigue had already set it. My pack was pulling me down, feeling like another body heaped upon my back. My rounded figure was cumbersome and slow. Never one of agility or grace, I learnt to dampen my athleticism. What was the point of dragging myself, to run, walk, or swim, out of my depth, when I could easily be comfortable at home? Forced to go along into the unknown, the trek was obviously not my idea. Stinging tears prevented a clear view, as I found myself focused on the panting of my own breath, mouth dry and parched. Pressing my lips together painfully, the permeating thought of; ‘I can’t do this,’ was lodged in my head.
***
The high-pitched shrill of my alarm clock jarred me awake. Immediately, a sense of dread sunk to the pit of my stomach.
“Rise and shine!” My mother’s overly enthusiastic voice chirped.
She yanked open my curtains, allowing the blinding light to pour in. Retreating to my dark shelter, I hid under the covers of my doona. The heavy weight of the bedcovers drowned out what my mother was saying. I only caught the tail end;
“…Stella you need to go, all the others are going, and you’ll be the only one left out.”
Determined, she began to grab my clothes and shove them into the hiking bag. My mother missed the presence of any trophies in my room; the bare shelves filled her with a certain failure of being a mother. It didn’t stop her greeting me after every school race,
‘Someone had to come first at the other end!’
Her positivity was partly why my negativity would show its face on days like these. There was nothing that could rid the foreboding expectation of me today.
***
The group had carved an ashen trail, through the burnt leaves and blackened earth, the remnants of the bush’s scorched past. Sharp twigs latched onto my legs, tearing the skin with their barren claws. My feet dragged themselves along the precarious path, as it was going into an even steeper decline. I began to lose my grip. I found myself slipping down, tipping over the cliff’s breaking point. I jolted my arms out abruptly, bracing the rock walls beside me. With no fear, I stopped my fall.
Time slowed down as thought the Earth slowed its rotation, everything captured in mid-evolution. An inbuilt desire inside me had been awoken by the fertile landscape that surrounded. Here, the colours of the bush were somehow brighter; it was evident to me that nature was resilient. The thin, ghosted branches that I had passed were now exposed with green, luscious leaves; rejuvenated. I looked out in front, the thriving undergrowth reaching and extending closer and closer towards me. Breathing in the sweet, honey like perfume of a fragile wattle, its fluffy blossoms tickled my nose. I watched as the breeze lifted the yellow flowers into the air, alongside a dragonfly humming with purpose. I was surprised to find my legs wanted to keep going. I wanted to keep going. Euphoria surged, cueing a new swiftness in my movement as I cascaded down the slope towards my destination, the gorge.
Now my internal haze was pulled back like a veil – the reveal. My previous vision of myself was no longer reflected in the water in front of me. Looking back was a girl, dirt on her face, at one with nature. She held an air of maturity and a defiant stance, unmoved on the waters’ surface.
Although the waterfalls hurried down the jagged overhang, their fluidity was mesmerising. The water pounded rhythmically onto the rocks, reminding me of students running a race. I was in no rush to leave. I untied my heavy boots, and plunged my legs into the icy water. Every goose bump arose, dotting my skin with little capillaries, causing me to shiver. Cupping my hand, I drank the cool liquid, it felt like a healing balm to my raw throat. The streams drizzle imprinted the rocks with tiny brushstrokes of water – calligraphy; each bubbling sound, as soothing as my mother’s childhood stories. The underwater pebbles were slick beneath the soles of my feet.
Everything was interconnected.
In the past I would never have exerted myself, giving up at the first bit of challenge. The self-doubting voices within my head that used to tell me I was a ‘failure’, had fallen down and been washed away. The walk back up was now a welcomed idea. I could imagine my mother laughing hearing me say that. The return trek was an incline towards a new adventure, with the chance to unearth new beauty. With a parting glance, I began my ascent upwards, and I knew that it was possible for me to get to the top.
Tasia Kuznichenko
The downward pressure of rushing water embraced me, as the pure energy of the streams flowed into my veins, injecting me with exhilaration and life.
I had made it.
Ice-cold droplets banished the heat, releasing it from my body. Craning my head, I found my eyes sheltered from the stark sun, the lush foliage shading my remembrance of above. It triggered the journey I had undertaken before. The rocky path I followed, the one that had teased and coaxed me, for what was to come.
***
Overhead, the sky was suspended. At any moment, it could fall down upon me; its clouded grey pressing upon my skin and smothering the day from beginning. Fatigue had already set it. My pack was pulling me down, feeling like another body heaped upon my back. My rounded figure was cumbersome and slow. Never one of agility or grace, I learnt to dampen my athleticism. What was the point of dragging myself, to run, walk, or swim, out of my depth, when I could easily be comfortable at home? Forced to go along into the unknown, the trek was obviously not my idea. Stinging tears prevented a clear view, as I found myself focused on the panting of my own breath, mouth dry and parched. Pressing my lips together painfully, the permeating thought of; ‘I can’t do this,’ was lodged in my head.
***
The high-pitched shrill of my alarm clock jarred me awake. Immediately, a sense of dread sunk to the pit of my stomach.
“Rise and shine!” My mother’s overly enthusiastic voice chirped.
She yanked open my curtains, allowing the blinding light to pour in. Retreating to my dark shelter, I hid under the covers of my doona. The heavy weight of the bedcovers drowned out what my mother was saying. I only caught the tail end;
“…Stella you need to go, all the others are going, and you’ll be the only one left out.”
Determined, she began to grab my clothes and shove them into the hiking bag. My mother missed the presence of any trophies in my room; the bare shelves filled her with a certain failure of being a mother. It didn’t stop her greeting me after every school race,
‘Someone had to come first at the other end!’
Her positivity was partly why my negativity would show its face on days like these. There was nothing that could rid the foreboding expectation of me today.
***
The group had carved an ashen trail, through the burnt leaves and blackened earth, the remnants of the bush’s scorched past. Sharp twigs latched onto my legs, tearing the skin with their barren claws. My feet dragged themselves along the precarious path, as it was going into an even steeper decline. I began to lose my grip. I found myself slipping down, tipping over the cliff’s breaking point. I jolted my arms out abruptly, bracing the rock walls beside me. With no fear, I stopped my fall.
Time slowed down as thought the Earth slowed its rotation, everything captured in mid-evolution. An inbuilt desire inside me had been awoken by the fertile landscape that surrounded. Here, the colours of the bush were somehow brighter; it was evident to me that nature was resilient. The thin, ghosted branches that I had passed were now exposed with green, luscious leaves; rejuvenated. I looked out in front, the thriving undergrowth reaching and extending closer and closer towards me. Breathing in the sweet, honey like perfume of a fragile wattle, its fluffy blossoms tickled my nose. I watched as the breeze lifted the yellow flowers into the air, alongside a dragonfly humming with purpose. I was surprised to find my legs wanted to keep going. I wanted to keep going. Euphoria surged, cueing a new swiftness in my movement as I cascaded down the slope towards my destination, the gorge.
Now my internal haze was pulled back like a veil – the reveal. My previous vision of myself was no longer reflected in the water in front of me. Looking back was a girl, dirt on her face, at one with nature. She held an air of maturity and a defiant stance, unmoved on the waters’ surface.
Although the waterfalls hurried down the jagged overhang, their fluidity was mesmerising. The water pounded rhythmically onto the rocks, reminding me of students running a race. I was in no rush to leave. I untied my heavy boots, and plunged my legs into the icy water. Every goose bump arose, dotting my skin with little capillaries, causing me to shiver. Cupping my hand, I drank the cool liquid, it felt like a healing balm to my raw throat. The streams drizzle imprinted the rocks with tiny brushstrokes of water – calligraphy; each bubbling sound, as soothing as my mother’s childhood stories. The underwater pebbles were slick beneath the soles of my feet.
Everything was interconnected.
In the past I would never have exerted myself, giving up at the first bit of challenge. The self-doubting voices within my head that used to tell me I was a ‘failure’, had fallen down and been washed away. The walk back up was now a welcomed idea. I could imagine my mother laughing hearing me say that. The return trek was an incline towards a new adventure, with the chance to unearth new beauty. With a parting glance, I began my ascent upwards, and I knew that it was possible for me to get to the top.
And your creative with my annotations in bold throughout:
Spoiler
Unearthed
Tasia Kuznichenko
The downward pressure of rushing water embraced me, as the pure energy of the streams flowed into my veins, injecting me with exhilaration and life. Incorporation of stimulus: check!
I had made it.
Ice-cold droplets banished the heat, releasing it from my body. Craning my head, I found my eyes sheltered from the stark sun, the lush foliage shading my remembrance of above. It triggered the journey I had undertaken before. The rocky path I followed, the one that had teased and coaxed me, for what was to come.
***
Overhead, the sky was suspended. At any moment, it could fall down upon me; its clouded grey pressing upon my skin and smothering the day from beginning. Fatigue had already set it. My pack was pulling me down, feeling like another body heaped upon my back. My rounded figure was cumbersome and slow. Never one of agility or grace, I learnt to dampen my athleticism. What was the point of dragging myself, to run, walk, or swim, out of my depth, when I could easily be comfortable at home? Forced to go along into the unknown, the trek was obviously not my idea. Stinging tears prevented a clear view, as I found myself focused on the panting of my own breath, mouth dry and parched. Pressing my lips together painfully, the permeating thought of; ‘I can’t do this,’ was lodged in my head. Awesome imagery here, I'm really being taken on a journey!
***
The high-pitched shrill of my alarm clock jarred me awake. Immediately, a sense of dread sunk to the pit of my stomach.
“Rise and shine!” My mother’s overly enthusiastic voice chirped.
She yanked open my curtains, allowing the blinding light to pour in. I tend to think "yank" is a bit of an awkward word because it is so colloquial, and kind of funny sounding. It is totally up to you, but consider, heaved, snatched, tugged, etc. Retreating to my dark shelter, I hid under the covers of my doona. The heavy weight of the bedcovers drowned out what my mother was saying. I only caught the tail end;
“…Stella you need to go, all the others are going, and you’ll be the only one left out.”
Determined, she began to grab my clothes and shove them into the hiking bag. My mother missed the presence of any trophies in my room; the bare shelves filled her with a certain failure of being a mother. It didn’t stop her greeting me after every school race,
‘Someone had to come first at the other end!’ I'm sensing that her mother is losing patience. The tone of the above quote about being left out seems to have an air of desperation and kind of "end of tether" about it. If this isn't your intention, then I suggest changing it. If it is your intention, perhaps explain that she is wearing thin on patience. Also, the room bare of trophies...to me this seems like the daughter and the mother are sad, but the mother thinks something can be changed, and Stella will achieve if she goes out on the hike. The failure as a mother thing seems a little extreme for this situation. I mean, it is a great reflection, but I don't know that it is most relevant for this situation here!
Her positivity was partly why my negativity would show its face on days like these. There was nothing that could rid the foreboding expectation of me today.
***
The group had carved an ashen trail, through the burnt leaves and blackened earth, the remnants of the bush’s scorched past. Just beautiful!Sharp twigs latched onto my legs, tearing the skin with their barren claws. My feet dragged themselves along the precarious path, as it was going into an even steeper decline. I began to lose my grip. I found myself slipping down, tipping over the cliff’s breaking point. I jolted my arms out abruptly, bracing the rock walls beside me. With no fear, I stopped my fall.
Time slowed down as thought the Earth slowed its rotation, everything captured in mid-evolution. An inbuilt desire inside me had been awoken by the fertile landscape that surrounded. Here, the colours of the bush were somehow brighter; it was evident to me that nature was resilient. The thin, ghosted branches that I had passed were now exposed with green, luscious leaves; rejuvenated. I looked out in front, the thriving undergrowth reaching and extending closer and closer towards me. Breathing in the sweet, honey like perfume of a fragile wattle, its fluffy blossoms tickled my nose. I watched as the breeze lifted the yellow flowers into the air, alongside a dragonfly humming with purpose. I was surprised to find my legs wanted to keep going. I wanted to keep going. Euphoria surged, cueing a new swiftness in my movement as I cascaded down the slope towards my destination, the gorge. I want to let you know that your writing here is just enough. It's just enough to be amazing, without being too much. The writing is so delicate, you should be proud.
Now my internal haze was pulled back like a veil – the reveal. My previous vision of myself was no longer reflected in the water in front of me. Looking back was a girl, dirt on her face, at one with nature. She held an air of maturity and a defiant stance, unmoved on the waters’ surface.
Although the waterfalls hurried down the jagged overhang, their fluidity was mesmerising. The water pounded rhythmically onto the rocks, reminding me of students running a race. I was in no rush to leave. I untied my heavy boots, and plunged my legs into the icy water. Every goose bump arose, dotting my skin with little capillaries, causing me to shiver. Cupping my hand, I drank the cool liquid, it felt like a healing balm to my raw throat. The streams drizzle imprinted the rocks with tiny brushstrokes of water – calligraphy; each bubbling sound, as soothing as my mother’s childhood stories. The underwater pebbles were slick beneath the soles of my feet.
Everything was interconnected. I think "connected" does the same job as interconnected here. Interconnected sounds a little too mechanical to be describing nature. I think you should consider linked, connected, dependent, etc. I mean, it totally isn't wrong to say interconnected! I'm just being so fussy because your work is so good, I want you to question these smaller things.
In the past I would never have exerted myself, giving up at the first bit of challenge. The self-doubting voices within my head that used to tell me I was a ‘failure’, had fallen down and been washed away. The walk back up was now a welcomed idea. I could imagine my mother laughing hearing me say that. The return trek was an incline towards a new adventure, with the chance to unearth new beauty. With a parting glance, I began my ascent upwards, and I knew that it was possible for me to get to the top.
Tasia Kuznichenko
The downward pressure of rushing water embraced me, as the pure energy of the streams flowed into my veins, injecting me with exhilaration and life. Incorporation of stimulus: check!
I had made it.
Ice-cold droplets banished the heat, releasing it from my body. Craning my head, I found my eyes sheltered from the stark sun, the lush foliage shading my remembrance of above. It triggered the journey I had undertaken before. The rocky path I followed, the one that had teased and coaxed me, for what was to come.
***
Overhead, the sky was suspended. At any moment, it could fall down upon me; its clouded grey pressing upon my skin and smothering the day from beginning. Fatigue had already set it. My pack was pulling me down, feeling like another body heaped upon my back. My rounded figure was cumbersome and slow. Never one of agility or grace, I learnt to dampen my athleticism. What was the point of dragging myself, to run, walk, or swim, out of my depth, when I could easily be comfortable at home? Forced to go along into the unknown, the trek was obviously not my idea. Stinging tears prevented a clear view, as I found myself focused on the panting of my own breath, mouth dry and parched. Pressing my lips together painfully, the permeating thought of; ‘I can’t do this,’ was lodged in my head. Awesome imagery here, I'm really being taken on a journey!
***
The high-pitched shrill of my alarm clock jarred me awake. Immediately, a sense of dread sunk to the pit of my stomach.
“Rise and shine!” My mother’s overly enthusiastic voice chirped.
She yanked open my curtains, allowing the blinding light to pour in. I tend to think "yank" is a bit of an awkward word because it is so colloquial, and kind of funny sounding. It is totally up to you, but consider, heaved, snatched, tugged, etc. Retreating to my dark shelter, I hid under the covers of my doona. The heavy weight of the bedcovers drowned out what my mother was saying. I only caught the tail end;
“…Stella you need to go, all the others are going, and you’ll be the only one left out.”
Determined, she began to grab my clothes and shove them into the hiking bag. My mother missed the presence of any trophies in my room; the bare shelves filled her with a certain failure of being a mother. It didn’t stop her greeting me after every school race,
‘Someone had to come first at the other end!’ I'm sensing that her mother is losing patience. The tone of the above quote about being left out seems to have an air of desperation and kind of "end of tether" about it. If this isn't your intention, then I suggest changing it. If it is your intention, perhaps explain that she is wearing thin on patience. Also, the room bare of trophies...to me this seems like the daughter and the mother are sad, but the mother thinks something can be changed, and Stella will achieve if she goes out on the hike. The failure as a mother thing seems a little extreme for this situation. I mean, it is a great reflection, but I don't know that it is most relevant for this situation here!
Her positivity was partly why my negativity would show its face on days like these. There was nothing that could rid the foreboding expectation of me today.
***
The group had carved an ashen trail, through the burnt leaves and blackened earth, the remnants of the bush’s scorched past. Just beautiful!Sharp twigs latched onto my legs, tearing the skin with their barren claws. My feet dragged themselves along the precarious path, as it was going into an even steeper decline. I began to lose my grip. I found myself slipping down, tipping over the cliff’s breaking point. I jolted my arms out abruptly, bracing the rock walls beside me. With no fear, I stopped my fall.
Time slowed down as thought the Earth slowed its rotation, everything captured in mid-evolution. An inbuilt desire inside me had been awoken by the fertile landscape that surrounded. Here, the colours of the bush were somehow brighter; it was evident to me that nature was resilient. The thin, ghosted branches that I had passed were now exposed with green, luscious leaves; rejuvenated. I looked out in front, the thriving undergrowth reaching and extending closer and closer towards me. Breathing in the sweet, honey like perfume of a fragile wattle, its fluffy blossoms tickled my nose. I watched as the breeze lifted the yellow flowers into the air, alongside a dragonfly humming with purpose. I was surprised to find my legs wanted to keep going. I wanted to keep going. Euphoria surged, cueing a new swiftness in my movement as I cascaded down the slope towards my destination, the gorge. I want to let you know that your writing here is just enough. It's just enough to be amazing, without being too much. The writing is so delicate, you should be proud.
Now my internal haze was pulled back like a veil – the reveal. My previous vision of myself was no longer reflected in the water in front of me. Looking back was a girl, dirt on her face, at one with nature. She held an air of maturity and a defiant stance, unmoved on the waters’ surface.
Although the waterfalls hurried down the jagged overhang, their fluidity was mesmerising. The water pounded rhythmically onto the rocks, reminding me of students running a race. I was in no rush to leave. I untied my heavy boots, and plunged my legs into the icy water. Every goose bump arose, dotting my skin with little capillaries, causing me to shiver. Cupping my hand, I drank the cool liquid, it felt like a healing balm to my raw throat. The streams drizzle imprinted the rocks with tiny brushstrokes of water – calligraphy; each bubbling sound, as soothing as my mother’s childhood stories. The underwater pebbles were slick beneath the soles of my feet.
Everything was interconnected. I think "connected" does the same job as interconnected here. Interconnected sounds a little too mechanical to be describing nature. I think you should consider linked, connected, dependent, etc. I mean, it totally isn't wrong to say interconnected! I'm just being so fussy because your work is so good, I want you to question these smaller things.
In the past I would never have exerted myself, giving up at the first bit of challenge. The self-doubting voices within my head that used to tell me I was a ‘failure’, had fallen down and been washed away. The walk back up was now a welcomed idea. I could imagine my mother laughing hearing me say that. The return trek was an incline towards a new adventure, with the chance to unearth new beauty. With a parting glance, I began my ascent upwards, and I knew that it was possible for me to get to the top.
Awesome!
I think the discovery is heightened by the last paragraph. The reflection is really important there and I think it is an important tool for your story, because whatever the stimulus requires of you, you can add to that section there. Obviously, you need to build it up throughout, but whatever type of discovery they ask for, you can really weave it into that last section.
To consider:
"Mother" sounds pretentious to the average teenager/Australian because you refer to your mum as your "mother" when she's being annoying or you are fancy. There is nothing wrong with using mother, I'm just asking you to consider the connotations of mother as opposed to mum, and decide which you think is best for your work!
I would keep this in the first person, it adds such an air of personal development which I think is important to your story being so relatable. I think this is a stellar (no pun intended :P) story and you should be really proud of it. Choose the words for your ending paragraph carefully in an exam, because that part brings your discovery home strong.
You should be so proud!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 15, 2016, 11:57:39 am
Hi, this is my creative writing story, I would just like to know if it is confusing or not?- in regards to tense.
Thank you so much for your patience! Usually we are a lot quicker with feedback but given the lectures we held earlier this week, we have a bit of backlog! I've read your comments in the word document, and I'll address them throughout :)
Your original story, without any annotations, is in this spoiler:
Spoiler
Lightning strikes through dark clouds and thunder shakes the neighbourhood. As I climb onto my bike, I thrust myself into the murky night. On the freeway, heading towards Rammington Bridge, I only have one intention. The wet road on the black tar skirts beneath my bike reflecting the hideous composure of my face. Accelerating, I pass a tree whose branches crumble to the ground, a symbol of my life. The sky flashes white again. Skidding to the side kerb, I stride purposely towards the bridge’s edge. Sweat drips down my face and an overwhelming sense of anxiety courses through my body. Overlooking the channel, a thousand memories flood into my mind. One, however, overpowers them all. The indistinguishable cold grip of pain that clutches at my very being. This wrenching torment needs to be over. The cold night air brushes against the misfortune on my face. I am resolute. Silence. Moments from plunging into the water, a jolt like no other sends streams through my body. Every artery and nerve screams. Lightning. Extreme heat courses throughout me. Within a fleeting moment, my surroundings transform.
I am in my room. The room an innocent boy lived for many years; an unrecognisable boy. The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. The same smells, but altered shadows. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. My body ceases. I see her and my vision starts to haze as her soft silhouette emerges from the light. Tingles run down my spine with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears. It finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state. My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for two years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’
The woman who I have not been able to touch for two years is now stroking my face with her soft, delicate hands. The warmth of her presence overwhelms me as I begin to feel myself fall back into the old life I once lived. The easy life. The life where I had a loving mother and no pain filled my body. But after that one day, the day my mother was ripped out of my arms, I was no longer pain free.
It was a windy night. Mum and I were filled with excitement as we drove closer towards Bon Jovi’s concert. As we drove along Rammington road we became aware of the storm brewing outside. Moments later, my life changed forever. Gushes of wind lifted the car and it felt like a roller-coaster as we were tossed into the water. The icy water filled the car and began to take me under its power. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water rushed in. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I saw her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’d seen a ghost. I screamed ‘Mum!!’, but her eyes remained distant. It was too late. Her body was as cold as ice and whiter than I had ever seen it before. Her jaw was open as if she was trying to grasp just one tiny bit of oxygen. But she never got the chance, because of me. Tears filled my eyes as they disappeared into the water that withheld my mother’s spirit. My chest physically hurt, my heart felt as though somebody was trying to rip it apart. From that moment onwards, that heartache never went away, until now. Right here, my mother begins to speak to me again, snapping me out of my reminiscent state.
‘You have to stop blaming yourself Em. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’.
I snuggle into my mother’s arms as I feel comfort from the rise and fall of her chest. Cuddling up as though she was the puzzle to my heart that needed filling all this time. Her warmth makes me feel forever safe as happiness roams through my body. If only I could freeze time. The world becomes cruel again as I feel the blurriness ease back into my vision. My revelation begins to fade in front of my eyes, and my senses become numb as I find myself less connected to the warmth mum emits.
I turn to claim reassurance from mum. ‘NO!’ my vocal chords shatter as I scream towards the empty room. This can’t be happening again, she can’t be ripped out of my arms all over again!? A much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I am drowning, with no one around. Memories, back in my head as I try to comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. The next thing I know my body is swimming to the surface. My mind encumbers so many thoughts, but one particular voice seems to stand out the most. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. Pushing the water behind me, I seek refuge upon the side bank. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, arms and legs stretched out like an angel. Looking up at the stars my eyes catch a glimpse of an enormous scar on my chest. It is formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. I no longer feel the ache in my chest. Through being struck, I was able to receive everything that I have needed for a long time. Closure.
I am in my room. The room an innocent boy lived for many years; an unrecognisable boy. The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. The same smells, but altered shadows. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. My body ceases. I see her and my vision starts to haze as her soft silhouette emerges from the light. Tingles run down my spine with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears. It finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state. My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for two years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’
The woman who I have not been able to touch for two years is now stroking my face with her soft, delicate hands. The warmth of her presence overwhelms me as I begin to feel myself fall back into the old life I once lived. The easy life. The life where I had a loving mother and no pain filled my body. But after that one day, the day my mother was ripped out of my arms, I was no longer pain free.
It was a windy night. Mum and I were filled with excitement as we drove closer towards Bon Jovi’s concert. As we drove along Rammington road we became aware of the storm brewing outside. Moments later, my life changed forever. Gushes of wind lifted the car and it felt like a roller-coaster as we were tossed into the water. The icy water filled the car and began to take me under its power. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water rushed in. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I saw her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’d seen a ghost. I screamed ‘Mum!!’, but her eyes remained distant. It was too late. Her body was as cold as ice and whiter than I had ever seen it before. Her jaw was open as if she was trying to grasp just one tiny bit of oxygen. But she never got the chance, because of me. Tears filled my eyes as they disappeared into the water that withheld my mother’s spirit. My chest physically hurt, my heart felt as though somebody was trying to rip it apart. From that moment onwards, that heartache never went away, until now. Right here, my mother begins to speak to me again, snapping me out of my reminiscent state.
‘You have to stop blaming yourself Em. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’.
I snuggle into my mother’s arms as I feel comfort from the rise and fall of her chest. Cuddling up as though she was the puzzle to my heart that needed filling all this time. Her warmth makes me feel forever safe as happiness roams through my body. If only I could freeze time. The world becomes cruel again as I feel the blurriness ease back into my vision. My revelation begins to fade in front of my eyes, and my senses become numb as I find myself less connected to the warmth mum emits.
I turn to claim reassurance from mum. ‘NO!’ my vocal chords shatter as I scream towards the empty room. This can’t be happening again, she can’t be ripped out of my arms all over again!? A much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I am drowning, with no one around. Memories, back in my head as I try to comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. The next thing I know my body is swimming to the surface. My mind encumbers so many thoughts, but one particular voice seems to stand out the most. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. Pushing the water behind me, I seek refuge upon the side bank. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, arms and legs stretched out like an angel. Looking up at the stars my eyes catch a glimpse of an enormous scar on my chest. It is formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. I no longer feel the ache in my chest. Through being struck, I was able to receive everything that I have needed for a long time. Closure.
Now, your creative with my own annotations in bold font throughout:
Spoiler
Lightning strikes through dark clouds and thunder shakes the neighbourhood. Consider the meaning of neighbourhood as opposed to suburb. If your story details a tight-knit community, then use neighbourhood. If it is simply a setting for a smaller plot to take place, I suggest using suburb or town (depending on country setting as well) to reflect that in the connotations of the noun :) As I climb onto my bike, I thrust myself into the murky night. Love this imagery! On the freeway, heading towards Rammington Bridge, I only have one intention. The wet road on the black tar skirts beneath my bike reflecting the hideous composure of my face. This imagery isn't exactly clear to me - I'm not making the connection with the face? Accelerating, I pass a tree whose branches crumble to the ground, a symbol of my life. The sky flashes white again. Skidding to the side kerb, I stride purposely towards the bridge’s edge. Sweat drips down my face and an overwhelming sense of anxiety courses through my body. I'm suggesting that you re-evaluate the "sweat drips down my face" just for the reason that it is a cliche image. You can definitely still talk about sweat on the face, but potentially do it in a more unusual way. Like getting sweat in your eyes, or your brows moistening, for example. Overlooking the channel, a thousand memories flood into my mind. One, however, overpowers them all. The indistinguishable cold grip of pain that clutches at my very being. This wrenching torment needs to be over. The cold night air brushes against the misfortune on my face. I am resolute. Silence. Moments from plunging into the water, a jolt like no other sends streams through my body. Every artery and nerve screams. Lightning. Extreme heat courses throughout me. Within a fleeting moment, my surroundings transform.
I am in my room. The room an innocent boy lived for many years; an unrecognisable boy. The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. The same smells, but altered shadows. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. My body ceases. I see her and my vision starts to haze as her soft silhouette emerges from the light. Tingles run down my spine with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears. It finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state. My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for two years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’The woman who I have not been able to touch for two years is now stroking my face with her soft, delicate hands. The warmth of her presence overwhelms me as I begin to feel myself fall back into the old life I once lived. The easy life. The life where I had a loving mother and no pain filled my body. But after that one day, the day my mother was ripped out of my arms, I was no longer pain free.
It was a windy night. Mum and I were filled with excitement as we drove closer towards Bon Jovi’s concert. As we drove along Rammington road we became aware of the storm brewing outside. Moments later, my life changed forever. Gushes of wind lifted the car and it felt like a roller-coaster as we were tossed into the water. The icy water filled the car and began to take me under its power. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water rushed in. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I saw her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’d seen a ghost. A cliche - consider rewriting this in a more intensely fresh way. I screamed ‘Mum!!’, but her eyes remained distant. Did you scream underwater? Or did you scream in your head? Make this clear for a reader so that they can follow the trauma experienced. Whenever you shout/yell/talk, it needs a new line, and it needs quotation marks and not apostrophes :)It was too late. Her body was as cold as ice A cliche - consider rephrasing. and whiter than I had ever seen it before. Her jaw was open as if she was trying to grasp just one tiny bit of oxygen. But she never got the chance, because of me. This seems like a dramatic emphasis of blame. And I'm sure in reality this could happen, but I think the trick to making it believable and follow-able for a reader is to start a new paragraph, give it a break to digest, and then follow through with a reflection about self blame. Tears filled my eyes as they disappeared into the water that withheld my mother’s spirit. I'm not entirely sure where you are - are you in the water, floating? Are you no longer in the water? I think it is best you clarify this so that the reader can understand the text in the exact way you intend it :) My chest physically hurt, my heart felt as though somebody was trying to rip it apart. From that moment onwards, that heartache never went away, until now. Right here, my mother begins to speak to me again, snapping me out of my reminiscent state. I understand the shift in tense! But it does need the break before the next paragraph starts to make it clear.
Give yourself a few empty lines here to show a shift in time and place.
‘You have to stop blaming yourself Em. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’.
I snuggle into my mother’s arms as I feel comfort from the rise and fall of her chest. Cuddling up as though she was the puzzle to my heart that needed filling all this time. Her warmth makes me feel forever safe as happiness roams through my body. If only I could freeze time. The world becomes cruel again as I feel the blurriness ease back into my vision. My revelation begins to fade in front of my eyes, and my senses become numb as I find myself less connected to the warmth mum emits.
I turn to claim reassurance from mum. I think it needs to be made clear that you are physically turning to claim reassurance, so that it is clear you feel that she is honestly with you in more than just spirit for this moment. ‘NO!’ my vocal chords shatter as I scream towards the empty room. This can’t be happening again, she can’t be ripped out of my arms all over again!? A much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I am drowning, with no one around. Memories, back in my head as I try to comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. The next thing I know "The next thing I know" is kind of like a writer's short cut to flicking between action. With some careful thinking, I think you may be able to adjust this to show a marker your writing ability in a stronger way. my body is swimming to the surface. My mind encumbers so many thoughts, but one particular voice seems to stand out the most. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. Pushing the water behind me, I seek refuge upon the side bank. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, arms and legs stretched out like an angel. Looking up at the stars my eyes catch a glimpse of an enormous scar on my chest. It is formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. I no longer feel the ache in my chest. Through being struck, I was able to receive everything that I have needed for a long time. Closure.
I am in my room. The room an innocent boy lived for many years; an unrecognisable boy. The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. The same smells, but altered shadows. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. My body ceases. I see her and my vision starts to haze as her soft silhouette emerges from the light. Tingles run down my spine with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears. It finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state. My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for two years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’
Spoiler
This needs to be on its own line, but also in quotation marks and not apostrophes :)
It was a windy night. Mum and I were filled with excitement as we drove closer towards Bon Jovi’s concert. As we drove along Rammington road we became aware of the storm brewing outside. Moments later, my life changed forever. Gushes of wind lifted the car and it felt like a roller-coaster as we were tossed into the water. The icy water filled the car and began to take me under its power. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water rushed in. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I saw her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’d seen a ghost. A cliche - consider rewriting this in a more intensely fresh way. I screamed ‘Mum!!’, but her eyes remained distant. Did you scream underwater? Or did you scream in your head? Make this clear for a reader so that they can follow the trauma experienced. Whenever you shout/yell/talk, it needs a new line, and it needs quotation marks and not apostrophes :)It was too late. Her body was as cold as ice A cliche - consider rephrasing. and whiter than I had ever seen it before. Her jaw was open as if she was trying to grasp just one tiny bit of oxygen. But she never got the chance, because of me. This seems like a dramatic emphasis of blame. And I'm sure in reality this could happen, but I think the trick to making it believable and follow-able for a reader is to start a new paragraph, give it a break to digest, and then follow through with a reflection about self blame. Tears filled my eyes as they disappeared into the water that withheld my mother’s spirit. I'm not entirely sure where you are - are you in the water, floating? Are you no longer in the water? I think it is best you clarify this so that the reader can understand the text in the exact way you intend it :) My chest physically hurt, my heart felt as though somebody was trying to rip it apart. From that moment onwards, that heartache never went away, until now. Right here, my mother begins to speak to me again, snapping me out of my reminiscent state. I understand the shift in tense! But it does need the break before the next paragraph starts to make it clear.
Give yourself a few empty lines here to show a shift in time and place.
‘You have to stop blaming yourself Em. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’.
I snuggle into my mother’s arms as I feel comfort from the rise and fall of her chest. Cuddling up as though she was the puzzle to my heart that needed filling all this time. Her warmth makes me feel forever safe as happiness roams through my body. If only I could freeze time. The world becomes cruel again as I feel the blurriness ease back into my vision. My revelation begins to fade in front of my eyes, and my senses become numb as I find myself less connected to the warmth mum emits.
I turn to claim reassurance from mum. I think it needs to be made clear that you are physically turning to claim reassurance, so that it is clear you feel that she is honestly with you in more than just spirit for this moment. ‘NO!’ my vocal chords shatter as I scream towards the empty room. This can’t be happening again, she can’t be ripped out of my arms all over again!? A much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I am drowning, with no one around. Memories, back in my head as I try to comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. The next thing I know "The next thing I know" is kind of like a writer's short cut to flicking between action. With some careful thinking, I think you may be able to adjust this to show a marker your writing ability in a stronger way. my body is swimming to the surface. My mind encumbers so many thoughts, but one particular voice seems to stand out the most. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. Pushing the water behind me, I seek refuge upon the side bank. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, arms and legs stretched out like an angel. Looking up at the stars my eyes catch a glimpse of an enormous scar on my chest. It is formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. I no longer feel the ache in my chest. Through being struck, I was able to receive everything that I have needed for a long time. Closure.
End Notes:
I think the transition between scenes isn't always clear. When you appear back in the loungeroom, I think you should describe the furniture or something that distinguishes it from other rooms so that it is clear where you are. On top of this, I think that each setting change needs a few empty lines to separate the paragraphs. That's important too - just for the purpose of moving between scenes with ease! Also, I think it is important, from a plot perspective, to consider how the discovery plays out. There is a lot of time spent detailing the accident, and then it flicks almost immediately into her mum visiting her in spirit. I think the discovery would be enhanced if there was a period in there where the reader comes to understand exactly how devastating it is for the protagonist to deal with the guilt of seemingly not doing enough for her mum. I think this could be substituted for some of the beginning section, looking at the actual accident itself.
You having a very original story here which is awesome for your marks! I hink the next step is connecting things together in a smooth transition and reviewing the plot order. Then, you're on your way! Best of luck! Please clarify anything that you're unsure of :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 15, 2016, 12:22:49 pm
Hello! can you please give me any feedback on this creative writing piece for my english esl class thanks :)
You have been invited to a local council meeting as a student representative, to present your ideas and make recommendations on implementing initiatives to minimise issues affecting young Australians (for example obesity, mental health, bullying)
Hi there! Thank you so much for your patience! We have a bit of a back log this week so I really appreciate you hanging around for a response. I haven't marked an ESL task yet, so I'm super excited to have a look at this one! If I'm off the mark in my response, please let me know and I can review it with a different lens :)
Original:
Spoiler
You have been invited to a local council meeting as a student representative, to present your ideas and make recommendations on implementing initiatives to minimise issues affecting young Australians (for example obesity, mental health, bullying)
Good afternoon Miss (name) and fellow students. Today I will be expressing and petitioning on making a change to issues such as bullying and mental health problems which are damaging young people’s lives. Mental health is a person’s condition with regard to their psychological and emotional well-being. According to Beyond Blues, ‘One in six young Australians is currently experiencing an anxiety condition. And one in four young Australians currently has a mental health condition’. Could you believe that Suicide is the biggest killer of young Australians and accounts for the deaths of more young people. Yet, some common catalyst contributing to the issue of mental health are bullying and stress from school.
It has been proven by several research that bullying is linked to many negative outcomes including impacts on mental health, substance use, and suicide and these issues may persist in adulthood. Many people retain horrible memories of high school, due to the bullying they experienced. Teenage bullying is a very real problem in schools. There are many different types of bullying, including verbal and emotional bullying and all these types of bullying can have a large impact on student. In relation to this context, I met someone we were talking about school and she said she dropped out of year 10 because she was bullied by other students and became anxious and unhappy to attend school. As a result, decided to quit. In reference to this story I hope you’ve realised how detrimental bullying can do to individuals. Her future of getting better education leading to good career has now turned into hate instead due to minority group of people.
Similarly, high expectations from students is known to be the cause of mental health problems in teenagers. Students stress out due to high expectations of achievement from their parent, teachers and themselves. According to a study conducted by ‘UNSW’ these stress and pressure contribute to students performing poorly instead of achieving high. According to the studies, ‘the 722 students surveyed, 42% were registered with high-level of anxiety symptoms, high enough to be of clinical concern’. This values indicate how critical the issue is and we have to do something as a community to minimise or end it if possible.
You might probably be thinking how? Well in relation to bullying in school, the government has systems such as school councillors but this does not stop the problem. I believe the government should implement a strict rule in all school across Australia that anyone found bullying someone will get detention, suspended or even the police will be involve depending on the level of harm. Students should also be critically educated about the impact of bullying on Individuals. And by this, we should see some improvements.
However, stress and anxiety from high expectations of achievement can be minimise by providing extra curriculum for year 12 students that will teach them techniques to control stress from school or there could be additional study period where teachers could help students with the work they are struggling with. Parents could also be informed about the ramifications of too much pressure on students and they should be given strategies they could use to help their child deal with high school.
With all these measures, the level of stress can be reduced and the number of students being reported with mental health issue can be dropped.
Thank you very much
Good afternoon Miss (name) and fellow students. Today I will be expressing and petitioning on making a change to issues such as bullying and mental health problems which are damaging young people’s lives. Mental health is a person’s condition with regard to their psychological and emotional well-being. According to Beyond Blues, ‘One in six young Australians is currently experiencing an anxiety condition. And one in four young Australians currently has a mental health condition’. Could you believe that Suicide is the biggest killer of young Australians and accounts for the deaths of more young people. Yet, some common catalyst contributing to the issue of mental health are bullying and stress from school.
It has been proven by several research that bullying is linked to many negative outcomes including impacts on mental health, substance use, and suicide and these issues may persist in adulthood. Many people retain horrible memories of high school, due to the bullying they experienced. Teenage bullying is a very real problem in schools. There are many different types of bullying, including verbal and emotional bullying and all these types of bullying can have a large impact on student. In relation to this context, I met someone we were talking about school and she said she dropped out of year 10 because she was bullied by other students and became anxious and unhappy to attend school. As a result, decided to quit. In reference to this story I hope you’ve realised how detrimental bullying can do to individuals. Her future of getting better education leading to good career has now turned into hate instead due to minority group of people.
Similarly, high expectations from students is known to be the cause of mental health problems in teenagers. Students stress out due to high expectations of achievement from their parent, teachers and themselves. According to a study conducted by ‘UNSW’ these stress and pressure contribute to students performing poorly instead of achieving high. According to the studies, ‘the 722 students surveyed, 42% were registered with high-level of anxiety symptoms, high enough to be of clinical concern’. This values indicate how critical the issue is and we have to do something as a community to minimise or end it if possible.
You might probably be thinking how? Well in relation to bullying in school, the government has systems such as school councillors but this does not stop the problem. I believe the government should implement a strict rule in all school across Australia that anyone found bullying someone will get detention, suspended or even the police will be involve depending on the level of harm. Students should also be critically educated about the impact of bullying on Individuals. And by this, we should see some improvements.
However, stress and anxiety from high expectations of achievement can be minimise by providing extra curriculum for year 12 students that will teach them techniques to control stress from school or there could be additional study period where teachers could help students with the work they are struggling with. Parents could also be informed about the ramifications of too much pressure on students and they should be given strategies they could use to help their child deal with high school.
With all these measures, the level of stress can be reduced and the number of students being reported with mental health issue can be dropped.
Thank you very much
With my feedback in bold font throughout:
Spoiler
You have been invited to a local council meeting as a student representative, to present your ideas and make recommendations on implementing initiatives to minimise issues affecting young Australians (for example obesity, mental health, bullying)
Good afternoon Miss (name) and fellow students. Today I will be expressing and petitioning I think using "expressing and petitioning on..." doesn't sound clear. Perhaps, "I will be petitioning for a change in issues such as..." on making a change to issues such as bullying and mental health problems which are damaging young people’s lives. Mental health is a person’s condition with regard to their psychological and emotional well-being. According to identify who they are (charity, for-profit organisation, whichever category they fit)Beyond Blues, ‘One in six young Australiansis are (just a small grammar thing) currently experiencing an anxiety condition. And one in four young Australians currently has have a mental health condition’. Could you believe that Suicide is the biggest killer of young Australians and accounts for the deaths of more young people.? (This needs a question mark because it is a rhetorical question. Great use of the question! Yet, some common catalysts contributing to the issue of mental health are bullying and stress from school.
It has been proven by several research papers/authorities/researchers that bullying is linked to many negative outcomes including impacts on mental health, substance abuse, and suicide, and these issues may persistin through to adulthood. Many people retain horrible memories of high school, due to the bullying they experienced. Teenage bullying is a very real problem in schools. There are many different types of bullying, including verbal and emotional bullying and all these types of bullying can have a large impact on student. In relation to this context, I met someone and we were talking about school. andI'm just suggesting that you start a new sentence here for clarity. She said she dropped out of year 10 because she was bullied by other students and became anxious and unhappy to attend school. As a result, she decided to quit. In reference to this story I hope you’ve realised how detrimental bullying can do be to individuals. Her future of getting better education leading to good career has now turned into hate instead due to minority group of people. I suggest rephrasing this last sentence to something like this: "The bright future of education, potentially leading to a solid career, has been hindered by the hateful actions of a minority group."
Similarly, high expectations from students is known to be the cause of mental health problems in teenagers. Students stress out due to high expectations of achievement from their parent, teachers and themselves. According to a study conducted by ‘UNSW’these this stress and pressure contributes to students performing poorly instead of achieving high. According to the studies, ‘the 722 students surveyed, 42% were registered with high-level of anxiety symptoms, high enough to be of clinical concern’. This values indicate how critical the issue is and we have to do something as a community to minimise or end it if possible. Awesome!
You might probably be thinking how? Well in relation to bullying in school, the government has systems such as school councillors but this does not stop the problem, although it has improved it. I believe the government should implement a strict rule in all school across Australia that anyone found bullying someone will get detention, suspended or even the police will be involve depending on the level of harm. Students should also be critically educated about the impact of bullying on Individuals. And by this, we should see some improvements.
However, stress and anxiety from high expectations of achievement can be minimised by providing an extra curriculum for year 12 students that will teach them techniques to control stress from school or there could be additional study period where teachers could help students with the work they are struggling with, outside the classroom. Parents could also be informed about the ramifications of too much pressure on students and they should be given strategies they could use to help their child deal with high school and the associated pressures..
With all these measures, the level of stress can be reduced and the number of students being reported with mental health issue can be dropped.
Thank you very much
Good afternoon Miss (name) and fellow students. Today I will be expressing and petitioning I think using "expressing and petitioning on..." doesn't sound clear. Perhaps, "I will be petitioning for a change in issues such as..." on making a change to issues such as bullying and mental health problems which are damaging young people’s lives. Mental health is a person’s condition with regard to their psychological and emotional well-being. According to identify who they are (charity, for-profit organisation, whichever category they fit)Beyond Blues, ‘One in six young Australians
It has been proven by several research papers/authorities/researchers that bullying is linked to many negative outcomes including impacts on mental health, substance abuse, and suicide, and these issues may persist
Similarly, high expectations from students is known to be the cause of mental health problems in teenagers. Students stress out due to high expectations of achievement from their parent, teachers and themselves. According to a study conducted by ‘UNSW’
You might probably be thinking how? Well in relation to bullying in school, the government has systems such as school councillors but this does not stop the problem, although it has improved it. I believe the government should implement a strict rule in all school across Australia that anyone found bullying someone will get detention, suspended or even the police will be involve depending on the level of harm. Students should also be critically educated about the impact of bullying on Individuals. And by this, we should see some improvements.
However, stress and anxiety from high expectations of achievement can be minimised by providing an extra curriculum for year 12 students that will teach them techniques to control stress from school or there could be additional study period where teachers could help students with the work they are struggling with, outside the classroom. Parents could also be informed about the ramifications of too much pressure on students and they should be given strategies they could use to help their child deal with high school and the associated pressures..
With all these measures, the level of stress can be reduced and the number of students being reported with mental health issue can be dropped.
Thank you very much
You've done an incredible job here! The suggestions are mainly based around tense. I know how difficult it is to be correct with tense in a second language, so you've done an amazing job, with just a few tweaks. A few times I suggested that you rearrange the sentence, just for the purpose of clarity. Look carefully at the response, I have put in some comments that are as small as just one letter, in bold font, to correct your work. Please ask any more questions you may have. All the best! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 15, 2016, 02:52:33 pm
Heyy could you please check my AOS creative? I'm not sure if the recollection structure is a good structure choice, and I have been told that I tell rather than show and I'm not too sure how to fix it.
Thank you! :)
Hello! I'd love to take a look at your work and move through it with you! Although, before we can do that, I need you to make 4 more posts on the site. We have a policy of 5 posts = marked work. You can read more about it in the link in my signature below! It is super easy to make 4 posts, you just need to comment on different threads asking questions, answering questions, adding to the conversation, etc. Not hard to do! Just let me know when you've done that and I'll jump back to your work :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 15, 2016, 02:59:21 pm
Hi, can you please read over my creative writing peace and let me know on areas to improve on?
Thanks
Hey Sarah! I definitely want to check out your work. Before I do that, I need you to make 4 more posts on our site in order to comply with our marking guidelines! Basically, anywhere you want on the site, you just need to ask a question, answer a question, give some feedback, etc. That's all there is to it! For every 5 posts, you qualify to have an extensive piece of work marked :) If you want to read more about this, check out the link in my signature below! There are different threads for every subject, but also more general threads where you can discuss whatever you like! Please let me know if you need assistance, and then let me know when you've completed that and I will jump on to give you creative feedback! :)
Post by: brontem on July 15, 2016, 03:05:58 pm
It's quite different again this time (I might be going in the wrong direction..), please be harsh and pull it apart, tell me where to improve :D
Thank you so much!! :) :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 15, 2016, 04:01:17 pm
Hey,
can you please read through my creative and advise me one what i should add or subtract?
Thank You so much for your time!
Hello! I absolutely can have a look at your creative piece!
Here it is, unedited, with no comments:
Spoiler
Noise and commotion. Relatives constantly talking over the top of each other. The perpetual smell of cinnamon wafting through the air.
They were the only memories I had of Pakistan. My parents always tried to cast my mind back to my childhood in Karachi – Sundays at the market, guests always at the house and overnight train rides to see my grandparents in Quetta. When I saw my father’s eyes welling up in nostalgia or my mother sighing at old photos I tried so hard to remember for them. But I never could. It always gnawed away at me. Why couldn’t they just accept that we weren’t there anymore?
Now, gazing out the car window at the green pastures dotted with bright-coloured farmhouses, I couldn’t picture a place any different. I had no desire to either. The teenage years of my life defined me, and they were spent here, the first six years seemed like just a broken dream.
When we arrived at school I climbed out and watched as the car pulled away, gradually becoming smaller until it was no more than a speck.
***
The other students treated me like a novelty. Wherever I walked in the school I had at least ten pairs of uniform blue or green eyes following me, watching with interest. The unimaginable horror when forced to speak out was only surpassed by the teasing that would ensue. Suffice to say, my efforts to conceal my accent failed. Miserably. My best friend, Lucy, caught the bus to school and played sport on the weekends; I was taken to school by both parents and spent Sundays driving to our closest Mosque over an hour away.
At lunchtime, I swapped my hot chickpea stew for Lucy’s perfectly dressed Caesar salad – it was our daily ritual.
“You always have the best food, Sabine.” I didn’t respond. “What’s up? You haven’t been yourself all day.”
“It’s just – my parents,” I hesitated. “They live in such an enclosed bubble, and they’re trying so hard to hold me there too. My father thinks I’m ashamed of being ethnic. God, I hate that word so much. Ethnic.”
“That’s not entirely untrue though, is it? Your being ashamed, I mean?” Lucy asked gently. Her amber eyes had a softness to them. She tried to understand, but without ever visiting the land of too many spices and too few clean toilets, that was an impossibility.
I looked out at the school courts, where most of our class was playing football.
“I guess not.”
***
When I came into the kitchen that night, my father was sitting at the head of the table staring into an ancient laptop; face wrinkled in concentration- A rare occurrence. As I helped my mother set the table for lentil lamb soup, he suddenly exclaimed, “That’s it! Sanah, it is perfect. This flight goes directly to Karachi. Then she can take the train to Quetta like we always used to...” he trailed off when he saw my expression.
“We are not moving back to Pakistan. You don’t have to worry,” he said bitterly.
The next hour was spent with both parents interchangeably explaining their profound plans for me to spend summer with my grandparents.
After their deliberation, my parents looked at me expectedly while I just sat there… dumbfounded. “You can’t...you can’t do that. I...I don’t want to go,” I managed to croak out. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my home for that long. I didn’t understand their twisted reasoning. I knew my grandparents would take one look at me and shake their heads at how “Westernised” I’d become. I didn’t want to be “shipped off,” as the kids from school would undoubtedly describe it.
My mother interrupted my thoughts. “Sabine, please. Just do one thing for this family; that is all we ask. You haven’t the slightest idea how much your grandparents miss you and want to see you,” her voice wavered as she spoke.
My heart and mind resisted with all their might, but I found myself nodding in defeat.
***
It was my first time on a plane since we had moved to Australia ten years before. It was strange to see what I call home to shrink into an insignificant speck. I imagined my parents standing below in our backyard pointing up at the sky. I wished one of them could be in my place right now.
After a grueling flight and train journey, I came to face my grandparents at the Quetta railway station. The gnawing in my stomach wouldn’t halt – not knowing what to say, and wondering whether they would even recognise me. But I needn’t have worried, as they spotted me immediately and I was in their embrace within a matter of seconds. “Finally.” My grandmother whispered through tears. “Finally you’re here.” As we held each other, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, almost like arriving home at night after a difficult day. They both looked exactly like their photo on the mantelpiece in our living room.
On my first day in Pakistan, the three of us spent half the night talking, and this continued almost every day afterwards. My grandparents wanted to hear every detail about my life, and after about a week I began to ask them questions too.
On my last night we went to an Eid Festival. As I put on my jeans, my grandmother looked at me in horror.
“Sabine, we are going to celebrate Eid. You must wear this,” she handed me a deep blue sari. “Haven’t your parents told you about Eid?”
I looked at the ground sheepishly. “They probably have, so many times. I mustn’t have been listening.”
Walking through the night-lit streets of Eid Festival, I realised that I had never seen so much colour in my life. Billowing yellow paper lanterns hung across gnarled oak branches, lighting up the deepest alcoves of the trees. The women wore flowing brightly coloured, beaded saris, their arms covered in intricate henna patterns; the men wore lose linen blouses and embellished drawstring pants.
My grandfather walked beside me.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. I never thought I’d admit it, but I wanted more than anything to stay for longer. The six weeks had passed in a blur and I had only just begun to reach some level of understanding.
***
Fruit and vegetable bazaars pulsating with the rhythms of everyday life. Endless hues of blue, green, red and gold. My grandparents’ modest but beautiful house nestled between others of its kind. Home.
They were only a fraction of the images I had of Pakistan. My mind overflowed with knowledge, memories and self-recognition. Next time my parents reminisced about our life in Pakistan, I wouldn’t turn my head away in discomfort. Instead, I would add to their recollections of the exuberant place. I would add photos to our albums, stories to the dinner table conversations and regard my parents with admiration; never shame.
They were the only memories I had of Pakistan. My parents always tried to cast my mind back to my childhood in Karachi – Sundays at the market, guests always at the house and overnight train rides to see my grandparents in Quetta. When I saw my father’s eyes welling up in nostalgia or my mother sighing at old photos I tried so hard to remember for them. But I never could. It always gnawed away at me. Why couldn’t they just accept that we weren’t there anymore?
Now, gazing out the car window at the green pastures dotted with bright-coloured farmhouses, I couldn’t picture a place any different. I had no desire to either. The teenage years of my life defined me, and they were spent here, the first six years seemed like just a broken dream.
When we arrived at school I climbed out and watched as the car pulled away, gradually becoming smaller until it was no more than a speck.
***
The other students treated me like a novelty. Wherever I walked in the school I had at least ten pairs of uniform blue or green eyes following me, watching with interest. The unimaginable horror when forced to speak out was only surpassed by the teasing that would ensue. Suffice to say, my efforts to conceal my accent failed. Miserably. My best friend, Lucy, caught the bus to school and played sport on the weekends; I was taken to school by both parents and spent Sundays driving to our closest Mosque over an hour away.
At lunchtime, I swapped my hot chickpea stew for Lucy’s perfectly dressed Caesar salad – it was our daily ritual.
“You always have the best food, Sabine.” I didn’t respond. “What’s up? You haven’t been yourself all day.”
“It’s just – my parents,” I hesitated. “They live in such an enclosed bubble, and they’re trying so hard to hold me there too. My father thinks I’m ashamed of being ethnic. God, I hate that word so much. Ethnic.”
“That’s not entirely untrue though, is it? Your being ashamed, I mean?” Lucy asked gently. Her amber eyes had a softness to them. She tried to understand, but without ever visiting the land of too many spices and too few clean toilets, that was an impossibility.
I looked out at the school courts, where most of our class was playing football.
“I guess not.”
***
When I came into the kitchen that night, my father was sitting at the head of the table staring into an ancient laptop; face wrinkled in concentration- A rare occurrence. As I helped my mother set the table for lentil lamb soup, he suddenly exclaimed, “That’s it! Sanah, it is perfect. This flight goes directly to Karachi. Then she can take the train to Quetta like we always used to...” he trailed off when he saw my expression.
“We are not moving back to Pakistan. You don’t have to worry,” he said bitterly.
The next hour was spent with both parents interchangeably explaining their profound plans for me to spend summer with my grandparents.
After their deliberation, my parents looked at me expectedly while I just sat there… dumbfounded. “You can’t...you can’t do that. I...I don’t want to go,” I managed to croak out. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my home for that long. I didn’t understand their twisted reasoning. I knew my grandparents would take one look at me and shake their heads at how “Westernised” I’d become. I didn’t want to be “shipped off,” as the kids from school would undoubtedly describe it.
My mother interrupted my thoughts. “Sabine, please. Just do one thing for this family; that is all we ask. You haven’t the slightest idea how much your grandparents miss you and want to see you,” her voice wavered as she spoke.
My heart and mind resisted with all their might, but I found myself nodding in defeat.
***
It was my first time on a plane since we had moved to Australia ten years before. It was strange to see what I call home to shrink into an insignificant speck. I imagined my parents standing below in our backyard pointing up at the sky. I wished one of them could be in my place right now.
After a grueling flight and train journey, I came to face my grandparents at the Quetta railway station. The gnawing in my stomach wouldn’t halt – not knowing what to say, and wondering whether they would even recognise me. But I needn’t have worried, as they spotted me immediately and I was in their embrace within a matter of seconds. “Finally.” My grandmother whispered through tears. “Finally you’re here.” As we held each other, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, almost like arriving home at night after a difficult day. They both looked exactly like their photo on the mantelpiece in our living room.
On my first day in Pakistan, the three of us spent half the night talking, and this continued almost every day afterwards. My grandparents wanted to hear every detail about my life, and after about a week I began to ask them questions too.
On my last night we went to an Eid Festival. As I put on my jeans, my grandmother looked at me in horror.
“Sabine, we are going to celebrate Eid. You must wear this,” she handed me a deep blue sari. “Haven’t your parents told you about Eid?”
I looked at the ground sheepishly. “They probably have, so many times. I mustn’t have been listening.”
Walking through the night-lit streets of Eid Festival, I realised that I had never seen so much colour in my life. Billowing yellow paper lanterns hung across gnarled oak branches, lighting up the deepest alcoves of the trees. The women wore flowing brightly coloured, beaded saris, their arms covered in intricate henna patterns; the men wore lose linen blouses and embellished drawstring pants.
My grandfather walked beside me.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. I never thought I’d admit it, but I wanted more than anything to stay for longer. The six weeks had passed in a blur and I had only just begun to reach some level of understanding.
***
Fruit and vegetable bazaars pulsating with the rhythms of everyday life. Endless hues of blue, green, red and gold. My grandparents’ modest but beautiful house nestled between others of its kind. Home.
They were only a fraction of the images I had of Pakistan. My mind overflowed with knowledge, memories and self-recognition. Next time my parents reminisced about our life in Pakistan, I wouldn’t turn my head away in discomfort. Instead, I would add to their recollections of the exuberant place. I would add photos to our albums, stories to the dinner table conversations and regard my parents with admiration; never shame.
And here it is again, with my comments in bold font throughout:
Spoiler
Noise and commotion. Relatives constantly talking over the top of each other. The perpetual smell of cinnamon wafting through the air. I think you can do better than "perpetual." I think it describes that the cinnamon smell is ever-present, but I think the fact that you are mentioning it on the same level as people talking over each other, already tells me that it is perpetual. Consider actually describing the smell - that would be interesting! Describing the smell is something that I have definitely struggled with. Maybe if you used a simile, or maybe just an adjective. This opening is on a 9.5/10 in my books right now! I love how simple it is, but a real picture is being painted.
They were the only memories I had of Pakistan. My parents always tried to cast my mind back to my childhood in Karachi – Sundays at the market, guests always at the house and overnight train rides to see my grandparents in Quetta. When I saw my father’s eyes welling up in nostalgia or my mother sighing at old photos I tried so hard to remember for them. But I never could. It always gnawed away at me. Why couldn’t they just accept that we weren’t there anymore? I'm not sure if it gnaws away at you that your parents don't accept being in Pakistan anymore, or if it gnaws away at you that you can't remember, even if you want to. Both work well, but they both send a slightly different air to the reader. Consider rephrasing to be clear :)
Now, gazing out the car window at the green pastures dotted with bright-coloured farmhouses, I couldn’t picture a place any different. I had no desire to either. The teenage years of my life defined me, and they were spent here, the first six years seemed like just a broken dream.
When we arrived at school I climbed out and watched as the car pulled away, gradually becoming smaller until it was no more than a speck.
***
The other students treated me like a novelty. Wherever I walked in the school I had at least ten pairs of uniform blue or green eyes following me, watching with interest. The unimaginable horror when forced to speak out was only surpassed by the teasing that would ensue. Suffice to say, my efforts to conceal my accent failed. Miserably. My best friend, Lucy, caught the bus to school and played sport on the weekends; I was taken to school by both parents and spent Sundays driving to our closest Mosque over an hour away. I'm really following a beautiful comparison here!
At lunchtime, I swapped my hot chickpea stew for Lucy’s perfectly dressed Caesar salad – it was our daily ritual.
“You always have the best food, Sabine.” I didn’t respond. “What’s up? You haven’t been yourself all day.” I think you've chosen the names really well here (or maybe you didn't choose them - and this is based on real life?) You parallel Lucy with a Western salad, and Sabine's name with a chickpea stew. That's a very clever thing, you've connected weekend activities, to food, to names.
“It’s just – my parents,” I hesitated. “They live in such an enclosed bubble, and they’re trying so hard to hold me there too. My father thinks I’m ashamed of being ethnic. God, I hate that word so much. Ethnic.”
“That’s not entirely untrue though, is it? Your being ashamed, I mean?” Lucy asked gently. Her amber eyes had a softness to them. She tried to understand, but without ever visiting the land of too many spices and too few clean toilets, that was an impossibility. Too many spices and too few clean toilets! Haha! What awesome imagery I have in my head right now.
I looked out at the school courts, where most of our class was playing football.
“I guess not.”
***
When I came into the kitchen that night, my father was sitting at the head of the table staring into an ancient laptop; face wrinkled in concentration- A rare occurrence. I'm not entirely sure what the rare occurrence is - is it the being in concentration, the place at the table, or being on the laptop?As I helped my mother set the table for lentil lamb soup, he suddenly exclaimed, “That’s it! Sanah, it is perfect. This flight goes directly to Karachi. Then she can take the train to Quetta like we always used to...” he trailed off when he saw my expression.
“We are not moving back to Pakistan. You don’t have to worry,” he said bitterly.
The next hour was spent with both parents interchangeably explaining their profound plans for me to spend summer with my grandparents.
After their deliberation, my parents looked at me expectedly while I just sat there… dumbfounded. “You can’t...you can’t do that. I...I don’t want to go,” I managed to croak out. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my home for that long. I didn’t understand their twisted reasoning. I knew my grandparents would take one look at me and shake their heads at how “Westernised” I’d become. I didn’t want to be “shipped off,” as the kids from school would undoubtedly describe it.
My mother interrupted my thoughts. “Sabine, please. Just do one thing for this family; that is all we ask. You haven’t the slightest idea how much your grandparents miss you and want to see you,” her voice wavered as she spoke. I'm only putting this out there because it is abundantly clear that me that you are a great writer, and I want to kind of push you that tiny bit more to consider each and every little detail. Instead of her voice wavering - try do something more meaningful. This is borderline cliche - we know what it is like for a voice to waver. So, perhaps you could say she's spoken as softly as she used to when sharing bedtime stories in Pakistan, or she spoke with a guilt for not thinking of the grandparents enough. I think this is such a small space, but you can make it very meaningful.
My heart and mind resisted with all their might, but I found myself nodding in defeat.
***
It was my first time on a plane since we had moved to Australia ten years before. It was strange to see what I call home to shrink into an insignificant speck. I imagined my parents standing below in our backyard pointing up at the sky. I wished one of them could be in my place right now. For a bit of humour but also for the purpose of really showing the difference between the two cultures, maybe point out that they are standing under a Hills Hoist? I imagined a birds eye view of two parents standing on green grass in a small backyard under a Hills Hoist - I think this could work for you!
After a grueling flight and train journey, I came to face my grandparents at the Quetta railway station. The gnawing in my stomach wouldn’t halt – not knowing what to say, and wondering whether they would even recognise me. But I needn’t have worried, as they spotted me immediately and I was in their embrace within a matter of seconds.
(This needs to be on its own line :)“Finally.” My grandmother whispered through tears. “Finally you’re here.” As we held each other, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, almost like arriving home at night after a difficult day. They both looked exactly like their photo on the mantelpiece in our living room. How do they look? Eccentric? Normal? Warm? Humble? Stern?
On my first day in Pakistan, the three of us spent half the night talking, and this continued almost every day afterwards. My grandparents wanted to hear every detail about my life, and after about a week I began to ask them questions too.
On my last night we went to an Eid Festival. As I put on my jeans, my grandmother looked at me in horror.
“Sabine, we are going to celebrate Eid. You must wear this,” she handed me a deep blue sari. “Haven’t your parents told you about Eid?”
I looked at the ground sheepishly. “They probably have, so many times. I mustn’t have been listening.”
Walking through the night-lit streets of Eid Festival, I realised that I had never seen so much colour in my life. Billowing yellow paper lanterns hung across gnarled oak branches, lighting up the deepest alcoves of the trees. The women wore flowing brightly coloured, beaded saris, their arms covered in intricate henna patterns; the men wore lose linen blouses and embellished drawstring pants.
My grandfather walked beside me.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. I never thought I’d admit it, but I wanted more than anything to stay for longer. The six weeks had passed in a blur and I had only just begun to reach some level of understanding.
***
Fruit and vegetable bazaars pulsating with the rhythms of everyday life. Endless hues of blue, green, red and gold. My grandparents’ modest but beautiful house nestled between others of its kind. Home.
They were only a fraction of the images I had of Pakistan. My mind overflowed with knowledge, memories and self-recognition. Next time my parents reminisced about our life in Pakistan, I wouldn’t turn my head away in discomfort. Instead, I would add to their recollections of the exuberant place. I would add photos to our albums, stories to the dinner table conversations and regard my parents with admiration; never shame.
They were the only memories I had of Pakistan. My parents always tried to cast my mind back to my childhood in Karachi – Sundays at the market, guests always at the house and overnight train rides to see my grandparents in Quetta. When I saw my father’s eyes welling up in nostalgia or my mother sighing at old photos I tried so hard to remember for them. But I never could. It always gnawed away at me. Why couldn’t they just accept that we weren’t there anymore? I'm not sure if it gnaws away at you that your parents don't accept being in Pakistan anymore, or if it gnaws away at you that you can't remember, even if you want to. Both work well, but they both send a slightly different air to the reader. Consider rephrasing to be clear :)
Now, gazing out the car window at the green pastures dotted with bright-coloured farmhouses, I couldn’t picture a place any different. I had no desire to either. The teenage years of my life defined me, and they were spent here, the first six years seemed like just a broken dream.
When we arrived at school I climbed out and watched as the car pulled away, gradually becoming smaller until it was no more than a speck.
***
The other students treated me like a novelty. Wherever I walked in the school I had at least ten pairs of uniform blue or green eyes following me, watching with interest. The unimaginable horror when forced to speak out was only surpassed by the teasing that would ensue. Suffice to say, my efforts to conceal my accent failed. Miserably. My best friend, Lucy, caught the bus to school and played sport on the weekends; I was taken to school by both parents and spent Sundays driving to our closest Mosque over an hour away. I'm really following a beautiful comparison here!
At lunchtime, I swapped my hot chickpea stew for Lucy’s perfectly dressed Caesar salad – it was our daily ritual.
“You always have the best food, Sabine.” I didn’t respond. “What’s up? You haven’t been yourself all day.” I think you've chosen the names really well here (or maybe you didn't choose them - and this is based on real life?) You parallel Lucy with a Western salad, and Sabine's name with a chickpea stew. That's a very clever thing, you've connected weekend activities, to food, to names.
“It’s just – my parents,” I hesitated. “They live in such an enclosed bubble, and they’re trying so hard to hold me there too. My father thinks I’m ashamed of being ethnic. God, I hate that word so much. Ethnic.”
“That’s not entirely untrue though, is it? Your being ashamed, I mean?” Lucy asked gently. Her amber eyes had a softness to them. She tried to understand, but without ever visiting the land of too many spices and too few clean toilets, that was an impossibility. Too many spices and too few clean toilets! Haha! What awesome imagery I have in my head right now.
I looked out at the school courts, where most of our class was playing football.
“I guess not.”
***
When I came into the kitchen that night, my father was sitting at the head of the table staring into an ancient laptop; face wrinkled in concentration- A rare occurrence. I'm not entirely sure what the rare occurrence is - is it the being in concentration, the place at the table, or being on the laptop?As I helped my mother set the table for lentil lamb soup, he suddenly exclaimed, “That’s it! Sanah, it is perfect. This flight goes directly to Karachi. Then she can take the train to Quetta like we always used to...” he trailed off when he saw my expression.
“We are not moving back to Pakistan. You don’t have to worry,” he said bitterly.
The next hour was spent with both parents interchangeably explaining their profound plans for me to spend summer with my grandparents.
After their deliberation, my parents looked at me expectedly while I just sat there… dumbfounded. “You can’t...you can’t do that. I...I don’t want to go,” I managed to croak out. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my home for that long. I didn’t understand their twisted reasoning. I knew my grandparents would take one look at me and shake their heads at how “Westernised” I’d become. I didn’t want to be “shipped off,” as the kids from school would undoubtedly describe it.
My mother interrupted my thoughts. “Sabine, please. Just do one thing for this family; that is all we ask. You haven’t the slightest idea how much your grandparents miss you and want to see you,” her voice wavered as she spoke. I'm only putting this out there because it is abundantly clear that me that you are a great writer, and I want to kind of push you that tiny bit more to consider each and every little detail. Instead of her voice wavering - try do something more meaningful. This is borderline cliche - we know what it is like for a voice to waver. So, perhaps you could say she's spoken as softly as she used to when sharing bedtime stories in Pakistan, or she spoke with a guilt for not thinking of the grandparents enough. I think this is such a small space, but you can make it very meaningful.
My heart and mind resisted with all their might, but I found myself nodding in defeat.
***
It was my first time on a plane since we had moved to Australia ten years before. It was strange to see what I call home to shrink into an insignificant speck. I imagined my parents standing below in our backyard pointing up at the sky. I wished one of them could be in my place right now. For a bit of humour but also for the purpose of really showing the difference between the two cultures, maybe point out that they are standing under a Hills Hoist? I imagined a birds eye view of two parents standing on green grass in a small backyard under a Hills Hoist - I think this could work for you!
After a grueling flight and train journey, I came to face my grandparents at the Quetta railway station. The gnawing in my stomach wouldn’t halt – not knowing what to say, and wondering whether they would even recognise me. But I needn’t have worried, as they spotted me immediately and I was in their embrace within a matter of seconds.
(This needs to be on its own line :)“Finally.” My grandmother whispered through tears. “Finally you’re here.” As we held each other, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, almost like arriving home at night after a difficult day. They both looked exactly like their photo on the mantelpiece in our living room. How do they look? Eccentric? Normal? Warm? Humble? Stern?
On my first day in Pakistan, the three of us spent half the night talking, and this continued almost every day afterwards. My grandparents wanted to hear every detail about my life, and after about a week I began to ask them questions too.
On my last night we went to an Eid Festival. As I put on my jeans, my grandmother looked at me in horror.
“Sabine, we are going to celebrate Eid. You must wear this,” she handed me a deep blue sari. “Haven’t your parents told you about Eid?”
I looked at the ground sheepishly. “They probably have, so many times. I mustn’t have been listening.”
Walking through the night-lit streets of Eid Festival, I realised that I had never seen so much colour in my life. Billowing yellow paper lanterns hung across gnarled oak branches, lighting up the deepest alcoves of the trees. The women wore flowing brightly coloured, beaded saris, their arms covered in intricate henna patterns; the men wore lose linen blouses and embellished drawstring pants.
My grandfather walked beside me.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. I never thought I’d admit it, but I wanted more than anything to stay for longer. The six weeks had passed in a blur and I had only just begun to reach some level of understanding.
***
Fruit and vegetable bazaars pulsating with the rhythms of everyday life. Endless hues of blue, green, red and gold. My grandparents’ modest but beautiful house nestled between others of its kind. Home.
They were only a fraction of the images I had of Pakistan. My mind overflowed with knowledge, memories and self-recognition. Next time my parents reminisced about our life in Pakistan, I wouldn’t turn my head away in discomfort. Instead, I would add to their recollections of the exuberant place. I would add photos to our albums, stories to the dinner table conversations and regard my parents with admiration; never shame.
This is one of the most outstanding pieces I have read for a HSC creative! The great thing about this is, I think you bring a realness to this story. However they be, you may have experienced this and you are Sabine, or you've listened/researched enough to write about it perfectly. My suggestions throughout are very small. This, to me, is the work of a band 6 student. You need to look at the different parts of the rubric now and make sure you can tick them all off. I suggest you have a look around at some stimuli and consider how you would incorporate them - simply because you don't want such an artful piece to be ruined by the need to incorporate a stimulus!
My only outstanding suggestion is perhaps incorporating language, ever so slightly, that will add that last touch of authenticity, like "Eid Mubarak!" Because, I believe that even someone who has not ever participated in Eid, would know what this means. It just adds a subtle touch. If you can fit it in, great, if not, it is just a small suggestion :)
You should be immensely proud of this work! You've done such an impressive job here! Please, post back any time, and clarify any questions with me :)
Post by: Sahar8642 on July 15, 2016, 04:28:35 pm
Hello! I absolutely can have a look at your creative piece!
Here it is, unedited, with no comments:SpoilerNoise and commotion. Relatives constantly talking over the top of each other. The perpetual smell of cinnamon wafting through the air.
They were the only memories I had of Pakistan. My parents always tried to cast my mind back to my childhood in Karachi – Sundays at the market, guests always at the house and overnight train rides to see my grandparents in Quetta. When I saw my father’s eyes welling up in nostalgia or my mother sighing at old photos I tried so hard to remember for them. But I never could. It always gnawed away at me. Why couldn’t they just accept that we weren’t there anymore?
Now, gazing out the car window at the green pastures dotted with bright-coloured farmhouses, I couldn’t picture a place any different. I had no desire to either. The teenage years of my life defined me, and they were spent here, the first six years seemed like just a broken dream.
When we arrived at school I climbed out and watched as the car pulled away, gradually becoming smaller until it was no more than a speck.
***
The other students treated me like a novelty. Wherever I walked in the school I had at least ten pairs of uniform blue or green eyes following me, watching with interest. The unimaginable horror when forced to speak out was only surpassed by the teasing that would ensue. Suffice to say, my efforts to conceal my accent failed. Miserably. My best friend, Lucy, caught the bus to school and played sport on the weekends; I was taken to school by both parents and spent Sundays driving to our closest Mosque over an hour away.
At lunchtime, I swapped my hot chickpea stew for Lucy’s perfectly dressed Caesar salad – it was our daily ritual.
“You always have the best food, Sabine.” I didn’t respond. “What’s up? You haven’t been yourself all day.”
“It’s just – my parents,” I hesitated. “They live in such an enclosed bubble, and they’re trying so hard to hold me there too. My father thinks I’m ashamed of being ethnic. God, I hate that word so much. Ethnic.”
“That’s not entirely untrue though, is it? Your being ashamed, I mean?” Lucy asked gently. Her amber eyes had a softness to them. She tried to understand, but without ever visiting the land of too many spices and too few clean toilets, that was an impossibility.
I looked out at the school courts, where most of our class was playing football.
“I guess not.”
***
When I came into the kitchen that night, my father was sitting at the head of the table staring into an ancient laptop; face wrinkled in concentration- A rare occurrence. As I helped my mother set the table for lentil lamb soup, he suddenly exclaimed, “That’s it! Sanah, it is perfect. This flight goes directly to Karachi. Then she can take the train to Quetta like we always used to...” he trailed off when he saw my expression.
“We are not moving back to Pakistan. You don’t have to worry,” he said bitterly.
The next hour was spent with both parents interchangeably explaining their profound plans for me to spend summer with my grandparents.
After their deliberation, my parents looked at me expectedly while I just sat there… dumbfounded. “You can’t...you can’t do that. I...I don’t want to go,” I managed to croak out. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my home for that long. I didn’t understand their twisted reasoning. I knew my grandparents would take one look at me and shake their heads at how “Westernised” I’d become. I didn’t want to be “shipped off,” as the kids from school would undoubtedly describe it.
My mother interrupted my thoughts. “Sabine, please. Just do one thing for this family; that is all we ask. You haven’t the slightest idea how much your grandparents miss you and want to see you,” her voice wavered as she spoke.
My heart and mind resisted with all their might, but I found myself nodding in defeat.
***
It was my first time on a plane since we had moved to Australia ten years before. It was strange to see what I call home to shrink into an insignificant speck. I imagined my parents standing below in our backyard pointing up at the sky. I wished one of them could be in my place right now.
After a grueling flight and train journey, I came to face my grandparents at the Quetta railway station. The gnawing in my stomach wouldn’t halt – not knowing what to say, and wondering whether they would even recognise me. But I needn’t have worried, as they spotted me immediately and I was in their embrace within a matter of seconds. “Finally.” My grandmother whispered through tears. “Finally you’re here.” As we held each other, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, almost like arriving home at night after a difficult day. They both looked exactly like their photo on the mantelpiece in our living room.
On my first day in Pakistan, the three of us spent half the night talking, and this continued almost every day afterwards. My grandparents wanted to hear every detail about my life, and after about a week I began to ask them questions too.
On my last night we went to an Eid Festival. As I put on my jeans, my grandmother looked at me in horror.
“Sabine, we are going to celebrate Eid. You must wear this,” she handed me a deep blue sari. “Haven’t your parents told you about Eid?”
I looked at the ground sheepishly. “They probably have, so many times. I mustn’t have been listening.”
Walking through the night-lit streets of Eid Festival, I realised that I had never seen so much colour in my life. Billowing yellow paper lanterns hung across gnarled oak branches, lighting up the deepest alcoves of the trees. The women wore flowing brightly coloured, beaded saris, their arms covered in intricate henna patterns; the men wore lose linen blouses and embellished drawstring pants.
My grandfather walked beside me.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. I never thought I’d admit it, but I wanted more than anything to stay for longer. The six weeks had passed in a blur and I had only just begun to reach some level of understanding.
***
Fruit and vegetable bazaars pulsating with the rhythms of everyday life. Endless hues of blue, green, red and gold. My grandparents’ modest but beautiful house nestled between others of its kind. Home.
They were only a fraction of the images I had of Pakistan. My mind overflowed with knowledge, memories and self-recognition. Next time my parents reminisced about our life in Pakistan, I wouldn’t turn my head away in discomfort. Instead, I would add to their recollections of the exuberant place. I would add photos to our albums, stories to the dinner table conversations and regard my parents with admiration; never shame.
And here it is again, with my comments in bold font throughout:SpoilerNoise and commotion. Relatives constantly talking over the top of each other. The perpetual smell of cinnamon wafting through the air. I think you can do better than "perpetual." I think it describes that the cinnamon smell is ever-present, but I think the fact that you are mentioning it on the same level as people talking over each other, already tells me that it is perpetual. Consider actually describing the smell - that would be interesting! Describing the smell is something that I have definitely struggled with. Maybe if you used a simile, or maybe just an adjective. This opening is on a 9.5/10 in my books right now! I love how simple it is, but a real picture is being painted.
They were the only memories I had of Pakistan. My parents always tried to cast my mind back to my childhood in Karachi – Sundays at the market, guests always at the house and overnight train rides to see my grandparents in Quetta. When I saw my father’s eyes welling up in nostalgia or my mother sighing at old photos I tried so hard to remember for them. But I never could. It always gnawed away at me. Why couldn’t they just accept that we weren’t there anymore? I'm not sure if it gnaws away at you that your parents don't accept being in Pakistan anymore, or if it gnaws away at you that you can't remember, even if you want to. Both work well, but they both send a slightly different air to the reader. Consider rephrasing to be clear :)
Now, gazing out the car window at the green pastures dotted with bright-coloured farmhouses, I couldn’t picture a place any different. I had no desire to either. The teenage years of my life defined me, and they were spent here, the first six years seemed like just a broken dream.
When we arrived at school I climbed out and watched as the car pulled away, gradually becoming smaller until it was no more than a speck.
***
The other students treated me like a novelty. Wherever I walked in the school I had at least ten pairs of uniform blue or green eyes following me, watching with interest. The unimaginable horror when forced to speak out was only surpassed by the teasing that would ensue. Suffice to say, my efforts to conceal my accent failed. Miserably. My best friend, Lucy, caught the bus to school and played sport on the weekends; I was taken to school by both parents and spent Sundays driving to our closest Mosque over an hour away. I'm really following a beautiful comparison here!
At lunchtime, I swapped my hot chickpea stew for Lucy’s perfectly dressed Caesar salad – it was our daily ritual.
“You always have the best food, Sabine.” I didn’t respond. “What’s up? You haven’t been yourself all day.” I think you've chosen the names really well here (or maybe you didn't choose them - and this is based on real life?) You parallel Lucy with a Western salad, and Sabine's name with a chickpea stew. That's a very clever thing, you've connected weekend activities, to food, to names.
“It’s just – my parents,” I hesitated. “They live in such an enclosed bubble, and they’re trying so hard to hold me there too. My father thinks I’m ashamed of being ethnic. God, I hate that word so much. Ethnic.”
“That’s not entirely untrue though, is it? Your being ashamed, I mean?” Lucy asked gently. Her amber eyes had a softness to them. She tried to understand, but without ever visiting the land of too many spices and too few clean toilets, that was an impossibility. Too many spices and too few clean toilets! Haha! What awesome imagery I have in my head right now.
I looked out at the school courts, where most of our class was playing football.
“I guess not.”
***
When I came into the kitchen that night, my father was sitting at the head of the table staring into an ancient laptop; face wrinkled in concentration- A rare occurrence. I'm not entirely sure what the rare occurrence is - is it the being in concentration, the place at the table, or being on the laptop?As I helped my mother set the table for lentil lamb soup, he suddenly exclaimed, “That’s it! Sanah, it is perfect. This flight goes directly to Karachi. Then she can take the train to Quetta like we always used to...” he trailed off when he saw my expression.
“We are not moving back to Pakistan. You don’t have to worry,” he said bitterly.
The next hour was spent with both parents interchangeably explaining their profound plans for me to spend summer with my grandparents.
After their deliberation, my parents looked at me expectedly while I just sat there… dumbfounded. “You can’t...you can’t do that. I...I don’t want to go,” I managed to croak out. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my home for that long. I didn’t understand their twisted reasoning. I knew my grandparents would take one look at me and shake their heads at how “Westernised” I’d become. I didn’t want to be “shipped off,” as the kids from school would undoubtedly describe it.
My mother interrupted my thoughts. “Sabine, please. Just do one thing for this family; that is all we ask. You haven’t the slightest idea how much your grandparents miss you and want to see you,” her voice wavered as she spoke. I'm only putting this out there because it is abundantly clear that me that you are a great writer, and I want to kind of push you that tiny bit more to consider each and every little detail. Instead of her voice wavering - try do something more meaningful. This is borderline cliche - we know what it is like for a voice to waver. So, perhaps you could say she's spoken as softly as she used to when sharing bedtime stories in Pakistan, or she spoke with a guilt for not thinking of the grandparents enough. I think this is such a small space, but you can make it very meaningful.
My heart and mind resisted with all their might, but I found myself nodding in defeat.
***
It was my first time on a plane since we had moved to Australia ten years before. It was strange to see what I call home to shrink into an insignificant speck. I imagined my parents standing below in our backyard pointing up at the sky. I wished one of them could be in my place right now. For a bit of humour but also for the purpose of really showing the difference between the two cultures, maybe point out that they are standing under a Hills Hoist? I imagined a birds eye view of two parents standing on green grass in a small backyard under a Hills Hoist - I think this could work for you!
After a grueling flight and train journey, I came to face my grandparents at the Quetta railway station. The gnawing in my stomach wouldn’t halt – not knowing what to say, and wondering whether they would even recognise me. But I needn’t have worried, as they spotted me immediately and I was in their embrace within a matter of seconds.
(This needs to be on its own line :)“Finally.” My grandmother whispered through tears. “Finally you’re here.” As we held each other, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, almost like arriving home at night after a difficult day. They both looked exactly like their photo on the mantelpiece in our living room. How do they look? Eccentric? Normal? Warm? Humble? Stern?
On my first day in Pakistan, the three of us spent half the night talking, and this continued almost every day afterwards. My grandparents wanted to hear every detail about my life, and after about a week I began to ask them questions too.
On my last night we went to an Eid Festival. As I put on my jeans, my grandmother looked at me in horror.
“Sabine, we are going to celebrate Eid. You must wear this,” she handed me a deep blue sari. “Haven’t your parents told you about Eid?”
I looked at the ground sheepishly. “They probably have, so many times. I mustn’t have been listening.”
Walking through the night-lit streets of Eid Festival, I realised that I had never seen so much colour in my life. Billowing yellow paper lanterns hung across gnarled oak branches, lighting up the deepest alcoves of the trees. The women wore flowing brightly coloured, beaded saris, their arms covered in intricate henna patterns; the men wore lose linen blouses and embellished drawstring pants.
My grandfather walked beside me.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. I never thought I’d admit it, but I wanted more than anything to stay for longer. The six weeks had passed in a blur and I had only just begun to reach some level of understanding.
***
Fruit and vegetable bazaars pulsating with the rhythms of everyday life. Endless hues of blue, green, red and gold. My grandparents’ modest but beautiful house nestled between others of its kind. Home.
They were only a fraction of the images I had of Pakistan. My mind overflowed with knowledge, memories and self-recognition. Next time my parents reminisced about our life in Pakistan, I wouldn’t turn my head away in discomfort. Instead, I would add to their recollections of the exuberant place. I would add photos to our albums, stories to the dinner table conversations and regard my parents with admiration; never shame.
This is one of the most outstanding pieces I have read for a HSC creative! The great thing about this is, I think you bring a realness to this story. However they be, you may have experienced this and you are Sabine, or you've listened/researched enough to write about it perfectly. My suggestions throughout are very small. This, to me, is the work of a band 6 student. You need to look at the different parts of the rubric now and make sure you can tick them all off. I suggest you have a look around at some stimuli and consider how you would incorporate them - simply because you don't want such an artful piece to be ruined by the need to incorporate a stimulus!
My only outstanding suggestion is perhaps incorporating language, ever so slightly, that will add that last touch of authenticity, like "Eid Mubarak!" Because, I believe that even someone who has not ever participated in Eid, would know what this means. It just adds a subtle touch. If you can fit it in, great, if not, it is just a small suggestion :)
You should be immensely proud of this work! You've done such an impressive job here! Please, post back any time, and clarify any questions with me :)
Thank you so much! :D :D
I was just wondering what would you give out of 15?
I'll be sure to take everything into consideration especially with the "Eid Mubarak!"
Hanks again :D
Post by: Jemimared on July 15, 2016, 07:02:35 pm
Let me know what you think.
Thanks.
Post by: conic curve on July 15, 2016, 07:10:40 pm
Post by: Jemimared on July 15, 2016, 07:20:48 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 15, 2016, 07:42:35 pm
Serious question but are students allowed to give other students feedback on their work here? (i.e. what they think needs to be improved, etc)
Absolutely!! Provided it's constructive, of course ;D
Post by: conic curve on July 15, 2016, 07:44:22 pm
Absolutely!! Provided it's constructive, of course ;D
Great hopefully this will improve my creative writing and essay marking skills
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 16, 2016, 10:11:17 am
This is my AOS creative writing. Im trying to make it as best as possible for my trials on monday (so close eeek!) and was just wondering if you could mark it as harsh as possible.
Thank you!
Hi there! Good luck for Monday!
Here is your creative, in the spoiler, with my own comments in bold font throughout! :)
Spoiler
The ectopic rhythm of the heartbeats pounding through my chest can be heard all the way from earth. Not sure that ectopic is the right word here. Ectopic makes me think of either abnormal/out of place, or ectopic pregnancy. I think the connotations of ectopic are too removed from what you are trying to achieve. So consider rephrasing that.
Preparing myself, I move cautiously towards the rack by the door. I pull down the helmet at the top, feeling the rough material strewn across the neckline with my fingers. I'm not sure that strewn is the best word for the job. Strewn usually means scattered,even messily. I think this is a bit too streamlined to be "strewn."Placing the helmet over my head was always slightly claustrophobic, as if I was choosing to limit my life force to a pipe filled with a finite amount of oxygen on my back. I twist the helmet side to side, looking for theclick which told me it was fastened. fastening click. < I think this sounds a bit more precise in language. A moment of suffocation follows, before a gush of air fills the sphere around my eyes. I choke for a second, unaccustomed to the large quantity of air, before calming myself with deep breaths.
Initiating the anxious process, I pull the main lever and begin to input the codes; red, blue, green. I reach for each button in turn, missing at first, before steadying my hand and continuing. Finally, I place my shaking fingers on the tactically tightened latch, and cautiously start to turn it. A nerve-wracking creak betrays a small sigh of oxygen breaching the seal between mankind and outer space. Think about when you are setting this story. If you are setting it in the 1950s, mankind is appropriate. If you are setting it now, humankind is most appropriate. Unless, you are specifically playing on the "one small step for..." quote :)
Tightly shutting my eyes, I anticipate the worst outcome. I gasp for air, not having realised that I was holding my breath. Leaning onto an uncovered button, the ship releases a mechanical noise as numerous steel steps dispense in front of me like a flower’s blossoming petals. Great imagery!
Slowly.
Purposefully.
My languid legs lead the original pathway. I am the first person.
Fearful to experience the untouched surface we have landed on.
The rough terrain meets my weary eyes. Ancient, dirt covered gorges, deep enough to avoid exploration, edges steep as Mount Everest, radiate a vibrant colour matching the neighbouring sun. Lining their banks, oceans of sharp jagged edged rocks tell stories of elongated years of endurance on this planet of isolation through their layers of sediment. They glisten with the orange gas that marks the earth of this planet - beautiful obstacles for my time-limited mission.
As I walk, the white Kevlar fabric encasing my swollen feet sprinkles with the flame coloured soil, irreversibly staining them. The craggy highland towers on the horizon, swimming in the white blanket of fog that covers the rest of the planet. Its peaks are jagged towards the top, covered with obtuse shapes that glisten in the sunless light. Below, steep, dusty slopes cascade towards the serrated earth.
The sly mist hugs my ankles with every stride I take towards it. It wraps me in its cold embrace, sweeping me along to the edge of the planet where I could fall off and swim among the stars.
In the peripheral of my eye, I see it. The ingeniously built piece of metal rolls towards me using the thinly sliced rubber circles attached gently to the metallic undergarments of the machine. Its head composed of a high definition camera along with the extended clamps secured to its front giving it a stereotypically childish appearance.
“The rob…rob…robot”
The anxious voice coming from my protective apparel interrupts my prolonged gaze and reminds me of my mission: delivering the vehicle to the mountains with their opaque flag of mist.
My feet suddenly feel the toughness of the minerals covering the ground. I look down and am met with an explanation. I have arrived. My field of vision is too minuscule to absorb the enormous alp standing in front of me and yet I push forward.
I trek with measured steps, up the slope. Left. Right. Left. Right. The steady rocks perfectly aligned for my grip over the crumbling dirt.
Looking down behind me, the distant fog still blocks the view, yet the ground is visible. My exhaustion is clinging to my back. The endless training I endured feels non-beneficial as my contracted muscles threaten to tear my cracked skin with every small step I take.
I take my dilated eyes off the treacherous ground and look up to see the cloudy obstruction to my sight vanishing. My feet begin to fumble, and suddenly, a close-up view of the crusty floor meets my eyes. I stay down - a chance to examine the foreign land. My pupils turn slowly, careful to not miss a speck of treasure.
A rusty circular object flashes in the peripheral of my vision.
Moving closer, its dented edges and scratch-filled skin become visible. The black, rippled plastic coats majority of the device, with silver buttons joined to the top, and specks of aged, glimmering gold within the edges. As if a fossil, the ground sheathes it, outlining the letters “f.l.a.s.h.” on one of the main buttons and “on/off” on the other. I turn my head slightly to see on the side in big, slanted font: “Nikon 1935”.
Its decayed state doesn’t stop my reflection from appearing in the blemished, glass-plated mirror attached to the outer front of the contraption, indicating my confused expression.
What seems to be a golden-plated emblem on the right hand corner shines, as if brand new, with four letters engraved on it: MARS.
Preparing myself, I move cautiously towards the rack by the door. I pull down the helmet at the top, feeling the rough material strewn across the neckline with my fingers. I'm not sure that strewn is the best word for the job. Strewn usually means scattered,even messily. I think this is a bit too streamlined to be "strewn."Placing the helmet over my head was always slightly claustrophobic, as if I was choosing to limit my life force to a pipe filled with a finite amount of oxygen on my back. I twist the helmet side to side, looking for the
Initiating the anxious process, I pull the main lever and begin to input the codes; red, blue, green. I reach for each button in turn, missing at first, before steadying my hand and continuing. Finally, I place my shaking fingers on the tactically tightened latch, and cautiously start to turn it. A nerve-wracking creak betrays a small sigh of oxygen breaching the seal between mankind and outer space. Think about when you are setting this story. If you are setting it in the 1950s, mankind is appropriate. If you are setting it now, humankind is most appropriate. Unless, you are specifically playing on the "one small step for..." quote :)
Tightly shutting my eyes, I anticipate the worst outcome. I gasp for air, not having realised that I was holding my breath. Leaning onto an uncovered button, the ship releases a mechanical noise as numerous steel steps dispense in front of me like a flower’s blossoming petals. Great imagery!
Slowly.
Purposefully.
My languid legs lead the original pathway. I am the first person.
Fearful to experience the untouched surface we have landed on.
The rough terrain meets my weary eyes. Ancient, dirt covered gorges, deep enough to avoid exploration, edges steep as Mount Everest, radiate a vibrant colour matching the neighbouring sun. Lining their banks, oceans of sharp jagged edged rocks tell stories of elongated years of endurance on this planet of isolation through their layers of sediment. They glisten with the orange gas that marks the earth of this planet - beautiful obstacles for my time-limited mission.
As I walk, the white Kevlar fabric encasing my swollen feet sprinkles with the flame coloured soil, irreversibly staining them. The craggy highland towers on the horizon, swimming in the white blanket of fog that covers the rest of the planet. Its peaks are jagged towards the top, covered with obtuse shapes that glisten in the sunless light. Below, steep, dusty slopes cascade towards the serrated earth.
The sly mist hugs my ankles with every stride I take towards it. It wraps me in its cold embrace, sweeping me along to the edge of the planet where I could fall off and swim among the stars.
In the peripheral of my eye, I see it. The ingeniously built piece of metal rolls towards me using the thinly sliced rubber circles attached gently to the metallic undergarments of the machine. Its head composed of a high definition camera along with the extended clamps secured to its front giving it a stereotypically childish appearance.
“The rob…rob…robot”
The anxious voice coming from my protective apparel interrupts my prolonged gaze and reminds me of my mission: delivering the vehicle to the mountains with their opaque flag of mist.
My feet suddenly feel the toughness of the minerals covering the ground. I look down and am met with an explanation. I have arrived. My field of vision is too minuscule to absorb the enormous alp standing in front of me and yet I push forward.
I trek with measured steps, up the slope. Left. Right. Left. Right. The steady rocks perfectly aligned for my grip over the crumbling dirt.
Looking down behind me, the distant fog still blocks the view, yet the ground is visible. My exhaustion is clinging to my back. The endless training I endured feels non-beneficial as my contracted muscles threaten to tear my cracked skin with every small step I take.
I take my dilated eyes off the treacherous ground and look up to see the cloudy obstruction to my sight vanishing. My feet begin to fumble, and suddenly, a close-up view of the crusty floor meets my eyes. I stay down - a chance to examine the foreign land. My pupils turn slowly, careful to not miss a speck of treasure.
A rusty circular object flashes in the peripheral of my vision.
Moving closer, its dented edges and scratch-filled skin become visible. The black, rippled plastic coats majority of the device, with silver buttons joined to the top, and specks of aged, glimmering gold within the edges. As if a fossil, the ground sheathes it, outlining the letters “f.l.a.s.h.” on one of the main buttons and “on/off” on the other. I turn my head slightly to see on the side in big, slanted font: “Nikon 1935”.
Its decayed state doesn’t stop my reflection from appearing in the blemished, glass-plated mirror attached to the outer front of the contraption, indicating my confused expression.
What seems to be a golden-plated emblem on the right hand corner shines, as if brand new, with four letters engraved on it: MARS.
In this story you've got a lot of clear imagery, which is awesome. But, the imagery is largely physical object-based. By this I mean, there's no real concept of the being-in-space aspect of the story from the environment beyond the physical utensils he wears and the dusty ground. What I'd love to see, is a description of the gravity (or lack of) that makes things bouncy, or makes things heavy, whatever it may be.
I think your story is limited in how it relates to discovery. If you are asked about a physical discovery, then you're on your way to some great marks. But, if you are asked about a spiritual, emotional, intellectual discovery, how will you approach it? I'm suggesting this now because you said to be harsh, so I'm going to throw it out there. I think that you either need to add a reflection at the end, or, you need to substitute some of the earlier description for a really clear outline of this man's mission, so that at the end there can be a "ahhhh" moment of how he has achieved/failed to achieve it. This will broaden your prospects of hitting the discovery on the head. Alternatively they could ask for a planned or unplanned discovery, or one that is intensely meaningful or transformative of one's perspectives. So, consider this all. I don't mean to frighten you at all, but I think it's best that you can think about this now so that you have a back up for Monday if your exam asks you to respond to a less physical aspect of the rubric.
Other than that, there are just a few small word things I suggested for the work which can all be fixed easily! Please let me know if something doesn't make sense or you'd like to flesh an idea out more :)
Good luck!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 16, 2016, 10:22:35 am
Thank you so much! :D :D
I was just wondering what would you give out of 15?
I'll be sure to take everything into consideration especially with the "Eid Mubarak!"
Hanks again :D
Always take my estimates of a mark with a grain of salt, because even though I give feedback a lot, I don't necessarily give marks a lot! So, I'd be putting this in a band six range for sure. I'd be looking at a 14, and potentially a 15 with those extra little bits and bobs added in just to really bring the creative to have "textual integrity."
I think the biggest difference between a band 5 and 6 is textual integrity. The plot can be equally amazing for both, but the band 6 will usually have those extra little links and ideas at play that push it up beyond the Band 5 :) So you're up there!
Post by: MarkThor on July 16, 2016, 06:57:07 pm
The Path Ahead – Draft 1
My foot buckled as I stepped on another uneven cobblestone jutting out of the narrow lane. My gap year was ending in a few months, and I was no closer to finding who I really was, let alone having a connection with someone. We had been walking for sometime through the twisty, narrow alleyways that ran between the rows of low-ceiling slums that characterised outer Kathmandu. A heavy winter smog had settled over the city, blocking out the moonlight and making it hard to see more than a few metres in front of myself.
I looked over to the woman walking next to me who occasionally asked a random question in broken English. The sound of silence echoed through the sprawling maze of garbage littered pathways as both of our feet fell on the rough, uneven streets of the slums. My feet were heavy and clumsy on the broken cobblestone; occasionally stepping in pooled water that sent icy sparks rushing up my leg. The woman on the other hand had clearly walked these streets a thousand times before, stepping lightly and gracefully.
“Wh-where you g-go?
I continued trying to look through the smog-clouded path in front of me, trying to watch my step. “I’m just walking.”
“You n-not plan wh-where g-go?
“I haven’t known where I am going for years now.”
“Wh’what you mean?”
“Don’t worry, it’s just something you say when you’re not sure what your purpose in life is.” The words were a stark reminder that I still felt as isolated as ever; I had planned the gap-year to finally try and connect with someone. After everything that had happened over the past 11 months I wasn’t very hopeful, I doubted that anything would come from this gap year. “I’m actually just walking with no real aim in where I’m going. I’ll eventually end up somewhere.”
“You n-not know wh-where you g-go in life?
“Well it’s been a bit hard for me to figure out what to do with my life,” the answer flowed easily, almost without thought. I kept my concentration on the unclear path ahead, trying to see through the smog. “I’ve always felt so different to everyone else, not like in a special way, just in a outcast kind of way.”
“You thought about d-death?”
My head turned quickly, no longer thinking about the unsure path in front of me. The woman’s face was slightly creased, almost as if she actually intellectually understood the implications of what I had just said. I searched her dark brown eyes. There was a slight sparkle, possibly a reflection from the stronger moonlight making itself through the now slightly less dense smog, although it may have just been a trick of my spectacles. “Yes. I have.” Even though it felt clearer, as I turned my head back to face the slightly less dense smog my eyes still felt squinted, and the feeling of hopelessness still made my face taut.
“You f-feel still th-that way?”
“Well I still think about it, if that’s what you’re asking?”
“You have n-not r-realised wh-why you should k-keep living?”
“No.” I slipped on another slightly uneven cobblestone, the glasses on my face flying forward of my face. There was only a dark haze, and that familiar feeling of my throat constricting. My hands searched frantically to find the slim, aluminium sight allowing device. It was the only thing that gave me any idea of where I was heading.
“Y-you know th-that to f-feel a connection y-you must be h-half of the connection.”
The outline of her hand moved towards mine. I felt the smooth metal back in my hand. I stood up, choosing not having put my glasses back on. Her slim, slightly rough hand slid into mine, and she started to lead me forward.
“Stop I’ll fall.”
“N-no. Just tr-trust.”
We walked some way like this, my eyes slowly starting to adjust. When she finally stopped, my feet were on smooth ground, and my eyes could just make out the brighter moonlight. She turned and carefully placed the glasses back onto my head. “S-sometimes y-you just h-have to tr-trust.”
We were in the mountains surrounding the city, on a small high plateau, that felt much more open than the narrow streets from below. The moon was much brighter than before, and it shone on the colourful distinctive high-rises that burst through the smog of that lay on Kathmandu. There were deep reds, brown oranges, pale whites and the occasional splash of light blue and green buildings among them.
My lips were slightly parted; “It’s beautiful.” I knew there was something in the sound of my voice that hadn’t been there before.
Hope.
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 16, 2016, 09:33:08 pm
Hi, I was just wondering if you could please give me some feedback on my creative writing, and give it a rough mark out of 15. Thanks in advance :) .
Hi MarkThor, welcome to the forums! We have a policy here that you need to post 5 times anywhere on the site to qualify to have a piece marked. I'd love to give you some feedback! If you just search around on the website here and comment on four more things (asking questions, answering questions, etc) and post back, I'll be more than happy to check this out for you! If you want to know more about the policy, click the link in my signature below! Otherwise, don't fret, it's not hard to build up five posts :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 16, 2016, 09:49:30 pm
Hi there, I was wondering If my creative writing is okay for discovery. I wrote it without focusing on discovery and now I'm worried it might not work well. I would prefer not to write a new creative writing piece as well, as my trial is on Tuesday the 19th.
Let me know what you think.
Thanks.
Hey! Thanks for your patience :) I'm sure we can work with this without starting over!
It's important to note that your work is between 600-700 words. There is of course, no limit or minimum required, but do consider that there is room to write more if you need to go that way!
Your work is in the spoiler here, and in bold font is my writing:
Spoiler
A Shadow follows me.
When I look over my shoulder, he's not there. He believes I cannot see him. He thinks he is invisible. But I know better.
I carry on, yet the insidious Shadow waits for me.
I hear his heavy footsteps in the distance, each thump louder than the next.
Thump. Closer and closer.
Thump! His presence engulfs me. Slowly. Taking me over. Beginning at my toes, he gradually moves up, devouring my body. I feel his stinging breath against my neck. And before I am aware, I am reaching back for him. To feel the beast around me. But before I can get a grip, he escapes.
Disappearing into the air. He is no longer devouring me. His breath no longer burning my neck. Yet still, I feel his presence. I wonder, is it possible that one can be both here and not simultaneously?
Since my last encounter with Shadow, his flesh has not penetrated mine. His compulsion has hindered. Instead, he looms reservedly, always waiting. He waits for when I am alone and weak, for the day I least expect him. Just letting you know that I am so engaged at this point!!!
Instead, he looms reservedly, always waiting. He waits for when I am alone and weak, for the day I least expect him.
His last encounter was just a warning. Asserting his control in my mind, fuelling fear. To prove is power over me. And as strong as I thought I was, he’s winning.
I’m no longer interested in my former pastimes, he’s taken away my energy, and rid me of my joy for life. He’s robbed me of my former self, but now he waits to own me.
He is very patient, he doesn't mind waiting. It brings him pleasure to see me in pain. So here I will stay. Wilting and losing my will. Waiting for his final assault.
He makes the days longer and the agony more unbearable. More unbearable - this doesn't make a lot of sense because it is either unbearable or its not, there are no degrees of unbearable. I push through, expecting him to come and take me away. I find myself begging for him to come. For this, is not life, I am merely a walking corpse. I beg for Shadow to give me the freedom for which I so desperately long for. The freedom of death. The freedom of finally being set free.
It’s been months now. Months of waiting and still no sign of him. I wonder whether this was his plan all along. To Pummel me mercilessly until I’m about to break, and then leave me to suffer in this in-between state. I’m sure its all for his own sick pleasure. That would be something he would do.
One morning I wake up and something feels different. I feel undisturbed by. This last sentence doesn't make clear sense? Shadow has left me. He’s set me free. I think this deserves its own line. Skip a line and start this sentence. Build up the hope in the reader. Or so I thought… Except there is no hope in my body, no happiness for finally being released. There’s only disgust. He’s left me with a shell. An empty, numb shell. He’s taken everything good. There is no room for love or joy or excitement. Everything has gone. There is no me, he took it. He took it and he left nothing.
I need him back. He has become a part of me. I cannot function without him. I speak directly to his invisible face. I scream. I shout. I beg for him to come back.
Silence.
I vow that I will never think badly of him again. I will worship him, with all that I can.
Silence.
There is no me without Shadow, we belong together.
Silence.
I can’t do it without him.
Silence.
I can’t do it.
Silence.
I bring the blade to my neck.
One. Harder.
The pain of the blade is nothing compared to the pain that Shadow has left me with.
Two. Blood.
Three. Silence.
You see, this is what he wanted all along.
This is what Shadows do.
I’d be careful if I were you, it’s easy to find yourself with a persistent shadow.
My advice. Don't look over your shoulder.
When I look over my shoulder, he's not there. He believes I cannot see him. He thinks he is invisible. But I know better.
I carry on, yet the insidious Shadow waits for me.
I hear his heavy footsteps in the distance, each thump louder than the next.
Thump. Closer and closer.
Thump! His presence engulfs me. Slowly. Taking me over. Beginning at my toes, he gradually moves up, devouring my body. I feel his stinging breath against my neck. And before I am aware, I am reaching back for him. To feel the beast around me. But before I can get a grip, he escapes.
Disappearing into the air. He is no longer devouring me. His breath no longer burning my neck. Yet still, I feel his presence. I wonder, is it possible that one can be both here and not simultaneously?
Since my last encounter with Shadow, his flesh has not penetrated mine. His compulsion has hindered. Instead, he looms reservedly, always waiting. He waits for when I am alone and weak, for the day I least expect him. Just letting you know that I am so engaged at this point!!!
Instead, he looms reservedly, always waiting. He waits for when I am alone and weak, for the day I least expect him.
His last encounter was just a warning. Asserting his control in my mind, fuelling fear. To prove is power over me. And as strong as I thought I was, he’s winning.
I’m no longer interested in my former pastimes, he’s taken away my energy, and rid me of my joy for life. He’s robbed me of my former self, but now he waits to own me.
He is very patient, he doesn't mind waiting. It brings him pleasure to see me in pain. So here I will stay. Wilting and losing my will. Waiting for his final assault.
He makes the days longer and the agony more unbearable. More unbearable - this doesn't make a lot of sense because it is either unbearable or its not, there are no degrees of unbearable. I push through, expecting him to come and take me away. I find myself begging for him to come. For this, is not life, I am merely a walking corpse. I beg for Shadow to give me the freedom for which I so desperately long for. The freedom of death. The freedom of finally being set free.
It’s been months now. Months of waiting and still no sign of him. I wonder whether this was his plan all along. To Pummel me mercilessly until I’m about to break, and then leave me to suffer in this in-between state. I’m sure its all for his own sick pleasure. That would be something he would do.
One morning I wake up and something feels different. I feel undisturbed by. This last sentence doesn't make clear sense? Shadow has left me. He’s set me free. I think this deserves its own line. Skip a line and start this sentence. Build up the hope in the reader. Or so I thought… Except there is no hope in my body, no happiness for finally being released. There’s only disgust. He’s left me with a shell. An empty, numb shell. He’s taken everything good. There is no room for love or joy or excitement. Everything has gone. There is no me, he took it. He took it and he left nothing.
I need him back. He has become a part of me. I cannot function without him. I speak directly to his invisible face. I scream. I shout. I beg for him to come back.
Silence.
I vow that I will never think badly of him again. I will worship him, with all that I can.
Silence.
There is no me without Shadow, we belong together.
Silence.
I can’t do it without him.
Silence.
I can’t do it.
Silence.
I bring the blade to my neck.
One. Harder.
The pain of the blade is nothing compared to the pain that Shadow has left me with.
Two. Blood.
Three. Silence.
You see, this is what he wanted all along.
This is what Shadows do.
I’d be careful if I were you, it’s easy to find yourself with a persistent shadow.
My advice. Don't look over your shoulder.
Wow, this piece is incredibly moving. I interpret the shadow as depression, or other mental illness, but I'm sure it could also be interpreted as a ghost, or this story could be seen as some kind of exorcism. I think the way to enhance the story to suit discovery is to work on the idea of identity. I think towards the end, the protagonist could make the realisation that without the Shadow, they have no identity, and they were so greatly longing for identity free of the Shadow earlier. So, if I were in charge of this story, I would change the earlier longings to be killed (set free) to a longing to reclaim the identity of a pre-shadow time. Then, towards the end, realise that when the shadow leaves, it doesn't leave empty handed. It has in fact been around so long that it absorbed all identity - leaving the narrator with nothing. This is then when the narrator then tries to kill themself - because without the shadow, they have no identity. Does this make sense? Again, this is espousing the interpretation that this is a mental illness. Your piece is INCREDIBLY cool because it does have various perspectives, yet it's not cryptic enough that you can't access it.
How does this sound to you? I think that there is a lot of potential here in terms of enhancing the discovery!
Post by: Spencerr on July 16, 2016, 10:41:30 pm
Thanks in advance!
Spoiler
On the cab ride over to my village, my heart bounced almost as much as the tyres on the uneven roads. As the cab maneuvered around the mounds of rubble, I directed my attention to a small makeshift hut where an old woman lay crouched, flies buzzing in a chaotic circle around her weary face. Her face was the same colour and texture as the soil; dry, brown and weathered. Years of working, hunched over, in the rice paddy fields had stooped her posture
‘How much longer?,’ I asked the driver as he changed gears.
He mumbled something in Vietnamese but, because I had not spoken this language for a while, his words were foreign to me. I remained mute, and reflected on the past day. Only 24 hours ago I had discovered the harrowing news. The voicemail message was still ringing in my years. “Your mother has died. Return home, son”.
As the cab neared a series of cocoon-like shelters, I began to experience a sense of déjà vu. The smell of burning wood wafted into the cab and, without warning, a serene sensation flowed through my body; the smell was the epitome of a childhood I had lost when I had left this place. A vision of my mother cradling me as she threw the wood into the fire sidled into my thoughts. I could see the sparks fly up in anger as the fresh wood disturbed the already disintegrated wood in the pile. This disruption mirrored my own instability at coming back
As I opened the door to my family home, the sight of a miniature shrine caught my attention. My mother’s warm eyes, so lifelike, greeted me. She was now trapped in a photo, no longer here to greet me physically, to greet me with a mother’s love. The earthy incense smoke circled around the photograph; I waved it away as I reached over and lifted the photo.
Guilt. The only two emotions that I had ever felt with regard to my mother were guilt and love. And now, the two intertwined, leaving me standing there, a twisted ball of pain.
‘Why do you have to leave?’ she had questioned, her brown eyes searching my immovable expression for an answer.
‘Mama, you know I have to. Father was displeased and I have disgraced him…again. He will never forgive me for the comments I made in front of his friends”, I replied, my head bowed down in shame.
“ Your father was not disappointed in you”, she said, attempting to reassure me. “He had just expected you to do what all our ancestors have done. The military is an honourable career choice but you have to follow your own path.’ She grabbed my hand, warming it in hers and leading me back to the fireplace.
My mother had not told me that day that she was seriously ill. All she had said was to discover ‘my path’, but had I known that that path was never to have met hers again, I would have stayed rooted to the spot, a solid oak tree refusing to bend
In Sydney, I discovered a city where people were more focused on their 6 figure salaries than the number of runs they scored in the weekend game of cricket. I felt a sense of isolation. It wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t speak English because, at that time, I had known the basics.
My isolation stemmed from a place that did not resemble home. Even though I rented an apartment in Cabramatta, and even though many people looked like me, I felt like an imposter here. We could speak each other’s language but that is where it ended.
Saddened and alone, I went in search for furniture and items that I could use to turn my one bedroom unit into a replica of home in the village. I bought the same color furniture, the same style of lamp and the same texture of bed sheets; I even used incense sticks tomake it smell like home.
And now, standing here, home again, I wondered what I would say to my father.
Mesmerised by the photo of my mother, I had not heard my father come in but I did hear the shuffling of footsteps as he moved towards the fireplace to add more wood. My father was shorter than I had remembered him; had he shrunk with age or had I grown? His wide face was littered with sun spots, and the wrinkled lines across his forehead gave the impression of a hard life.
He said nothing to me.
I said nothing to him.
I watched as he started to heat some soup and then lay two bowls and two spoons down on the small table next to the fire. He brought out two brown cushions from a cupboard next to the door and laid them on either side of the table. He looked up and motioned with his hand to sit.
I accepted.
We did not say a word to each other during the entire meal. The chicken broth was not as good as my mother’s. With each spoonful, I looked up at my father, wondering what he was thinking. Finally, when he finished, he lay down his spoon, looked at me and said, ‘Welcome home.’ I smiled, unsure of the intent of the statement.
My father walked over to the same cupboard which had housed the cushions. After much noise, he pulled out a small, wooden chest and placed it in front of me. He then put on his anorak and left me alone.
Curious, I opened the chest. I picked up a wad of unstamped envelopes and then let them slip through my fingers as I realized what they were. I chose one and started reading.I had not seen my father’s writing for fifteen years. Still, I knew the slant of his words, the sharply defined characters. I opened the first letter, curiously and fearfully, unprepared for the overwhelming emotion that imploded from the simple act of reading.
For fifteen years, my father had been writing to me. For the first time in fifteen years, I began to cry.
‘How much longer?,’ I asked the driver as he changed gears.
He mumbled something in Vietnamese but, because I had not spoken this language for a while, his words were foreign to me. I remained mute, and reflected on the past day. Only 24 hours ago I had discovered the harrowing news. The voicemail message was still ringing in my years. “Your mother has died. Return home, son”.
As the cab neared a series of cocoon-like shelters, I began to experience a sense of déjà vu. The smell of burning wood wafted into the cab and, without warning, a serene sensation flowed through my body; the smell was the epitome of a childhood I had lost when I had left this place. A vision of my mother cradling me as she threw the wood into the fire sidled into my thoughts. I could see the sparks fly up in anger as the fresh wood disturbed the already disintegrated wood in the pile. This disruption mirrored my own instability at coming back
As I opened the door to my family home, the sight of a miniature shrine caught my attention. My mother’s warm eyes, so lifelike, greeted me. She was now trapped in a photo, no longer here to greet me physically, to greet me with a mother’s love. The earthy incense smoke circled around the photograph; I waved it away as I reached over and lifted the photo.
Guilt. The only two emotions that I had ever felt with regard to my mother were guilt and love. And now, the two intertwined, leaving me standing there, a twisted ball of pain.
‘Why do you have to leave?’ she had questioned, her brown eyes searching my immovable expression for an answer.
‘Mama, you know I have to. Father was displeased and I have disgraced him…again. He will never forgive me for the comments I made in front of his friends”, I replied, my head bowed down in shame.
“ Your father was not disappointed in you”, she said, attempting to reassure me. “He had just expected you to do what all our ancestors have done. The military is an honourable career choice but you have to follow your own path.’ She grabbed my hand, warming it in hers and leading me back to the fireplace.
My mother had not told me that day that she was seriously ill. All she had said was to discover ‘my path’, but had I known that that path was never to have met hers again, I would have stayed rooted to the spot, a solid oak tree refusing to bend
In Sydney, I discovered a city where people were more focused on their 6 figure salaries than the number of runs they scored in the weekend game of cricket. I felt a sense of isolation. It wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t speak English because, at that time, I had known the basics.
My isolation stemmed from a place that did not resemble home. Even though I rented an apartment in Cabramatta, and even though many people looked like me, I felt like an imposter here. We could speak each other’s language but that is where it ended.
Saddened and alone, I went in search for furniture and items that I could use to turn my one bedroom unit into a replica of home in the village. I bought the same color furniture, the same style of lamp and the same texture of bed sheets; I even used incense sticks tomake it smell like home.
And now, standing here, home again, I wondered what I would say to my father.
Mesmerised by the photo of my mother, I had not heard my father come in but I did hear the shuffling of footsteps as he moved towards the fireplace to add more wood. My father was shorter than I had remembered him; had he shrunk with age or had I grown? His wide face was littered with sun spots, and the wrinkled lines across his forehead gave the impression of a hard life.
He said nothing to me.
I said nothing to him.
I watched as he started to heat some soup and then lay two bowls and two spoons down on the small table next to the fire. He brought out two brown cushions from a cupboard next to the door and laid them on either side of the table. He looked up and motioned with his hand to sit.
I accepted.
We did not say a word to each other during the entire meal. The chicken broth was not as good as my mother’s. With each spoonful, I looked up at my father, wondering what he was thinking. Finally, when he finished, he lay down his spoon, looked at me and said, ‘Welcome home.’ I smiled, unsure of the intent of the statement.
My father walked over to the same cupboard which had housed the cushions. After much noise, he pulled out a small, wooden chest and placed it in front of me. He then put on his anorak and left me alone.
Curious, I opened the chest. I picked up a wad of unstamped envelopes and then let them slip through my fingers as I realized what they were. I chose one and started reading.I had not seen my father’s writing for fifteen years. Still, I knew the slant of his words, the sharply defined characters. I opened the first letter, curiously and fearfully, unprepared for the overwhelming emotion that imploded from the simple act of reading.
For fifteen years, my father had been writing to me. For the first time in fifteen years, I began to cry.
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 16, 2016, 10:52:42 pm
Hi! If you're not already super busy, I would really appreciate if you could have a look at my creative writing piece :) Last time I had it marked it was a 13/15, but I really want to push it higher. What I think I need the most help with is showing not telling, and whether it just makes sense as a whole, since I am jumping around different locations quite a bit :) It's also a little bit long, so if you have any suggestions for how to cut it down, that would be much appreciated!
Thank you so much!
Hey there! Thanks for your patience - we are slowly but surely moving through the surge we've had in the last week!
Your story is in the spoiler here, with my own comments in bold font throughout:
Spoiler
TERMINAL
I find the concept of words really interesting. How a random combination of 26 symbols that just happen to create a sound can have such an effect on us. Like “love”, just one word, one syllable, four letters long. So small, yet so big in its impact.Same The same notion applies with words like “hate,” “year” and “death.” It seems unfair to limit these words to fewer than five letters. To be honest, it seems unfair to limit them to words at all.
In all honesty, the word cancer doesn’t scare me very much. It was the other one...
“I’m afraid your condition is…” the doctor begins before being interrupted by the sight of my five-year-old daughter, hands glistening with the copious amounts of hand sanitizer sanitiser that she continues to pump from the container. “I’m afraid your condition is…” My wife picks her up and carries her to the other side of the room, her reflection almost completely visible on the various titanium surfaces, as she sits her back down, only for my daughter to immediately pick up one of the many photographs on the doctor’s desk. “I’m afraid your condition is…” It’s a happy photograph, three children smiling as the sun beams down on their sun-blocked faces “I’m afraid your condition is…” In a couple of days, it will be the school holidays so I will be able to take her… I think it would add to the suspense to give each new "I'm afraid..." a new line. I'm really intensely engaged here, I think you can just expand it that little bit more.
“Terminal.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid your condition is Terminal”.
‘Terminal’ is an interesting word. 8 letters, none repeated. Origins from the Latin word ‘Terminus,’ meaning ‘end’, with the first known usage being in 1744. It has 15 different definitions, 7 of which are adjectives, the others being nouns. In my case, we’re focused on definition number 3,
“Leading ultimately to death.”
A powerful word. I turn to my wife, but instead my eyes meet an old set of swings. “Tag! You’re it!” I hear my younger brother screams excitedly from behind, as he quickly jabs my shoulder. I turn around to see my tenth grade teacher, expectantly holding out her hand for the permission slip to Taronga Zoo. As I reach into my bag to get it, I find an old set of keys, I look up, and I am outside a tiny apartment complex, “Finally home!” exclaims my girlfriend, “Sandy?” I reply as she proceeds to throw my belongings out of the third floor window. “Does it always take this long?” The disgruntled customer complains as I make his coffee – A flat white with foam. I turn around to see my wife in a white dress. She’s so beautiful. Even as she gives birth to our first child, her picture stuck to the wall of my office cubicle. I sit in this cubicle for a while… and then everything goes black. What you've written here is INCREDIBLY powerful.
No more swing sets. No more school. No more crazy girlfriends, or customers. No more wife. No more daughter. No more office cubicle. Soon, that life will be over. My life will be over.
“Do you haveyour Medicare card?”
“Oh, yes…”
My wife rummages through her purse while simultaneously picking up a bunch of pamphlets from the counter. “What NOT to say to a cancer patient,” “How to deal with death,” “Cancer: what does this mean for you?” As if something like that could really be summed up on a double sided A5 sheet of paper. I look down at my daughter, perplexed at her stillness, to find her quietly sucking on a lollipop. One of the nurses must have given it it her. I hope she doesn’t know why.
“How long do I have?”
Create a larger space here.
Numbers are pretty interesting as well. Not as interesting as words, but they have their moments. Did you know that there was a man in India that was able to prove that -1/12 equals infinity? I do wonder how long that took him to work out. Probably longer than three months, so I guess I will just have to think of something else to pass the time.
“Nous allons maintenant commencer notre desent à Paris.” I feel so happy I can translate this without help :') #hscfrenchbeginners4ever
I love French words. Not only do they just sound more attractive than English ones, but they tend to be more expressive as well. Maybe it’s just me, but I believe “J’adore” comes a least a little bit closer than “love” in truly expressing the sentiment to someone. I’ll have to make sure to say “J’adore” many more times to my wife this trip.
“SD CARD FULL.”
A camera full of digital memories. You know, scientists believe that within a few years they will be able to download a human consciousness into a computer? A few years too late, so this camera will have to do. Looking at the pictures, you’d assume nothing was wrong. That we were just a regular family, on a regular holiday. We did all the normal touristy stuff, eat crepes, drink wine, visit the Eiffel tower, and watch a whole lot of British TV, because the BBC is the only English speaking channel at our hotel. Our daughter tucked tight in bed, we end up binge watching a whole season of this new show called Sisterless till 3am. We enjoy it so much, that we end up looking online to see if the next season has already aired, but it turns out that it won’t be for another eight months. It seems like such a small thing, but realizing that I’ll never know what happens next really depresses me. More than the chemo, more than the constant doctors visits, more than the bloody pamphlets! I know that sounds crazy. Like my wife said, “it’s just a TV show.” It is JUST that. The word “just” suggests that it is something simple, something easy to obtain. My wife suggests that we contact the creators and just ask, but in my opinion, that just wouldn’t be the same.
Notre Dame. Staring up at the beautiful mosaics and paintings, while drenched in a sea of coloured light gives me a sense of calm I haven’t felt in a long time. I’ve always been a huge art fan. From Michael Angelo to Picasso, Leonardo Da Vinci to Salvador Dali, the pure, raw expression that comes through art attracts me. They say a picture is worth 1000 words but I disagree. I believe it is so much more.
“Look at all the candles mummy!” My daughter exclaims with excitement, running over to the votive candles, Thousands of little, flickering gold teardrops, lit by people with intentions for souls. I wonder how many are for cancer patients.
While at the cathedral, the word God, unsurprisingly comes to mind. God. That’s another big one limited to 3 small letters. Anagram of dog as well. I’m not a very religious person. I guess I would call myself an atheist? I don’t know, again, it’s just another loaded word. But despite that, I would be lying if I said that the discovery of my limited time on this earth has not lead me to question whether I will receive unlimited time in another. I always thought the concept of an afterlife was silly, just a thing created by men who were afraid of their own mortality. But when you yourself are confronted with it, you begin to understand their desperation.
I light a votive candle for myself. I don’t know if that’s against the rules, but at least I know there will be at least one for a cancer patient.
It’s kind of funny looking back on this trip, and realizing realising that all of it, all of the happiness and joy it created, is because I have cancer. We had no plans to go to Paris before I was diagnosed, and even if we had, something would have stopped us, “It’s too expensive,” “It’s too far away.” “Who will look after the dog?”
I know the words juxtapose, but dying has actually made me feel more alive.
Realisation. An underestimated word, defined as “the act of becoming fully aware of something as a fact.” For example, you can realise you left your keys at home, or that you’ve already seen that episode of Friends, so you might as well change the channel. When I wake up to the morning of December 14th 2015, I realise that it will be my last day on earth. I pretend that everything is normal, however, a few minutes before I know it will all end, I ask to see my bucket list.
So many unchecked boxes. So many wasted opportunities. So many things that I will never have the chance to experience. I have nothing to say to my future self. But I have so much to say to my past.
Life. 4 letters, none repeated. According to the dictionary, there are 28 definitions, 25 nouns and 3 adjectives. But none of that matters. Life can only be defined by the living, and even without the cancer, I have been dead for so long.
I wish I had discovered that sooner.
I find the concept of words really interesting. How a random combination of 26 symbols that just happen to create a sound can have such an effect on us. Like “love”, just one word, one syllable, four letters long. So small, yet so big in its impact.
In all honesty, the word cancer doesn’t scare me very much. It was the other one...
“I’m afraid your condition is…” the doctor begins before being interrupted by the sight of my five-year-old daughter, hands glistening with the copious amounts of hand sanitizer sanitiser that she continues to pump from the container. “I’m afraid your condition is…” My wife picks her up and carries her to the other side of the room, her reflection almost completely visible on the various titanium surfaces, as she sits her back down, only for my daughter to immediately pick up one of the many photographs on the doctor’s desk. “I’m afraid your condition is…” It’s a happy photograph, three children smiling as the sun beams down on their sun-blocked faces “I’m afraid your condition is…” In a couple of days, it will be the school holidays so I will be able to take her… I think it would add to the suspense to give each new "I'm afraid..." a new line. I'm really intensely engaged here, I think you can just expand it that little bit more.
“Terminal.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid your condition is Terminal”.
‘Terminal’ is an interesting word. 8 letters, none repeated. Origins from the Latin word ‘Terminus,’ meaning ‘end’, with the first known usage being in 1744. It has 15 different definitions, 7 of which are adjectives, the others being nouns. In my case, we’re focused on definition number 3,
“Leading ultimately to death.”
A powerful word. I turn to my wife, but instead my eyes meet an old set of swings. “Tag! You’re it!” I hear my younger brother screams excitedly from behind, as he quickly jabs my shoulder. I turn around to see my tenth grade teacher, expectantly holding out her hand for the permission slip to Taronga Zoo. As I reach into my bag to get it, I find an old set of keys, I look up, and I am outside a tiny apartment complex, “Finally home!” exclaims my girlfriend, “Sandy?” I reply as she proceeds to throw my belongings out of the third floor window. “Does it always take this long?” The disgruntled customer complains as I make his coffee – A flat white with foam. I turn around to see my wife in a white dress. She’s so beautiful. Even as she gives birth to our first child, her picture stuck to the wall of my office cubicle. I sit in this cubicle for a while… and then everything goes black. What you've written here is INCREDIBLY powerful.
No more swing sets. No more school. No more crazy girlfriends, or customers. No more wife. No more daughter. No more office cubicle. Soon, that life will be over. My life will be over.
“Do you haveyour Medicare card?”
“Oh, yes…”
My wife rummages through her purse while simultaneously picking up a bunch of pamphlets from the counter. “What NOT to say to a cancer patient,” “How to deal with death,” “Cancer: what does this mean for you?” As if something like that could really be summed up on a double sided A5 sheet of paper. I look down at my daughter, perplexed at her stillness, to find her quietly sucking on a lollipop. One of the nurses must have given it it her. I hope she doesn’t know why.
“How long do I have?”
Create a larger space here.
Numbers are pretty interesting as well. Not as interesting as words, but they have their moments. Did you know that there was a man in India that was able to prove that -1/12 equals infinity? I do wonder how long that took him to work out. Probably longer than three months, so I guess I will just have to think of something else to pass the time.
“Nous allons maintenant commencer notre desent à Paris.” I feel so happy I can translate this without help :') #hscfrenchbeginners4ever
I love French words. Not only do they just sound more attractive than English ones, but they tend to be more expressive as well. Maybe it’s just me, but I believe “J’adore” comes a least a little bit closer than “love” in truly expressing the sentiment to someone. I’ll have to make sure to say “J’adore” many more times to my wife this trip.
“SD CARD FULL.”
A camera full of digital memories. You know, scientists believe that within a few years they will be able to download a human consciousness into a computer? A few years too late, so this camera will have to do. Looking at the pictures, you’d assume nothing was wrong. That we were just a regular family, on a regular holiday. We did all the normal touristy stuff, eat crepes, drink wine, visit the Eiffel tower, and watch a whole lot of British TV, because the BBC is the only English speaking channel at our hotel. Our daughter tucked tight in bed, we end up binge watching a whole season of this new show called Sisterless till 3am. We enjoy it so much, that we end up looking online to see if the next season has already aired, but it turns out that it won’t be for another eight months. It seems like such a small thing, but realizing that I’ll never know what happens next really depresses me. More than the chemo, more than the constant doctors visits, more than the bloody pamphlets! I know that sounds crazy. Like my wife said, “it’s just a TV show.” It is JUST that. The word “just” suggests that it is something simple, something easy to obtain. My wife suggests that we contact the creators and just ask, but in my opinion, that just wouldn’t be the same.
Notre Dame. Staring up at the beautiful mosaics and paintings, while drenched in a sea of coloured light gives me a sense of calm I haven’t felt in a long time. I’ve always been a huge art fan. From Michael Angelo to Picasso, Leonardo Da Vinci to Salvador Dali, the pure, raw expression that comes through art attracts me. They say a picture is worth 1000 words but I disagree. I believe it is so much more.
“Look at all the candles mummy!” My daughter exclaims with excitement, running over to the votive candles, Thousands of little, flickering gold teardrops, lit by people with intentions for souls. I wonder how many are for cancer patients.
While at the cathedral, the word God, unsurprisingly comes to mind. God. That’s another big one limited to 3 small letters. Anagram of dog as well. I’m not a very religious person. I guess I would call myself an atheist? I don’t know, again, it’s just another loaded word. But despite that, I would be lying if I said that the discovery of my limited time on this earth has not lead me to question whether I will receive unlimited time in another. I always thought the concept of an afterlife was silly, just a thing created by men who were afraid of their own mortality. But when you yourself are confronted with it, you begin to understand their desperation.
I light a votive candle for myself. I don’t know if that’s against the rules, but at least I know there will be at least one for a cancer patient.
It’s kind of funny looking back on this trip, and realizing realising that all of it, all of the happiness and joy it created, is because I have cancer. We had no plans to go to Paris before I was diagnosed, and even if we had, something would have stopped us, “It’s too expensive,” “It’s too far away.” “Who will look after the dog?”
I know the words juxtapose, but dying has actually made me feel more alive.
Realisation. An underestimated word, defined as “the act of becoming fully aware of something as a fact.” For example, you can realise you left your keys at home, or that you’ve already seen that episode of Friends, so you might as well change the channel. When I wake up to the morning of December 14th 2015, I realise that it will be my last day on earth. I pretend that everything is normal, however, a few minutes before I know it will all end, I ask to see my bucket list.
So many unchecked boxes. So many wasted opportunities. So many things that I will never have the chance to experience. I have nothing to say to my future self. But I have so much to say to my past.
Life. 4 letters, none repeated. According to the dictionary, there are 28 definitions, 25 nouns and 3 adjectives. But none of that matters. Life can only be defined by the living, and even without the cancer, I have been dead for so long.
I wish I had discovered that sooner.
This is absolutely incredibly. I say this with real humility to show just how impressed I am. I finished reading and turned to my boyfriend and starting asking all of these existential questions about living life to the fullest and ahhh. As a writer, your job, more often than not, is to make a reader think/question/talk. You did that. All of that. It's sometimes hard for me to read through an entire creative because I do it from home where there is Kardashians on TV and chocolate next to me. I had an xbox playing next to my ear for this one and I still didn't flick from the page. I'm so moved by this. Even though the ideas present in a jumpy way, it was so smooth. You tackle a topic that a lot of people would consider cliche, with such originality. I'd be doing whatever I could to leave this story in its current condition (bar the few grammatical things I suggested). By this I mean, do you think you can write this in the exam? Can you save time in your essay or unseen texts section? I think you need to be seriously strategic about your exam time and how you can fit this in.
When I was looking at things to cull, I considered the part about the french language. But I think the "descending into Paris" quote really does a lot for elevating the plot. However, I think in each little reflection, you could cut about 50 words. Whether that be an entire sentence, or just by merging smaller sentences. This will save about...200 words possibly? Which makes your story far more achievable.
You should be incredibly proud of this. You've moved me - and I'm sure you'll move a marker as well.
How is your handwriting? Neat? I seriously am supporting nothing getting in the way of this story lol!
Post by: sudodds on July 17, 2016, 12:26:31 am
Post by: Jemimared on July 17, 2016, 09:27:16 am
Again, thanks so much! I really appreciate all the thorough feedback.
Jemima
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 17, 2016, 12:06:17 pm
Thank you so much ! This is incredibly helpful. I will work on editing it and send in a final draft.
Again, thanks so much! I really appreciate all the thorough feedback.
Jemima
No sweat! If you have more questions, drop in to clarify! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 17, 2016, 12:08:00 pm
Wow! Thank you so much :) This was so much more feedback than my teacher gave me. Handwriting wise I should be all good hahaha. I'm really glad you liked it :) I'll take the time now to go and include some of your edits. Thank you!!
Amazing! Thanks for your hard work - do feel free to post back any questions! I know I didn't give a lot of feedback, but like I said, it is VERY, VERY good!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 17, 2016, 03:13:37 pm
Hey!! Here's my creative (again) I fixed it up from after getting feedback from both here and my teacher ;D and then forgot about it..
It's quite different again this time (I might be going in the wrong direction..), please be harsh and pull it apart, tell me where to improve :D
Thank you so much!! :) :)
Hi there!!! Happy to help and thank you for your patience!!!
Here is your creative in the spoiler, with my own comments in bold font throughout...you know how it works ;)
Spoiler
Just as he suspected. The denial was simply wishful thinking.
“How could you do this to me? Were you just, what? Never going to tell me?!”
“I didn’t have the heart to tell you, Andy. I’m sorry.”
“What am I meant to-“
The eerie dial tone sang throughout the room.
Andy’s hands trembled as he clasped on to the document which uncovered the truth. Crushing it in his fists, his hands pressed against his head, cringing in anguish. He never once questioned the position he held in his own life…. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the reality that he had never been, or will ever be, the father of his beloved son.
The air around him began to thicken, and he was fighting to breathe. His bones rattled at the realisation, and tremors shook his body as he sat awake through the night.
Interactions became merely an act of preservation. His body stung with fury. Distance was the only escape. His compassion diminished. His sense of self slipped.
The dinner table seemed as though it was held up by tension as it became the only link which joined them together. Whirling air echoed around the room, making occasional clatters which were offbeat to the automatic clinking of silverware on porcelain. Glances were avoided by the shadow which was cast by the broken overhead light. By this point I'm a little lost. I think the imagery is really intense, which is awesome in moderation, but it's one after the other right now. And I'm focusing so much on the sounds and sights that I'm losing track of the plot.
That night remained vivid in his memory for months afterwards. The household fell into a routine which barely necessitated words. Andy would order take out most nights; after placing his son's order on the table he would retreat to the study. As the night dragged on the room would slowly fall into darkness - the only light the synthetic glow of his computer screen. When the television began to blare from the other room Andy would quieten the distraction with three sharp knocks on the adjoining wall. By the time he emerged the night had crept into morning and there was no sign of his son.
The umbrella worked hard to hold itself up in the morning’s torrential rain as Andy marched to his office. Fog accompanied the rain; navigating the distance ahead became difficult.
Standing impatiently on the corner, Andy gains focus through the misty streetscape and became intrigued by the lonely beggar, withered on the other side. Sunlight attempted to infiltrate the sky; only making weak streams down to the earth. The light irritated Andy’s stare even further - all those nights spent at fluorescent screens seemed to blur his sight.
He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear them. Andy unintentionally locked eyes with the beggar. His limbs were shuddering from the bitter cold and the cardboard structure over his head was weeping under the weight of the rain. The atmosphere is now not only thick with fog, but washed with tension. I think you need to ask yourself at the end of the paragraph: Have I revealed the plot more here? I believe, as I learned from a famous writer, that every sentence should reveal a character, or accelerate the plot. If we go through this paragraph, the character is revealed slowly but surely, and the plot is revealed even slower, but surely. I think you should definitely have a kind of "wishy washy" sentence here and there to give the marker a breathe, but because the sentences between those breaths are so full of ideas, it is hard to follow that completely. I don't think I'm explaining this very well, and that's mainly because I haven't explained this before, but you asked me to be harsh! Essentially, at this point I'm not really sure where the plot is headed, and not really in a suspenseful way. I think you need to accelerate the plot earlier, then perhaps go into a reflection, rather than weave the reflection and pensive moments into the plot.
A familiar, yet abrupt metallic racket pulsed through his mind. Andy winced. The misery in the man’s eyes struck him. The withered figure was far from Andy’s reach, but the guilt was all too familiar. Abandonment sang a lonely tune, even on the streets.
He watched the beggar as he tossed the structure from over his head. The weak cardboard dissolved into the puddle beside him.
Tremors flooded back into Andy's system. Regret took the place of disgust. Time seemed to slow down. His mind dizzy with remorse.
His stomach twisted as shame soaked through to his bone. Chills pierced every cell in his body as he realised what he had done. The daze which swept his brain unravelled memories of the months passed; Andy was unsettled by the selfishness which had taken over his heart and his mind, in an attempt to blame the feigned relationship on the innocent child.
The helpless man let his makeshift home disintegrate around him. Andy was agitated; he felt this moment bore an unsettling affinity with his own position.
The metallic clinking of cutlery echoed back into his mind... The vacant household. Routine interactions. Continuous misery. Andy had damaged their bond beyond repair.
The blood rushing through his veins lost all purpose, his pulse weakened to a pathetic beat. His heart and his mind flooded with disregard. The hazy streetscape became suffocating; the air condensed around him as he gasped for breath.
Andy scrambled for his phone and rang his son in a fit of desperation.
The eerie dial tone.
Another one.
Another.
Andy tried one last time.
Monotonous rings put Andy on edge. An answer, but the phone fell silent.
“Please, please. Forgive me.” Andy’s voice weakened and the line fell flat.
Grumbling from a familiar raspy voice filled the phone line.
“I just.. Didn’t have the heart to tell you, Dad. I’m sorry.”
Fog enveloped his body as Andy trembled. He felt undeserving of the protection which the umbrella provided and dropped it by his side. The bitter wind made the raindrops prickle his skin; the world around him was blurred.
The atmosphere around him became murkier with every breath, the cardboard roof melting into the puddles on the sidewalk as Andy watched the beggar abandon his home and disappear into the bleary mist.
“How could you do this to me? Were you just, what? Never going to tell me?!”
“I didn’t have the heart to tell you, Andy. I’m sorry.”
“What am I meant to-“
The eerie dial tone sang throughout the room.
Andy’s hands trembled as he clasped on to the document which uncovered the truth. Crushing it in his fists, his hands pressed against his head, cringing in anguish. He never once questioned the position he held in his own life…. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the reality that he had never been, or will ever be, the father of his beloved son.
The air around him began to thicken, and he was fighting to breathe. His bones rattled at the realisation, and tremors shook his body as he sat awake through the night.
Interactions became merely an act of preservation. His body stung with fury. Distance was the only escape. His compassion diminished. His sense of self slipped.
The dinner table seemed as though it was held up by tension as it became the only link which joined them together. Whirling air echoed around the room, making occasional clatters which were offbeat to the automatic clinking of silverware on porcelain. Glances were avoided by the shadow which was cast by the broken overhead light. By this point I'm a little lost. I think the imagery is really intense, which is awesome in moderation, but it's one after the other right now. And I'm focusing so much on the sounds and sights that I'm losing track of the plot.
That night remained vivid in his memory for months afterwards. The household fell into a routine which barely necessitated words. Andy would order take out most nights; after placing his son's order on the table he would retreat to the study. As the night dragged on the room would slowly fall into darkness - the only light the synthetic glow of his computer screen. When the television began to blare from the other room Andy would quieten the distraction with three sharp knocks on the adjoining wall. By the time he emerged the night had crept into morning and there was no sign of his son.
The umbrella worked hard to hold itself up in the morning’s torrential rain as Andy marched to his office. Fog accompanied the rain; navigating the distance ahead became difficult.
Standing impatiently on the corner, Andy gains focus through the misty streetscape and became intrigued by the lonely beggar, withered on the other side. Sunlight attempted to infiltrate the sky; only making weak streams down to the earth. The light irritated Andy’s stare even further - all those nights spent at fluorescent screens seemed to blur his sight.
He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear them. Andy unintentionally locked eyes with the beggar. His limbs were shuddering from the bitter cold and the cardboard structure over his head was weeping under the weight of the rain. The atmosphere is now not only thick with fog, but washed with tension. I think you need to ask yourself at the end of the paragraph: Have I revealed the plot more here? I believe, as I learned from a famous writer, that every sentence should reveal a character, or accelerate the plot. If we go through this paragraph, the character is revealed slowly but surely, and the plot is revealed even slower, but surely. I think you should definitely have a kind of "wishy washy" sentence here and there to give the marker a breathe, but because the sentences between those breaths are so full of ideas, it is hard to follow that completely. I don't think I'm explaining this very well, and that's mainly because I haven't explained this before, but you asked me to be harsh! Essentially, at this point I'm not really sure where the plot is headed, and not really in a suspenseful way. I think you need to accelerate the plot earlier, then perhaps go into a reflection, rather than weave the reflection and pensive moments into the plot.
A familiar, yet abrupt metallic racket pulsed through his mind. Andy winced. The misery in the man’s eyes struck him. The withered figure was far from Andy’s reach, but the guilt was all too familiar. Abandonment sang a lonely tune, even on the streets.
He watched the beggar as he tossed the structure from over his head. The weak cardboard dissolved into the puddle beside him.
Tremors flooded back into Andy's system. Regret took the place of disgust. Time seemed to slow down. His mind dizzy with remorse.
His stomach twisted as shame soaked through to his bone. Chills pierced every cell in his body as he realised what he had done. The daze which swept his brain unravelled memories of the months passed; Andy was unsettled by the selfishness which had taken over his heart and his mind, in an attempt to blame the feigned relationship on the innocent child.
The helpless man let his makeshift home disintegrate around him. Andy was agitated; he felt this moment bore an unsettling affinity with his own position.
The metallic clinking of cutlery echoed back into his mind... The vacant household. Routine interactions. Continuous misery. Andy had damaged their bond beyond repair.
The blood rushing through his veins lost all purpose, his pulse weakened to a pathetic beat. His heart and his mind flooded with disregard. The hazy streetscape became suffocating; the air condensed around him as he gasped for breath.
Andy scrambled for his phone and rang his son in a fit of desperation.
The eerie dial tone.
Another one.
Another.
Andy tried one last time.
Monotonous rings put Andy on edge. An answer, but the phone fell silent.
“Please, please. Forgive me.” Andy’s voice weakened and the line fell flat.
Grumbling from a familiar raspy voice filled the phone line.
“I just.. Didn’t have the heart to tell you, Dad. I’m sorry.”
Fog enveloped his body as Andy trembled. He felt undeserving of the protection which the umbrella provided and dropped it by his side. The bitter wind made the raindrops prickle his skin; the world around him was blurred.
The atmosphere around him became murkier with every breath, the cardboard roof melting into the puddles on the sidewalk as Andy watched the beggar abandon his home and disappear into the bleary mist.
I will be brutally honest because you asked me to - I'm missing the discovery! I'm not making the connection between the paper, the son, the fog, the homeless person. I can appreciate the circular structure that you have used, though! Bringing it back to the beginning is very satisfying for a reader, so this was comforting to read.
However, I am missing the discovery. I think part of this comes from the slow-revealing nature of the plot, and its infusion with various other aspects of the story (setting, descriptions, etc). So, I recommend writing your story on a story board. So basically, write the sequence of events down, and make sure that in your draft, you are writing it in the best possible order. Then look at what moments you want to focus on a reflection, and what moments you want to spend looking at defining details. I think there are a lot of details in this plot that are not defining details, but instead details that you are putting in to show your ability as a writer, which is what you need to do, but you aren't putting them in strategic spots. I hope this makes sense! Please let me know of anything specific you want to look into. I hope I haven't crushed your feels! I know you're an awesome writer, I've looked at so much of your stuff! I think it is about just stripping this one back, then colouring in the gaps again in a new, fresher way, in order to make the discovery really clear for a marker :)
Post by: brontem on July 17, 2016, 03:26:05 pm
I'll take it, change it, bring it back ;) Thankyou!!
I will be brutally honest because you asked me to - I'm missing the discovery!P.S hahahaha don't worry, I'm missing it too
Post by: teebolt on July 17, 2016, 08:10:07 pm
Nostalgia
Spoiler
My face is a string of worries and folds, bearing more lines than the roadmaps I have crossed mellowed by time. Long gone are the days of my youth, of bleary-eyed optimism and of dewy, porcelain skin. Today I am sixty-four, tomorrow I will be sixty-five. Tick. I take a sip of my earl grey tea, its familiar aroma reminding me of my days spent reflecting on life—which, to be quite frank, is as listless as a balloon whose air has been let out. In life I’ve come to realise things that have come with being a sixty-four-almost-sixty-five-year-old. No doubt some of my jaundiced views come with old age.
This year, for my birthday, I will not be celebrating anything. Tick. No emails, no letters and certainly no phone calls. My three children used to visit me on the eve of my Birthday bearing gifts with sentiment, enveloping me with love and celebratory meals. Not this year. Not for the last ten years. They’re too busy for their mother they say.
Tick. I rummage through a mahogany chest, with too many memories to digress, carved with concentric circles with a flower at its centre, an indication of unity and love. There are papers which have yellowed with age; old Polaroid films of my family during our holidays; and oddities that hold profound meaning to me. My fingers nostalgically trace a brazenly torn image of a quaint town in Provence, set against the backdrop of azure skies and milky clouds. Even the ground is alluring, resembling blooming roots of a newly grown tree, and the skies are speckled with tiny kites flown by children. I remember admiring the divinity of the sky and its heavenly temperament. These moments disappear the way a dream leaves a memory, and I’m left disoriented, lost in a nostalgic limbo bereft of such moments. I had thought to myself so many years ago, ‘why would anyone want to live in the city after seeing this?’ Tick. It seemed that I soon would.
My fingers stumble upon a letter that read, “We are happy to inform you of your success in gaining a place at Langman & Brothers Pty Ltd.” Tick. I bitterly recall the day I received the letter, it was finally a testament to the backbreaking hours and headaches – including studying of five years of law school—which, no doubt has contributed to my leathery, aged skin. My celebratory thoughts were short-lived, with my dream job within such close proximity my mind went to finding an apartment in the city. And for many years thereafter my life seduced by the naive thought was a surreal, frantic whirl – work, home, sleep, work. Extraneous nightlights, sleeplessness and sleeping at the firm. Tick. Tick. I had indulged in the dreamy notion that I could balance a social life and family life, that I could have the best of both worlds. I had become another dot in the city’s undignified impressionist painting of the perpetually intertwined forces of sense and nonsense.
I’m viscerally drawn to the corner of an image at the bottom of the stack of papers. It’s framed with purple glitter and bejewelled corners. I don’t remember the image...I’m not in it. My memory’s at fault, only minutely succumbing to the intense coercion of my hazy brain, flashing instances of what could be recovered. I strain my shrivelled eyes to see my youngest daughter in a Tinkerbell costume posing playfully on my husband’s shoulders. I wrack my brain yet again, trying to think through the murky waters of my memory to pin-point this moment. Oh. I remember now. It was my daughter’s first dance performance and I hadn’t attended because I was stuck on a lawsuit with a large firm. Tick. Tick. My mind becomes numb with disbelief and regret, my blood cementing. I’m rigid—pitted in my spot.
So really, I shouldn’t be all too horrified that my children haven’t visited me on my birthday for the past decade. I instilled in them a hardboiled approach to work, so what would make them exempt from my indoctrination? Or rather, what would make them want to live like me? Perhaps I am at an age where self-honesty is tough, or perhaps it’s merely symptomatic of the fact that I still haven’t lived enough to put things in perspective.
A shiver runs through my body, the crisp night’s air caressing my leathery skin. My attention shifts to my watch and I realise it’s only moments from my birthday. Tick. Tick. TICK. TICK. My whole life I’ve been fixated on time and achieving my goals. Finally, the weight of my regret reins in on me, almost avalanching me. I’m wracked with the suffocating guilt of trying to perpetually move forward, not realising that I was leaving my children behind. The dance performances, the musicals, the graduations. Maybe we should spend less time trying to make something of ourselves, and more time on things that matter. I wouldn’t be here alone right now, stubbornly counting down the moments to my birthday if I didn’t worry about the TICK TICK TICK that unconsciously runs through my mind with the persistence of a pendulum rocking side to side. Maybe time doesn’t exist and we are passengers of this moment.
Tick. “Happy birthday to me”, I say dryly.
I hear the sound of my phone vibrating at my bedside table. I breathe heavily and pick up the call, “Hello?”
“Mum?” a silence ensues before she continues, “Can we talk?”
No more counting the ticks, and more time counting the moments.
This year, for my birthday, I will not be celebrating anything. Tick. No emails, no letters and certainly no phone calls. My three children used to visit me on the eve of my Birthday bearing gifts with sentiment, enveloping me with love and celebratory meals. Not this year. Not for the last ten years. They’re too busy for their mother they say.
Tick. I rummage through a mahogany chest, with too many memories to digress, carved with concentric circles with a flower at its centre, an indication of unity and love. There are papers which have yellowed with age; old Polaroid films of my family during our holidays; and oddities that hold profound meaning to me. My fingers nostalgically trace a brazenly torn image of a quaint town in Provence, set against the backdrop of azure skies and milky clouds. Even the ground is alluring, resembling blooming roots of a newly grown tree, and the skies are speckled with tiny kites flown by children. I remember admiring the divinity of the sky and its heavenly temperament. These moments disappear the way a dream leaves a memory, and I’m left disoriented, lost in a nostalgic limbo bereft of such moments. I had thought to myself so many years ago, ‘why would anyone want to live in the city after seeing this?’ Tick. It seemed that I soon would.
My fingers stumble upon a letter that read, “We are happy to inform you of your success in gaining a place at Langman & Brothers Pty Ltd.” Tick. I bitterly recall the day I received the letter, it was finally a testament to the backbreaking hours and headaches – including studying of five years of law school—which, no doubt has contributed to my leathery, aged skin. My celebratory thoughts were short-lived, with my dream job within such close proximity my mind went to finding an apartment in the city. And for many years thereafter my life seduced by the naive thought was a surreal, frantic whirl – work, home, sleep, work. Extraneous nightlights, sleeplessness and sleeping at the firm. Tick. Tick. I had indulged in the dreamy notion that I could balance a social life and family life, that I could have the best of both worlds. I had become another dot in the city’s undignified impressionist painting of the perpetually intertwined forces of sense and nonsense.
I’m viscerally drawn to the corner of an image at the bottom of the stack of papers. It’s framed with purple glitter and bejewelled corners. I don’t remember the image...I’m not in it. My memory’s at fault, only minutely succumbing to the intense coercion of my hazy brain, flashing instances of what could be recovered. I strain my shrivelled eyes to see my youngest daughter in a Tinkerbell costume posing playfully on my husband’s shoulders. I wrack my brain yet again, trying to think through the murky waters of my memory to pin-point this moment. Oh. I remember now. It was my daughter’s first dance performance and I hadn’t attended because I was stuck on a lawsuit with a large firm. Tick. Tick. My mind becomes numb with disbelief and regret, my blood cementing. I’m rigid—pitted in my spot.
So really, I shouldn’t be all too horrified that my children haven’t visited me on my birthday for the past decade. I instilled in them a hardboiled approach to work, so what would make them exempt from my indoctrination? Or rather, what would make them want to live like me? Perhaps I am at an age where self-honesty is tough, or perhaps it’s merely symptomatic of the fact that I still haven’t lived enough to put things in perspective.
A shiver runs through my body, the crisp night’s air caressing my leathery skin. My attention shifts to my watch and I realise it’s only moments from my birthday. Tick. Tick. TICK. TICK. My whole life I’ve been fixated on time and achieving my goals. Finally, the weight of my regret reins in on me, almost avalanching me. I’m wracked with the suffocating guilt of trying to perpetually move forward, not realising that I was leaving my children behind. The dance performances, the musicals, the graduations. Maybe we should spend less time trying to make something of ourselves, and more time on things that matter. I wouldn’t be here alone right now, stubbornly counting down the moments to my birthday if I didn’t worry about the TICK TICK TICK that unconsciously runs through my mind with the persistence of a pendulum rocking side to side. Maybe time doesn’t exist and we are passengers of this moment.
Tick. “Happy birthday to me”, I say dryly.
I hear the sound of my phone vibrating at my bedside table. I breathe heavily and pick up the call, “Hello?”
“Mum?” a silence ensues before she continues, “Can we talk?”
No more counting the ticks, and more time counting the moments.
Moderator Action: Put story in spoiler for tidiness.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 17, 2016, 08:22:22 pm
Hi, I feel that my story can get very wordy in some areas and wish for some help in rewording it or just removing those particular unnecessary parts.
Hey there tee bolt! Welcome to the forums!! ;D
Thanks for posting your creative. Unfortunately, we require that every user has 5 ATAR Notes posts for every essay/creative they'd like marked. So 1 creative needs 5 posts, 5 creatives need 25 posts, etc.This is to ensure that the service remains accessible and attainable for active members of the ATAR Notes community. Feel free to hang around the forums, ask some questions, say hey in our chit chat thread, and build up your post count! Then just pop back in and let us know when you meet the threshold. Thanks in advance!! ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 17, 2016, 10:38:57 pm
Thank you so much!! :D :D I love that you've been brutal to it!! I find creatives really annoying, and trying to fix it based on the 2349483 versions I've had everything gets chopped and changed so every version is basically starting from scratch :-\
I'll take it, change it, bring it back ;) Thankyou!!
P.S hahahaha don't worry, I'm missing it too
I'm glad you've taken this so well! There are some really awesome creatives posted on this thread, so you should definitely draw on the plots of some of them because I can guarantee looking at the plot of something will give you an idea - and it will probably be entirely different to the one you are reading, but something in it will trigger something in the back of your mind that will make you think "ahhh, yes!" Make sure you write down all of your ideas, because it could even be a combination of all of your stories that is the best idea!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 18, 2016, 05:12:29 pm
Hey Elyse could you please check my discovery piece. I would really really appreciate it! Is there any where I can improve the plot or change a few things or where I could make the discovery more explicit?
Thanks in advance!
Hey there! I'm so sorry, I missed your work somehow! Back on it now :)
It's here in the spoiler, with comments from me in bold font throughout:
Spoiler
On the cab ride over to my village, my heart bounced almost as much as the tyres on the uneven roads. As the cab maneuvered around the mounds of rubble, I directed my attention to a small makeshift hut where an old woman lay crouched, flies buzzing in a chaotic circle around her weary face. Her face was the same colour and texture as the soil; dry, brown and weathered. Years of working, hunched over, in the rice paddy fields had stooped her posture
‘How much longer?,’ I asked the driver as he changed gears.
He mumbled something in Vietnamese but, because I had not spoken this language for a while, his words were foreign to me. I remained mute, and reflected on the past day. Only 24 hours ago I had discovered the harrowing news. The voicemail message was still ringing in my years. “Your mother has died. Return home, son”. Consider giving this its own line. I think it is strong enough that it stands alone.
As the cab neared a series of cocoon-like shelters, I began to experience a sense of déjà vu. The smell of burning wood wafted into the cab and, without warning, a serene sensation flowed through my body; the smell was the epitome of a childhood I had lost when I had left this place. A vision of my mother cradling me as she threw the wood into the fire sidled into my thoughts. I could see the sparks fly up in anger as the fresh wood disturbed the already disintegrated wood in the pile. This disruption mirrored my own instability at coming back
As I opened the door to my family home, the sight of a miniature shrine caught my attention. My mother’s warm eyes, so lifelike, greeted me. She was now trapped in a photo, no longer here to greet me physically, to greet me with a mother’s love. The earthy incense smoke circled around the photograph; I waved it away as I reached over and lifted the photo.
Guilt. The only two emotions that I had ever felt with regard to my mother were guilt and love. And now, the two intertwined, leaving me standing there, a twisted ball of pain.
‘Why do you have to leave?’ she had questioned, her brown eyes searching my immovable expression for an answer.
‘Mama, you know I have to. Father was displeased and I have disgraced him…again. He will never forgive me for the comments I made in front of his friends”, I replied, my head bowed down in shame.
“ Your father was not disappointed in you”, she said, attempting to reassure me. You can say,
she attempted to reassure me" and cut out the "she said" if you like! “He had just expected you to do what all our ancestors have done. The military is an honourable career choice but you have to follow your own path.’ She grabbed my hand, warming it in hers and leading me back to the fireplace.
My mother had not told me that day that she was seriously ill. All she had said was to discover ‘my path’, but had I known that that path was never to have met hers again, I would have stayed rooted to the spot, a solid oak tree refusing to bend
In Sydney, I discovered I'm just keeping track - this is your second use of "discovery." If there's a third, I suggest changing it for a synonym because you don't want to be too overt in forcing a discovery.a city where people were more focused on their 6 figure salaries than the number of runs they scored in the weekend game of cricket. I felt a sense of isolation. It wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t speak English because, at that time, I had known the basics.
My isolation stemmed from a place that did not resemble home. Even though I rented an apartment in Cabramatta, and even though many people looked like me, I felt like an imposter here. We could speak each other’s language but that is where it ended.
Saddened and alone, I went in search for furniture and items that I could use to turn my one bedroom unit into a replica of home in the village. I bought the same color furniture, the same style of lamp and the same texture of bed sheets; I even used incense sticks to make it smell like home.
Skip a line between these two sections to show the flip in location :)
And now, standing here, home again, I wondered what I would say to my father.
Mesmerised by the photo of my mother, I had not heard my father come in but I did hear the shuffling of footsteps as he moved towards the fireplace to add more wood. My father was shorter than I had remembered him; had he shrunk with age or had I grown? His wide face was littered with sun spots, and the wrinkled lines across his forehead gave the impression of a hard life.
He said nothing to me.
I said nothing to him. I think these two short lines should be bundled together on their own. So drop a line before "He said nothing... " and skip another after "I said nothing...
I watched as he started to heat some soup and then lay two bowls and two spoons down on the small table next to the fire. He brought out two brown cushions from a cupboard next to the door and laid them on either side of the table. He looked up and motioned with his hand to sit.
I accepted.
We did not say a word to each other during the entire meal. The chicken broth was not as good as my mother’s. With each spoonful, I looked up at my father, wondering what he was thinking. Finally, when he finished, he lay down his spoon, looked at me and said, ‘Welcome home.’ I smiled, unsure of the intent of the statement.
My father walked over to the same cupboard which had housed the cushions. After much noise, he pulled out a small, wooden chest and placed it in front of me. He then put on his anorak and left me alone.
Curious, I opened the chest. I picked up a wad of unstamped envelopes and then let them slip through my fingers as I realized realisedwhat they were. I chose one and started reading.I had not seen my father’s writing for fifteen years. Still, I knew the slant of his words, the sharply defined characters. I opened the first letter, curiously and fearfully, unprepared for the overwhelming emotion that imploded from the simple act of reading.
For fifteen years, my father had been writing to me. For the first time in fifteen years, I began to cry.
‘How much longer?,’ I asked the driver as he changed gears.
He mumbled something in Vietnamese but, because I had not spoken this language for a while, his words were foreign to me. I remained mute, and reflected on the past day. Only 24 hours ago I had discovered the harrowing news. The voicemail message was still ringing in my years. “Your mother has died. Return home, son”. Consider giving this its own line. I think it is strong enough that it stands alone.
As the cab neared a series of cocoon-like shelters, I began to experience a sense of déjà vu. The smell of burning wood wafted into the cab and, without warning, a serene sensation flowed through my body; the smell was the epitome of a childhood I had lost when I had left this place. A vision of my mother cradling me as she threw the wood into the fire sidled into my thoughts. I could see the sparks fly up in anger as the fresh wood disturbed the already disintegrated wood in the pile. This disruption mirrored my own instability at coming back
As I opened the door to my family home, the sight of a miniature shrine caught my attention. My mother’s warm eyes, so lifelike, greeted me. She was now trapped in a photo, no longer here to greet me physically, to greet me with a mother’s love. The earthy incense smoke circled around the photograph; I waved it away as I reached over and lifted the photo.
Guilt. The only two emotions that I had ever felt with regard to my mother were guilt and love. And now, the two intertwined, leaving me standing there, a twisted ball of pain.
‘Why do you have to leave?’ she had questioned, her brown eyes searching my immovable expression for an answer.
‘Mama, you know I have to. Father was displeased and I have disgraced him…again. He will never forgive me for the comments I made in front of his friends”, I replied, my head bowed down in shame.
“ Your father was not disappointed in you”, she said, attempting to reassure me. You can say,
she attempted to reassure me" and cut out the "she said" if you like! “He had just expected you to do what all our ancestors have done. The military is an honourable career choice but you have to follow your own path.’ She grabbed my hand, warming it in hers and leading me back to the fireplace.
My mother had not told me that day that she was seriously ill. All she had said was to discover ‘my path’, but had I known that that path was never to have met hers again, I would have stayed rooted to the spot, a solid oak tree refusing to bend
In Sydney, I discovered I'm just keeping track - this is your second use of "discovery." If there's a third, I suggest changing it for a synonym because you don't want to be too overt in forcing a discovery.a city where people were more focused on their 6 figure salaries than the number of runs they scored in the weekend game of cricket. I felt a sense of isolation. It wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t speak English because, at that time, I had known the basics.
My isolation stemmed from a place that did not resemble home. Even though I rented an apartment in Cabramatta, and even though many people looked like me, I felt like an imposter here. We could speak each other’s language but that is where it ended.
Saddened and alone, I went in search for furniture and items that I could use to turn my one bedroom unit into a replica of home in the village. I bought the same color furniture, the same style of lamp and the same texture of bed sheets; I even used incense sticks to make it smell like home.
Skip a line between these two sections to show the flip in location :)
And now, standing here, home again, I wondered what I would say to my father.
Mesmerised by the photo of my mother, I had not heard my father come in but I did hear the shuffling of footsteps as he moved towards the fireplace to add more wood. My father was shorter than I had remembered him; had he shrunk with age or had I grown? His wide face was littered with sun spots, and the wrinkled lines across his forehead gave the impression of a hard life.
He said nothing to me.
I said nothing to him. I think these two short lines should be bundled together on their own. So drop a line before "He said nothing... " and skip another after "I said nothing...
I watched as he started to heat some soup and then lay two bowls and two spoons down on the small table next to the fire. He brought out two brown cushions from a cupboard next to the door and laid them on either side of the table. He looked up and motioned with his hand to sit.
I accepted.
We did not say a word to each other during the entire meal. The chicken broth was not as good as my mother’s. With each spoonful, I looked up at my father, wondering what he was thinking. Finally, when he finished, he lay down his spoon, looked at me and said, ‘Welcome home.’ I smiled, unsure of the intent of the statement.
My father walked over to the same cupboard which had housed the cushions. After much noise, he pulled out a small, wooden chest and placed it in front of me. He then put on his anorak and left me alone.
Curious, I opened the chest. I picked up a wad of unstamped envelopes and then let them slip through my fingers as I realized realisedwhat they were. I chose one and started reading.I had not seen my father’s writing for fifteen years. Still, I knew the slant of his words, the sharply defined characters. I opened the first letter, curiously and fearfully, unprepared for the overwhelming emotion that imploded from the simple act of reading.
For fifteen years, my father had been writing to me. For the first time in fifteen years, I began to cry.
I think you have some beautiful writing in here that has the potential to carry a great story. Unfortunately, I think the story is a little weak in the plot. Why did the father write and never send the letters? Does the mother's death have much to do with this? Can you tie the two together? Perhaps the mother told the father not to send the letters because she wanted you to live out your dream? I think making the connections between these small aspects will really lift your work and enhance the discovery. Because even though you missed home and tried to make your NSW house appear the same, your mum at home wanted you to discover a different world, and your father wanted to bridge the gap between the two worlds. What do you think?
Post by: MarkThor on July 18, 2016, 08:56:11 pm
I was just wondering if you could please give me some feedback on my creative writing draft, and possible give it a rough mark out of 15.
The Path Ahead – Draft 1
My foot buckled as I stepped on another uneven cobblestone jutting out of the narrow lane. My gap year was ending in a few months, and I was no closer to finding who I really was, let alone having a connection with someone. We had been walking for sometime through the twisty, narrow alleyways that ran between the rows of low-ceiling slums that characterised outer Kathmandu. A heavy winter smog had settled over the city, blocking out the moonlight and making it hard to see more than a few metres in front of myself.
I looked over to the woman walking next to me who occasionally asked a random question in broken English. The sound of silence echoed through the sprawling maze of garbage littered pathways as both of our feet fell on the rough, uneven streets of the slums. My feet were heavy and clumsy on the broken cobblestone; occasionally stepping in pooled water that sent icy sparks rushing up my leg. The woman on the other hand had clearly walked these streets a thousand times before, stepping lightly and gracefully.
“Wh-where you g-go?
I continued trying to look through the smog-clouded path in front of me, trying to watch my step. “I’m just walking.”
“You n-not plan wh-where g-go?
“I haven’t known where I am going for years now.”
“Wh’what you mean?”
“Don’t worry, it’s just something you say when you’re not sure what your purpose in life is.” The words were a stark reminder that I still felt as isolated as ever; I had planned the gap-year to finally try and connect with someone. After everything that had happened over the past 11 months I wasn’t very hopeful, I doubted that anything would come from this gap year. “I’m actually just walking with no real aim in where I’m going. I’ll eventually end up somewhere.”
“You n-not know wh-where you g-go in life?
“Well it’s been a bit hard for me to figure out what to do with my life,” the answer flowed easily, almost without thought. I kept my concentration on the unclear path ahead, trying to see through the smog. “I’ve always felt so different to everyone else, not like in a special way, just in a outcast kind of way.”
“You thought about d-death?”
My head turned quickly, no longer thinking about the unsure path in front of me. The woman’s face was slightly creased, almost as if she actually intellectually understood the implications of what I had just said. I searched her dark brown eyes. There was a slight sparkle, possibly a reflection from the stronger moonlight making itself through the now slightly less dense smog, although it may have just been a trick of my spectacles. “Yes. I have.” Even though it felt clearer, as I turned my head back to face the slightly less dense smog my eyes still felt squinted, and the feeling of hopelessness still made my face taut.
“You f-feel still th-that way?”
“Well I still think about it, if that’s what you’re asking?”
“You have n-not r-realised wh-why you should k-keep living?”
“No.” I slipped on another slightly uneven cobblestone, the glasses on my face flying forward of my face. There was only a dark haze, and that familiar feeling of my throat constricting. My hands searched frantically to find the slim, aluminium sight allowing device. It was the only thing that gave me any idea of where I was heading.
“Y-you know th-that to f-feel a connection y-you must be h-half of the connection.”
The outline of her hand moved towards mine. I felt the smooth metal back in my hand. I stood up, choosing not having put my glasses back on. Her slim, slightly rough hand slid into mine, and she started to lead me forward.
“Stop I’ll fall.”
“N-no. Just tr-trust.”
We walked some way like this, my eyes slowly starting to adjust. When she finally stopped, my feet were on smooth ground, and my eyes could just make out the brighter moonlight. She turned and carefully placed the glasses back onto my head. “S-sometimes y-you just h-have to tr-trust.”
We were in the mountains surrounding the city, on a small high plateau, that felt much more open than the narrow streets from below. The moon was much brighter than before, and it shone on the colourful distinctive high-rises that burst through the smog of that lay on Kathmandu. There were deep reds, brown oranges, pale whites and the occasional splash of light blue and green buildings among them.
My lips were slightly parted; “It’s beautiful.” I knew there was something in the sound of my voice that hadn’t been there before.
Hope.
Post by: marynguyen18 on July 18, 2016, 11:48:23 pm
Time moves ever so slowly now that you’re gone. Why do bad things happen to good people, it’s just not fair. You were gone within a blink of an eye, all Lauren could remember were those last words, “Take care of Cassie, I’m sorry if I made her feel like I was too much for her to handle. I’m so proud of the young women you and your sister have become.” As the casket slowly lowered into the ground, tears streamed down Lauren’s and Cassie’s faces. This was it, the last farewell to their beloved mother, the memories were to be treasured and be kept close to their hearts. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. How could this happen? Lauren had devoted most of her life taking care of her mother until she drew her last breath. Cassie on the other hand, struggled to understand what was wrong with her mother and didn’t cope with her death. Cassie and her mother weren’t as close as Lauren was but she was still affected by it. Later that evening Lauren and Cassie slowly started to pack up their mother’s possessions into three separate boxes: keep, donate and throw away.
“What does this even mean?” Cassie said, as all the words and diagrams that her mother drew didn’t seem to correlate with one other. There was an image of a small flute, next to a rabbit hole. Did this show Alice’s interest in music? As Cassie and Lauren were cleaning their mother’s room Cassie tripped over a pile of journals. Inside one of the journals was their mother’s recount all of her adventures that she had in Wonderland, her description of Wonderland was so detailed.
Lauren was staring out the window with dazed eyes, thinking about her mother and all of her mother’s struggles just before she passed away.
“I need to follow the white rabbit down the rabbit hole, to get to Wonderland”. Her daughter, Lauren was very concerned about her mother’s mentality as Wonderland doesn’t exist and is only a figment of Alice’s imagination. Lauren had a hard time trying to convince her mother that Wonderland didn’t exist. Alice kept tapping on the wooden table next to her bed and started singing, wanting to go back to Wonderland. The sun in Wonderland would always be shining and smiling upon the world filling the atmosphere with joy and happiness. However, Wonderland was only a figment of Alice’s imagination and as she got older, it slowly engulfed Alice’s perspective became a reality. Alice could not tell the differences between reality and imagination. She was lost in reality. When Lauren was busy making dinner, Alice wrote in her journal trying to leave clues on how to find Wonderland. Unfortunately, what she wrote made no sense whatsoever.
Lauren had no other choice but to be home-schooled in order to take care of her mother. At night her mother would always be talking in her sleep, and was easily distracted and entertained by a lava lamp moving up and down. Every night, they would have dinner as a family, Alice would be paranoid about the food she ate as she in Wonderland the cakes could make her grow abnormally tall whilst the drinks would make her shrink to the size of an ant.
What concerned poor Alice most was the colour red. It had made the situation with her mother worse as Alice would be in a constant hysteria and would occasionally cry out “Stop! Get away from me! She’s coming for me, off with my head, off with my head, oh I quite enjoy my head being attached to my body, don’t let her get me Lauren!”. Lauren could see that her mother’s paranoia was slowly eating her up, nothing made sense to Alice anymore only to get back to Wonderland.
Cassie flicked through the delicate pages of her mother’s journal, she was starting to regret never spending time with her mother. Alice drew a picture her cat, Dinah in the house she grew up in and with a caption saying how much she loved Dinah and missed her. Alice cared for Dinah as if Dinah was her child, Cassie had no idea that her mother loved animals and felt at home with them around. The photograph triggered so many memories that had been lost. The photograph was of Lauren, Cassie and Alice huddled by a camp fire, their dad must have been taking the pictures. All the memories had been stored in this simple, worn out journal. Her mother’s insanity had drove Cassie to her breaking point, how could she have allowed Lauren to care and worry about their mother to the extend that Lauren never had an opportunity to experience the world. As time ticked away slowly, Cassie started to understand what her mother had gone through. A talking caterpillar that was inhaling hookah smoke and offered the worst advice with such a rude, concise tone. Alice met a very sensitive mouse, along her adventures in Wonderland.
“Hey Lauren, what does it mean when mum says: that the white rabbit was a symbol of hope as he gave her a sense of adventure?”
“Well, Cassie I remember mum telling me that she wanted to follow the white rabbit and how unusual it was to see a white rabbit with a golden pocket watch that glistened in the sunlight, the adventure she mentions is her time she had in Wonderland and all the wonderful thing she had encountered, I know it may seem as a ridiculous concept but mum really did believe that Wonderland exists. The only thing we can do is accept it. As for the symbol of hope part maybe she wanted a place that only she knew about and by being in this hypothetical place she was happy.”
The pieces of puzzle did not match up as how was their mother was able to express herself in explicit details on paper but struggled to articulate words, as the only words that was audible from her mouth was “Follow the White Rabbit”. It seemed to be an impossible code to crack as the girls had no clue on what their mother was trying to tell them. As Cassie kept reading the journal there was an extending message of hope and about never giving up on your dreams. Piece by piece Cassie could see elements of her childhood being incorporating into the journal, about how her and Lauren would use to play on the swings singing nursery rhymes.
Cassie could feel the warmth increase in the room as she reached the last page of her mother’s journal. There was a complicated diagram in the bottom left hand corner that her mother drew of a small key that was hidden under a box that was identical to the one Cassie had in her room. Immediately, Cassie bolted into to her room to find the key that her mother had drawn hoping that it would allow her to know what her mother wanted her to do. To her surprise Cassie she had found the small key in the exact same place that her mother had drawn, the key turned out to open the box it was hidden under. As she carefully placed the key into the keyhole and turned it slowly to the left, until she heard a click. The box revealed a perfectly engraved golden pocket watch.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 19, 2016, 07:22:16 pm
Hey Elyse, i was wondering if i could get some feedback on my creative writing piece its inspired by Alice In Wonderland I'm worried it may be too much like the original and there's no element of discover. Thank you in advanced.
Hey Mary!! Thanks for posting your creative!! Unfortunately we have an exchange policy in place for essay/creative feedback, you need 5 posts on ATAR Notes for everything you'd like marked. So 5 posts entitles you to one creative. 50 posts entitles you to 10 creatives. Etc, etc ;D full rules on essay marking available here!
You are only a few posts off this mark, so feel free to hang around the forums a bit, ask questions, answer them, or have a chat in our HSC 2016 Discussion Thread! Then when you hit the 5 posts required, come back here and let us know! Thanks in advance ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 19, 2016, 09:00:47 pm
Hi Elyse,Of course!
I was just wondering if you could please give me some feedback on my creative writing draft, and possible give it a rough mark out of 15.
Your work is in the spoiler here, with my comments in bold font:
Spoiler
The Path Ahead – Draft 1
My foot buckled as I stepped on another uneven cobblestone jutting out of the narrow lane. My gap year was ending in a few months, and I was no closer to finding who I really was, let alone having a connection with someone. We had been walking for sometime through the twisty, narrow alleyways that ran between the rows of low-ceiling slums that characterised outer Kathmandu. A heavy winter smog had settled over the city, blocking out the moonlight and making it hard to see more than a few metres in front of myself.
I looked over to the woman walking next to me who occasionally asked a random question in broken English. I think occasionally and random so close to each other, means that the words lose meaning. I think its best to cancel one out to leave the other at full strength :)The sound of silence echoed through the sprawling maze of garbage littered pathways as both of our feet fell on the rough, uneven streets of the slums. My feet were heavy and clumsy on the broken cobblestone; occasionally stepping in pooled water that sent icy sparks rushing up my leg. The woman on the other hand had clearly walked these streets a thousand times Being picky with word choice here - "a thousand" - I think this is a wasted opportunity to make a great simile, or improve the character's voice. A thousand is very colloquial, and this is in the first person so it's not flawed in that aspect, but I think you could be less sweeping with the comment and make it more meaningful for a marker.before, stepping lightly and gracefully.
“Wh-where you g-go?
I continued trying to look through the smog-clouded path in front of me, trying to watch my step. “I’m just walking.”
“You n-not plan wh-where g-go?
“I haven’t known where I am going for years now.”
“Wh’what you mean?”
“Don’t worry, it’s just something you say when you’re not sure what your purpose in life is.” The words were a stark reminder that I still felt as isolated as ever; I had planned the gap-year to finally try and connect with someone. After everything that had happened over the past 11 months I wasn’t very hopeful, I doubted that anything would come from this gap year. “I’m actually just walking with no real aim in where I’m going. I’ll eventually end up somewhere.”
“You n-not know wh-where you g-go in life?
“Well it’s been a bit hard for me to figure out what to do with my life,” the answer flowed easily, almost without thought. I kept my concentration on the unclear path ahead, trying to see through the smog. “I’ve always felt so different to everyone else, not like in a special way, just in a outcast kind of way.”
“You thought about d-death?” I love this. The broken English shows that this character doesn't beat around the bush, they don't have the language ability to do that - they just have to respond to it as they can.
My head turned quickly, no longer thinking about the unsure path in front of me. The woman’s face was slightly creased, almost as if she actually intellectually understood the implications of what I had just said. I searched her dark brown eyes. There was a slight sparkle, possibly a reflection from the stronger moonlight making itself through the now slightly less dense smog, although it may have just been a trick of my spectacles. “Yes. I have.” Even though it felt clearer, as I turned my head back to face the slightly less dense smog my eyes still felt squinted, and the feeling of hopelessness still made my face taut.
“You f-feel still th-that way?”
“Well I still think about it, if that’s what you’re asking?”
“You have n-not r-realised wh-why you should k-keep living?” I'm kind of wondering if they are still walking, or making eye contact. The dialogue here is great. Super simple but incredibly powerful. That's awesome! But, just to seal the deal on the connection, I want to know what's physically happening between the two.
“No.” I slipped on another slightly uneven cobblestone, the glasses on my face flying forward of my face. Nevermind! This bit tells me that walking is happening :)There was only a dark haze, and that familiar feeling of my throat constricting. My hands searched frantically to find the slim, aluminium sight allowing device. Not so sure about this description, I think there are so many great things in this scene to spend a description on, that "slim, aluminium sight allowing device" is wasted on a pair of glasses. It was the only thing that gave me any idea of where I was heading.
“Y-you know th-that to f-feel a connection y-you must be h-half of the connection.”
The outline of her hand moved towards mine. I felt the smooth metal back in my hand. I stood up, choosing not having put my glasses back on. Her slim, slightly rough hand slid into mine, and she started to lead me forward.
“Stop I’ll fall.” "Stop! I'll fall." seems better to me.
“N-no. Just tr-trust.”
We walked some way like this, my eyes slowly starting to adjust. When she finally stopped, my feet were on smooth ground, and my eyes could just make out the brighter moonlight. She turned and carefully placed the glasses back onto my head. “S-sometimes y-you just h-have to tr-trust.”
We were in the mountains surrounding the city, on a small high plateau, that felt much more open than the narrow streets from below. The moon was much brighter than before, and it shone on the colourful distinctive high-rises that burst through the smog of that lay on Kathmandu. There were deep reds, brown oranges, pale whites and the occasional splash of light blue and green buildings among them.
My lips were slightly parted; “It’s beautiful.” I knew there was something in the sound of my voice that hadn’t been there before.
Hope.
My foot buckled as I stepped on another uneven cobblestone jutting out of the narrow lane. My gap year was ending in a few months, and I was no closer to finding who I really was, let alone having a connection with someone. We had been walking for sometime through the twisty, narrow alleyways that ran between the rows of low-ceiling slums that characterised outer Kathmandu. A heavy winter smog had settled over the city, blocking out the moonlight and making it hard to see more than a few metres in front of myself.
I looked over to the woman walking next to me who occasionally asked a random question in broken English. I think occasionally and random so close to each other, means that the words lose meaning. I think its best to cancel one out to leave the other at full strength :)The sound of silence echoed through the sprawling maze of garbage littered pathways as both of our feet fell on the rough, uneven streets of the slums. My feet were heavy and clumsy on the broken cobblestone; occasionally stepping in pooled water that sent icy sparks rushing up my leg. The woman on the other hand had clearly walked these streets a thousand times Being picky with word choice here - "a thousand" - I think this is a wasted opportunity to make a great simile, or improve the character's voice. A thousand is very colloquial, and this is in the first person so it's not flawed in that aspect, but I think you could be less sweeping with the comment and make it more meaningful for a marker.before, stepping lightly and gracefully.
“Wh-where you g-go?
I continued trying to look through the smog-clouded path in front of me, trying to watch my step. “I’m just walking.”
“You n-not plan wh-where g-go?
“I haven’t known where I am going for years now.”
“Wh’what you mean?”
“Don’t worry, it’s just something you say when you’re not sure what your purpose in life is.” The words were a stark reminder that I still felt as isolated as ever; I had planned the gap-year to finally try and connect with someone. After everything that had happened over the past 11 months I wasn’t very hopeful, I doubted that anything would come from this gap year. “I’m actually just walking with no real aim in where I’m going. I’ll eventually end up somewhere.”
“You n-not know wh-where you g-go in life?
“Well it’s been a bit hard for me to figure out what to do with my life,” the answer flowed easily, almost without thought. I kept my concentration on the unclear path ahead, trying to see through the smog. “I’ve always felt so different to everyone else, not like in a special way, just in a outcast kind of way.”
“You thought about d-death?” I love this. The broken English shows that this character doesn't beat around the bush, they don't have the language ability to do that - they just have to respond to it as they can.
My head turned quickly, no longer thinking about the unsure path in front of me. The woman’s face was slightly creased, almost as if she actually intellectually understood the implications of what I had just said. I searched her dark brown eyes. There was a slight sparkle, possibly a reflection from the stronger moonlight making itself through the now slightly less dense smog, although it may have just been a trick of my spectacles. “Yes. I have.” Even though it felt clearer, as I turned my head back to face the slightly less dense smog my eyes still felt squinted, and the feeling of hopelessness still made my face taut.
“You f-feel still th-that way?”
“Well I still think about it, if that’s what you’re asking?”
“You have n-not r-realised wh-why you should k-keep living?” I'm kind of wondering if they are still walking, or making eye contact. The dialogue here is great. Super simple but incredibly powerful. That's awesome! But, just to seal the deal on the connection, I want to know what's physically happening between the two.
“No.” I slipped on another slightly uneven cobblestone, the glasses on my face flying forward of my face. Nevermind! This bit tells me that walking is happening :)There was only a dark haze, and that familiar feeling of my throat constricting. My hands searched frantically to find the slim, aluminium sight allowing device. Not so sure about this description, I think there are so many great things in this scene to spend a description on, that "slim, aluminium sight allowing device" is wasted on a pair of glasses. It was the only thing that gave me any idea of where I was heading.
“Y-you know th-that to f-feel a connection y-you must be h-half of the connection.”
The outline of her hand moved towards mine. I felt the smooth metal back in my hand. I stood up, choosing not having put my glasses back on. Her slim, slightly rough hand slid into mine, and she started to lead me forward.
“Stop I’ll fall.” "Stop! I'll fall." seems better to me.
“N-no. Just tr-trust.”
We walked some way like this, my eyes slowly starting to adjust. When she finally stopped, my feet were on smooth ground, and my eyes could just make out the brighter moonlight. She turned and carefully placed the glasses back onto my head. “S-sometimes y-you just h-have to tr-trust.”
We were in the mountains surrounding the city, on a small high plateau, that felt much more open than the narrow streets from below. The moon was much brighter than before, and it shone on the colourful distinctive high-rises that burst through the smog of that lay on Kathmandu. There were deep reds, brown oranges, pale whites and the occasional splash of light blue and green buildings among them.
My lips were slightly parted; “It’s beautiful.” I knew there was something in the sound of my voice that hadn’t been there before.
Hope.
I love a lot of things about this story. I love that the relationship between the two characters can be perceived as romantic or just friendly, and both work wonderfully. I love the setting, you describe it so subtly at all the right times and your writing isn't trying too hard, it just sits perfectly. I think the discovery is there so strong. He discovered hope, he discovered how to find hope, he discovered that it's ok to trust.
I'm really wanting to know what the native language of the broken English speaker is? Are they a tour guide? Are they a tourist? Why are the two of them walking there? It definitely all works without this kind of identification, and perhaps you could imply it rather than state it. But, these are the questions I'm left over with. If you're going for the effect of leaving me wondering to ponder about the discovery, you've achieved it! If you'd rather go for the "wholesome, no questions left" approach to the story, then that's what you'd need to change.
This person makes a spiritual discovery, an emotional discovery, in some way a planned discovery, and all of it is intensely meaningful. That's several areas of the syllabus being ticked off which is wonderful! I think this is a band 6 work that deserves a 14 or 15. The reason I'm not saying 15 flat out is because I'm reserving that mark to see a stimulus integrated. But this is truly, wonderful. The only thing staying with me as awkward is the description of the glasses I pointed out earlier. You can get away with changing only one thing based on my advice, and if you do, please make it the description. It limits the wonder of your work with a mechanical description.
This is so magical. If you have any questions, please let me know! :)
Post by: MarkThor on July 19, 2016, 09:20:15 pm
Thanks for the awesome advice, I'll definitely change that description of the glasses as well as some of the other stuff!
Post by: Spencerr on July 19, 2016, 09:46:00 pm
Hey there! I'm so sorry, I missed your work somehow! Back on it now :)
It's here in the spoiler, with comments from me in bold font throughout:SpoilerOn the cab ride over to my village, my heart bounced almost as much as the tyres on the uneven roads. As the cab maneuvered around the mounds of rubble, I directed my attention to a small makeshift hut where an old woman lay crouched, flies buzzing in a chaotic circle around her weary face. Her face was the same colour and texture as the soil; dry, brown and weathered. Years of working, hunched over, in the rice paddy fields had stooped her posture
‘How much longer?,’ I asked the driver as he changed gears.
He mumbled something in Vietnamese but, because I had not spoken this language for a while, his words were foreign to me. I remained mute, and reflected on the past day. Only 24 hours ago I had discovered the harrowing news. The voicemail message was still ringing in my years. “Your mother has died. Return home, son”. Consider giving this its own line. I think it is strong enough that it stands alone.
As the cab neared a series of cocoon-like shelters, I began to experience a sense of déjà vu. The smell of burning wood wafted into the cab and, without warning, a serene sensation flowed through my body; the smell was the epitome of a childhood I had lost when I had left this place. A vision of my mother cradling me as she threw the wood into the fire sidled into my thoughts. I could see the sparks fly up in anger as the fresh wood disturbed the already disintegrated wood in the pile. This disruption mirrored my own instability at coming back
As I opened the door to my family home, the sight of a miniature shrine caught my attention. My mother’s warm eyes, so lifelike, greeted me. She was now trapped in a photo, no longer here to greet me physically, to greet me with a mother’s love. The earthy incense smoke circled around the photograph; I waved it away as I reached over and lifted the photo.
Guilt. The only two emotions that I had ever felt with regard to my mother were guilt and love. And now, the two intertwined, leaving me standing there, a twisted ball of pain.
‘Why do you have to leave?’ she had questioned, her brown eyes searching my immovable expression for an answer.
‘Mama, you know I have to. Father was displeased and I have disgraced him…again. He will never forgive me for the comments I made in front of his friends”, I replied, my head bowed down in shame.
“ Your father was not disappointed in you”, she said, attempting to reassure me. You can say,
she attempted to reassure me" and cut out the "she said" if you like! “He had just expected you to do what all our ancestors have done. The military is an honourable career choice but you have to follow your own path.’ She grabbed my hand, warming it in hers and leading me back to the fireplace.
My mother had not told me that day that she was seriously ill. All she had said was to discover ‘my path’, but had I known that that path was never to have met hers again, I would have stayed rooted to the spot, a solid oak tree refusing to bend
In Sydney, I discovered I'm just keeping track - this is your second use of "discovery." If there's a third, I suggest changing it for a synonym because you don't want to be too overt in forcing a discovery.a city where people were more focused on their 6 figure salaries than the number of runs they scored in the weekend game of cricket. I felt a sense of isolation. It wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t speak English because, at that time, I had known the basics.
My isolation stemmed from a place that did not resemble home. Even though I rented an apartment in Cabramatta, and even though many people looked like me, I felt like an imposter here. We could speak each other’s language but that is where it ended.
Saddened and alone, I went in search for furniture and items that I could use to turn my one bedroom unit into a replica of home in the village. I bought the same color furniture, the same style of lamp and the same texture of bed sheets; I even used incense sticks to make it smell like home.
Skip a line between these two sections to show the flip in location :)
And now, standing here, home again, I wondered what I would say to my father.
Mesmerised by the photo of my mother, I had not heard my father come in but I did hear the shuffling of footsteps as he moved towards the fireplace to add more wood. My father was shorter than I had remembered him; had he shrunk with age or had I grown? His wide face was littered with sun spots, and the wrinkled lines across his forehead gave the impression of a hard life.
He said nothing to me.
I said nothing to him. I think these two short lines should be bundled together on their own. So drop a line before "He said nothing... " and skip another after "I said nothing...
I watched as he started to heat some soup and then lay two bowls and two spoons down on the small table next to the fire. He brought out two brown cushions from a cupboard next to the door and laid them on either side of the table. He looked up and motioned with his hand to sit.
I accepted.
We did not say a word to each other during the entire meal. The chicken broth was not as good as my mother’s. With each spoonful, I looked up at my father, wondering what he was thinking. Finally, when he finished, he lay down his spoon, looked at me and said, ‘Welcome home.’ I smiled, unsure of the intent of the statement.
My father walked over to the same cupboard which had housed the cushions. After much noise, he pulled out a small, wooden chest and placed it in front of me. He then put on his anorak and left me alone.
Curious, I opened the chest. I picked up a wad of unstamped envelopes and then let them slip through my fingers as I realized realisedwhat they were. I chose one and started reading.I had not seen my father’s writing for fifteen years. Still, I knew the slant of his words, the sharply defined characters. I opened the first letter, curiously and fearfully, unprepared for the overwhelming emotion that imploded from the simple act of reading.
For fifteen years, my father had been writing to me. For the first time in fifteen years, I began to cry.
I think you have some beautiful writing in here that has the potential to carry a great story. Unfortunately, I think the story is a little weak in the plot. Why did the father write and never send the letters? Does the mother's death have much to do with this? Can you tie the two together? Perhaps the mother told the father not to send the letters because she wanted you to live out your dream? I think making the connections between these small aspects will really lift your work and enhance the discovery. Because even though you missed home and tried to make your NSW house appear the same, your mum at home wanted you to discover a different world, and your father wanted to bridge the gap between the two worlds. What do you think?
Thank you so much Elyse for marking this :). I'll try put in as much as the feed back as possible. You're a lifesaver!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 19, 2016, 09:56:32 pm
Thank you so much Elyse for marking this :). I'll try put in as much as the feed back as possible. You're a lifesaver!
Amazing! Check back any time, even if you just want to propose an idea rather than get an entire thing marked - always here! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 19, 2016, 09:59:16 pm
Hi Elyse,
Thanks for the awesome advice, I'll definitely change that description of the glasses as well as some of the other stuff!
I can't wait to see how you go! I love your work. Keep me posted! :)
Post by: Essej on July 20, 2016, 09:01:01 am
This is my first time posting a creative script on the forums, i would really appreciate some feedback! Creative writing is continually a liability for me in exams, i can't seem to break out of the 12/15 low-band 5ish range :'( . Originally I wrote a general, non-stimulus monologue for an in-class assessment (I promise there wasn't as much religious imagery in that one) and this is an adaptation of said monologue as a general creative to a past question.
Thanks in advance!
Spoiler
Question: To Discover is to be Enlightened.
Silence. As it always did, the boardroom seemed to eviscerate any trace of sound. The senseless chitter-chatter of workers was drowned out by this work of God, this safe haven. For this temple of solace served as my beginning, my Genesis.
“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head.
I pinch myself until my forearm bleeds, hoping it is some frightful nightmare. My Eden, so long hidden under a facade of solitude and serenity, falls away from under my feet like some rusty iron boardwalk. My heart leaps into my throat as the realisation is driven home by the unceremonious “twang” of the heavenly Cloud’s bow.
Blinded by perspiration, my hand reaches for the handlebar of the elevator as it descends. My knuckles whiten as I tighten my grip, my hands erupting in sweat. Was I in a submarine? I was sinking, but suspected the elevator was not the sole perpetrator of the crime.
“You’re fired”. Never had a phrase been so perfectly apt. For the match had been lit; the blaze within my heart ignited. Faultlessly loyal, I was undeserving of such treatment. Like a photograph, I had been framed, left for the world to stroll past and ridicule at their leisure. Who was the catalyst for my exodus? Why me? The bottled-up rage seeks to escape my face any way possible; a bystander could easily discern the wretched demon within, begging to be freed by the fruits of temptation.
Breath escapes me in short gasps. Was the heat expanding? The metallic cage of transportation was surely overflowing with baptismal fires. Thrown amidst the volcanic wreckage of the unknown, I am Dante. But in this secluded exile, my line of sight envisions no paradiso. Is it an illusion? Or are the sauna like walls encroaching upon me?
Outside is no better. As quickly as the internal fire was kindled, it is doused by the unrelenting rain. A cold trickle of water slithers down my spine. My suit, much like my reputation, is unsalvageable.
My stomach churns as a sickening worm of doubt enters. Why did I choose this path? Was I not ready?
Ambition. Knowledge. Were they the seeds of wisdom, or the devil’s genesis?
The worm squirms and slithers through a crevice within the apple.
“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head.
The path ahead is foggy. I must never have left the elevator, for I am submerged under indescribable doubts. In a city of millions, of designated signs, pathways and maps, I am hopelessly lost.
The saturated delta of my arch-like thumb stumbles across the weakened spine of an untended book, haphazardly engulfed by my box of office-ly possessions. I begin to rub the accumulated dust between my thumb and its neighbouring index.
In an instant, darkness.
The subzero climate of the concrete jungle is replaced by the unforgiving purgatorio of the desert. The balmy wind forms an alliance with the coarse yellow sand, joined in their sole purpose of nibbling at my heels. I could almost taste the loneliness in the pure, unadulterated air. My arm extends, looking hopelessly for the faintest trace of divine intervention; that i may be able once more to open my eyes.
“Hiss” smirks the snake.
Was this not just a momentary respite? A pure fantasy? I live in the real world. A Mecca of torrential rain, rolling thunder and broken dreams. A locale wherein you will find no confessional to take flight from the inescapable clutches of desire and temptation.
Gone is the apple. Gone is the covenant. Gone is the flame.
I feel myself being disassembled, with the most valuable part taken away, and the remainder put up for auction to the highest bidder.
My wandering nails attempt to pluck the desert’s crystals as they encrust my eyelids. A blinding ray of light welcomes me back to the realm of vision. Evaporated is the impregnable torrent of water threatening to overwhelm each of my bodily extremities. Dessicated is the pentecostal flame.
A voice. Rich. Undulating.
I cannot discern each phrase from the next. My legs beg to differ, knees burning as my muscles protest in sheer agony.
The rain’s hell is the flame’s paradiso.
My hand clamps on His. Eden is left in our wake.
Damascus awaits.
Silence. As it always did, the boardroom seemed to eviscerate any trace of sound. The senseless chitter-chatter of workers was drowned out by this work of God, this safe haven. For this temple of solace served as my beginning, my Genesis.
“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head.
I pinch myself until my forearm bleeds, hoping it is some frightful nightmare. My Eden, so long hidden under a facade of solitude and serenity, falls away from under my feet like some rusty iron boardwalk. My heart leaps into my throat as the realisation is driven home by the unceremonious “twang” of the heavenly Cloud’s bow.
Blinded by perspiration, my hand reaches for the handlebar of the elevator as it descends. My knuckles whiten as I tighten my grip, my hands erupting in sweat. Was I in a submarine? I was sinking, but suspected the elevator was not the sole perpetrator of the crime.
“You’re fired”. Never had a phrase been so perfectly apt. For the match had been lit; the blaze within my heart ignited. Faultlessly loyal, I was undeserving of such treatment. Like a photograph, I had been framed, left for the world to stroll past and ridicule at their leisure. Who was the catalyst for my exodus? Why me? The bottled-up rage seeks to escape my face any way possible; a bystander could easily discern the wretched demon within, begging to be freed by the fruits of temptation.
Breath escapes me in short gasps. Was the heat expanding? The metallic cage of transportation was surely overflowing with baptismal fires. Thrown amidst the volcanic wreckage of the unknown, I am Dante. But in this secluded exile, my line of sight envisions no paradiso. Is it an illusion? Or are the sauna like walls encroaching upon me?
Outside is no better. As quickly as the internal fire was kindled, it is doused by the unrelenting rain. A cold trickle of water slithers down my spine. My suit, much like my reputation, is unsalvageable.
My stomach churns as a sickening worm of doubt enters. Why did I choose this path? Was I not ready?
Ambition. Knowledge. Were they the seeds of wisdom, or the devil’s genesis?
The worm squirms and slithers through a crevice within the apple.
“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head.
The path ahead is foggy. I must never have left the elevator, for I am submerged under indescribable doubts. In a city of millions, of designated signs, pathways and maps, I am hopelessly lost.
The saturated delta of my arch-like thumb stumbles across the weakened spine of an untended book, haphazardly engulfed by my box of office-ly possessions. I begin to rub the accumulated dust between my thumb and its neighbouring index.
In an instant, darkness.
The subzero climate of the concrete jungle is replaced by the unforgiving purgatorio of the desert. The balmy wind forms an alliance with the coarse yellow sand, joined in their sole purpose of nibbling at my heels. I could almost taste the loneliness in the pure, unadulterated air. My arm extends, looking hopelessly for the faintest trace of divine intervention; that i may be able once more to open my eyes.
“Hiss” smirks the snake.
Was this not just a momentary respite? A pure fantasy? I live in the real world. A Mecca of torrential rain, rolling thunder and broken dreams. A locale wherein you will find no confessional to take flight from the inescapable clutches of desire and temptation.
Gone is the apple. Gone is the covenant. Gone is the flame.
I feel myself being disassembled, with the most valuable part taken away, and the remainder put up for auction to the highest bidder.
My wandering nails attempt to pluck the desert’s crystals as they encrust my eyelids. A blinding ray of light welcomes me back to the realm of vision. Evaporated is the impregnable torrent of water threatening to overwhelm each of my bodily extremities. Dessicated is the pentecostal flame.
A voice. Rich. Undulating.
I cannot discern each phrase from the next. My legs beg to differ, knees burning as my muscles protest in sheer agony.
The rain’s hell is the flame’s paradiso.
My hand clamps on His. Eden is left in our wake.
Damascus awaits.
Post by: feeah on July 20, 2016, 12:39:53 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 20, 2016, 01:56:57 pm
Hi Elyse, quick question: is this only for discovery, or can i post my creative writing for my prelim ext. english test (which focuses on gothicism)? i haven't finished writing it yet, but i would really appreciate feedback once i've done it :)
You can definitely post your creative writing here even if it isn't Discovery!! Just explain the themes you are focusing on when you post ;D
Post by: conic curve on July 20, 2016, 03:48:51 pm
Hi Elyse, quick question: is this only for discovery, or can i post my creative writing for my prelim ext. english test (which focuses on gothicism)? i haven't finished writing it yet, but i would really appreciate feedback once i've done it :)
I think there's an English extension marking thread that you can post in order to get it marked. I don't know to be honest because I don't do English extension
Anyways, why not post part of your story and we'll give you feedback while you work on the remaining half?
It saves quite a bit of time
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 20, 2016, 07:20:23 pm
Hi Elyse!
This is my first time posting a creative script on the forums, i would really appreciate some feedback! Creative writing is continually a liability for me in exams, i can't seem to break out of the 12/15 low-band 5ish range :'( . Originally I wrote a general, non-stimulus monologue for an in-class assessment (I promise there wasn't as much religious imagery in that one) and this is an adaptation of said monologue as a general creative to a past question.
Thanks in advance!
Hello there! Super happy to have a look at this for you :)
It's in the spoiler here with my comments in bold throughout...and then I'll make a more overall comment at the end :)
Spoiler
Silence. As it always did, the boardroom seemed to eviscerate any trace of sound. The senseless chitter-chatter of workers was drowned out by this work of God, this safe haven. For this temple of solace served as my beginning, my Genesis. Sneaky allusion, love that!!! Big fan.
“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head.
I pinch myself until my forearm bleeds, hoping it is some frightful nightmare. You're working with a cliche here. Pinching incase it's a nightmare. I mean, the blood part works to bring it out of the cliche but it actually starts and ends with that same cliche, so consider rephrasing.My Eden, so long hidden under a facade of solitude and serenity, falls away from under my feet like some rusty iron boardwalk. My heart leaps into my throat as the realisation is driven home by the unceremonious “twang” of the heavenly Cloud’s bow.
Blinded by perspiration, my hand reaches for the handlebar of the elevator as it descends. My knuckles whiten as I tighten my grip, my hands erupting in sweat. Was I in a submarine? I was sinking, but suspected the elevator was not the sole perpetrator of the crime. I'm left very confused here - not sure if you are in a submarine or an elevator?
“You’re fired”. Never had a phrase been so perfectly apt. For the match had been lit; the blaze within my heart ignited. Faultlessly loyal, I was undeserving of such treatment. Like a photograph, I had been framed, left for the world to stroll past and ridicule at their leisure. Who was the catalyst for my exodus? Why me? The bottled-up rage seeks to escape my face any way possible; a bystander could easily discern the wretched demon within, begging to be freed by the fruits of temptation. The writing here is beautiful, the imagery is strong. But, unfortunately, the imagery is so strong in so many ways that I'm a bit lost. I can't work out why the phrase was perfect, but the person was undeserving of that?
Breath escapes me in short gasps. Was the heat expanding? The metallic cage of transportation was surely overflowing with baptismal fires. I've never known of baptismal flames in my Christian life...perhaps Pentecostal flames? It might just be something I haven't heard of! Which of course is totally fine :)Thrown amidst the volcanic wreckage of the unknown, I am Dante. The poet? oooh But in this secluded exile, my line of sight envisions no paradiso. Is it an illusion? Or are the sauna like walls encroaching upon me?
Outside is no better. As quickly as the internal fire was kindled, it is doused by the unrelenting rain. A cold trickle of water slithers down my spine. My suit, much like my reputation, is unsalvageable.
My stomach churns as a sickening worm of doubt enters. Why did I choose this path? Was I not ready?
Ambition. Knowledge. Were they the seeds of wisdom, or the devil’s genesis? Consider how you capitalised genesis at the beginning, but not here.
The worm squirms and slithers through a crevice within the apple.
“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head.
The path ahead is foggy. I must never have left the elevator, for I am submerged under indescribable doubts. In a city of millions, of designated signs, pathways and maps, I am hopelessly lost.
The saturated delta of my arch-like thumb stumbles across the weakened spine of an untended book, haphazardly engulfed by my box of office-ly possessions. Perhaps just "office possessions"? I begin to rub the accumulated dust between my thumb and its neighbouring index.
In an instant, darkness.
The subzero climate of the concrete jungle is replaced by the unforgiving purgatorio of the desert. The balmy wind forms an alliance with the coarse yellow sand, joined in their sole purpose of nibbling at my heels. I could almost taste the loneliness in the pure, unadulterated air. My arm extends, looking hopelessly for the faintest trace of divine intervention; that i may be able once more to open my eyes.
“Hiss” smirks the snake.
Was this not just a momentary respite? A pure fantasy? I live in the real world. A Mecca of torrential rain, rolling thunder and broken dreams. A locale wherein you will find no confessional to take flight from the inescapable clutches of desire and temptation. We've gone from deep Christian imagery, specifically focusing on the Old Testament, to Mecca? Consider the integrity of your allusions. I'll make a comment on this at the end :)
Gone is the apple. Gone is the covenant. Gone is the flame.
I feel myself being disassembled, with the most valuable part taken away, and the remainder put up for auction to the highest bidder.
My wandering nails attempt to pluck the desert’s crystals as they encrust my eyelids. A blinding ray of light welcomes me back to the realm of vision. Evaporated is the impregnable torrent of water threatening to overwhelm each of my bodily extremities. Dessicated is the pentecostal flame.
A voice. Rich. Undulating.
I cannot discern each phrase from the next. My legs beg to differ, knees burning as my muscles protest in sheer agony.
The rain’s hell is the flame’s paradiso.
My hand clamps on His. Eden is left in our wake.
Damascus awaits.
“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head.
I pinch myself until my forearm bleeds, hoping it is some frightful nightmare. You're working with a cliche here. Pinching incase it's a nightmare. I mean, the blood part works to bring it out of the cliche but it actually starts and ends with that same cliche, so consider rephrasing.My Eden, so long hidden under a facade of solitude and serenity, falls away from under my feet like some rusty iron boardwalk. My heart leaps into my throat as the realisation is driven home by the unceremonious “twang” of the heavenly Cloud’s bow.
Blinded by perspiration, my hand reaches for the handlebar of the elevator as it descends. My knuckles whiten as I tighten my grip, my hands erupting in sweat. Was I in a submarine? I was sinking, but suspected the elevator was not the sole perpetrator of the crime. I'm left very confused here - not sure if you are in a submarine or an elevator?
“You’re fired”. Never had a phrase been so perfectly apt. For the match had been lit; the blaze within my heart ignited. Faultlessly loyal, I was undeserving of such treatment. Like a photograph, I had been framed, left for the world to stroll past and ridicule at their leisure. Who was the catalyst for my exodus? Why me? The bottled-up rage seeks to escape my face any way possible; a bystander could easily discern the wretched demon within, begging to be freed by the fruits of temptation. The writing here is beautiful, the imagery is strong. But, unfortunately, the imagery is so strong in so many ways that I'm a bit lost. I can't work out why the phrase was perfect, but the person was undeserving of that?
Breath escapes me in short gasps. Was the heat expanding? The metallic cage of transportation was surely overflowing with baptismal fires. I've never known of baptismal flames in my Christian life...perhaps Pentecostal flames? It might just be something I haven't heard of! Which of course is totally fine :)Thrown amidst the volcanic wreckage of the unknown, I am Dante. The poet? oooh But in this secluded exile, my line of sight envisions no paradiso. Is it an illusion? Or are the sauna like walls encroaching upon me?
Outside is no better. As quickly as the internal fire was kindled, it is doused by the unrelenting rain. A cold trickle of water slithers down my spine. My suit, much like my reputation, is unsalvageable.
My stomach churns as a sickening worm of doubt enters. Why did I choose this path? Was I not ready?
Ambition. Knowledge. Were they the seeds of wisdom, or the devil’s genesis? Consider how you capitalised genesis at the beginning, but not here.
The worm squirms and slithers through a crevice within the apple.
“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head.
The path ahead is foggy. I must never have left the elevator, for I am submerged under indescribable doubts. In a city of millions, of designated signs, pathways and maps, I am hopelessly lost.
The saturated delta of my arch-like thumb stumbles across the weakened spine of an untended book, haphazardly engulfed by my box of office-ly possessions. Perhaps just "office possessions"? I begin to rub the accumulated dust between my thumb and its neighbouring index.
In an instant, darkness.
The subzero climate of the concrete jungle is replaced by the unforgiving purgatorio of the desert. The balmy wind forms an alliance with the coarse yellow sand, joined in their sole purpose of nibbling at my heels. I could almost taste the loneliness in the pure, unadulterated air. My arm extends, looking hopelessly for the faintest trace of divine intervention; that i may be able once more to open my eyes.
“Hiss” smirks the snake.
Was this not just a momentary respite? A pure fantasy? I live in the real world. A Mecca of torrential rain, rolling thunder and broken dreams. A locale wherein you will find no confessional to take flight from the inescapable clutches of desire and temptation. We've gone from deep Christian imagery, specifically focusing on the Old Testament, to Mecca? Consider the integrity of your allusions. I'll make a comment on this at the end :)
Gone is the apple. Gone is the covenant. Gone is the flame.
I feel myself being disassembled, with the most valuable part taken away, and the remainder put up for auction to the highest bidder.
My wandering nails attempt to pluck the desert’s crystals as they encrust my eyelids. A blinding ray of light welcomes me back to the realm of vision. Evaporated is the impregnable torrent of water threatening to overwhelm each of my bodily extremities. Dessicated is the pentecostal flame.
A voice. Rich. Undulating.
I cannot discern each phrase from the next. My legs beg to differ, knees burning as my muscles protest in sheer agony.
The rain’s hell is the flame’s paradiso.
My hand clamps on His. Eden is left in our wake.
Damascus awaits.
You've done some amazing things here! I've read wonderful creative pieces, but none have approached the complexity of allusions like you have. The Mecca allusion brings to mind Islam, when I think you should keep it Christian based to the best of your ability to suit the purpose of the story.
Your ideas are so complicated, which I think is why the story appears complicated in turn. The ideas are amazing, but the expression is convoluted. I mentioned above that I didn't know if you were in a submarine or in an elevator? Thinking back, now I've been to the end, I can't make the connection between the concrete jungle and the garden of Eden. I can't see how the same character made that transition. I can draw some conclusions, but I think that with the unclear plot transition being combined with some confusing imagery within the paragraphs, the work becomes crowded. The allusions are complex, but wonderful. I think with two complicated scenes, and then a transition between them, it needs to decrease in complexity or the expression needs to be completely clear. I pointed out a few sections where I was a bit lost. I don't want you to tell me everything as it happens without leaving anything to the imagination, but my imagination was failing to connect the dots. The office, the elevator, the submarine, the desert, the garden, then to Damascus. There's a lot of settings presented, which isn't bad in itself. But, the expression has to be perfect to nail that. I'm fearing that I'm not being clear enough myself now! Please clarify if something doesn't make sense.
Your allusions are incredible. Your ending sentence is crisp. You transport a reader. These are amazing features of your work.
Now? Making the settings link smoothly so that the plot can be transmitted fluently, and making sure descriptions are as clear as they can be!
You're doing an amazing job. I think clarity will push you into the highest band!
All the best! Let me know if you have any questions :)
Post by: christinebelista on July 22, 2016, 10:23:07 am
thanks heaps ((:
Spoiler
3.11
They jumped to and from the makeshift monkey bars. It wasn’t a real playground; mud sufficed for sand and layers of cardboard were haphazardly pasted together to resemble a swing – but it was their wonderland. No matter how grey the air of the complex, the giggles of Kazuya and his little sister Takako would always breathe life into my mornings. Iwate wasn’t as polluted as Tokyo, but the scars of endless streams of floating homes and fatal phone calls were as raw as Tokyo’s industrial quarter without a gas mask. It seemed as if the entire prefecture was deceived by the false promises of a fog – yielding to her claims of bliss, instead feeling her biting chill.
Meant to be a ‘temporary’ complex for the displaced, those who escaped called it ‘the lost and found’, and those who remained named themselves ‘Mother Nature’s Leftovers’. As far as I know, the place seems to permanently engulf both the body and the mind of anybody who dares to tread even in the shallow end of its spirit.
Even a travel writer with the ‘I’ve seen it all’ ego like me.
Seeing these two little critters; watching them swing from bar to bar without a care in the world for their torn t-shirts and uncertain futures, keeps me from drowning in the cesspool of a misery they can’t even comprehend. I don’t understand. I’ve been through the remnants of the Bosnian Civil War; the Nazi death camps; the Congo’s horror. And yet, a run down temporary housing complex in rural Japan is the tightest lock on my soul? It doesn’t make sense, but something tells me that sense is a dime a dozen in the ghetto of floaters; in the world of souls neither living nor dead, of the forgotten bosom of Japan upended by the indiscriminate brutality of Mother Nature.
**
Each of the homes—if you can call them that—is identical. Demountable shacks plotted across the wounded village, almost like caravans without the promise of adventure. Everything is square, orderly; much like you’d expect of Japan. But the lives of the floating souls inside are far from orderly. It’s been three years since the tsunami, and the wounds are still fresh. Nobody I’ve spoken to will speak to me about 3.11.
Except Nakata, the frail old man from demountable 7 who has been here from day one.
Nakata tells me about an unspoken social hierarchy of suffering here. Nobody dares complain if their loss is deemed less than somebody else’s. His eyes dart around, as if to check incase somebody is listening.
“We cannot say, we cannot cry, we cannot scream.”
His English is broken, but I think I understand. There’s a taboo about who can feel what; and it’s almost like a simple calculation. If one man lost his home on 3.11, but another lost his home plus a newborn, the first cannot show his suffering. The second is the rightful heir to scorn; the guardian of self-pity. But if another loses all that plus a wife, he is now sorrow’s rightful owner. Simple. Easy to understand. An orderly model for social interaction.
But I think Nakata is an exception to the rule. He’s so open with me, as we lounge on the makeshift tatami mat inside his temporary home.
“You know, is like prison here. When water come, everything go..”
Tears stream freely down his wrinkled face. I can feel the tidal wave of pain. This time the water is voluntary.
“My wife, she drown. My grandchild—“
He breaks down, but catches himself before the tears engulf his entire being.
“You know, I don’t understand. Why can we not feel? Why does 3.11 become forever?”
**
I’ve been thinking about Nakata all week. I’m in Tokyo, surrounded by the bustling orchestras of a busy metropolis; by sushi bars and hug cafes. But everything about Nakata is boiling over my mind—his wrinkled brow, his croaky voice, his broken English.
He was the only one who would speak to me. He was the only one willing to relive the horror of 3.11, and possibly even worse, break the taboos of rural Japan.
But maybe I’ve been wrong to think that the Japanese take on suffering is strange. Is the desire for some semblance of social order after Mother Nature steals everything you ever had really unjustified? Nakata sure thought so, and so did I.
But I don’t anymore. In a strange kind of way, I can see it from both sides. People are people, and people adapt. With all the scars of endless water rushing at your family—and your life—I can understand the want, the need for order.
This is going to be one hell of a blog post.
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 22, 2016, 04:46:05 pm
hey elyse ;D if you've got the time, could you have a peep at my creative? i'm not sure if my concept of discovery is too convoluted.
thanks heaps ((:
Hey girl, welcome to the forums again, you've been around since January! I'll definitely take a look at your creative, but it will be tomorrow morning, first thing! You haven't been overlooked, and it'll be ready for you tomorrow :)
Post by: shailerpennell on July 22, 2016, 07:57:53 pm
i said in my last post that i got 4/7 for my creative and was underwhelmed by not only my mark but the comments from my teacher, which was "the use of spiritual discovery is an interesting one however the lack of figurative language did not add depth" i would love it if you could give me some more constructive and useful comments! thank you xxx
Spoiler
Lost but not forgotten
“Yet what we suffer now
is nothing compared to the glory
he will reveal to us later.”
- Romans 8:18
I felt as if there was a hole in my heart. I did not feel content nor complete nor truly happy. Yes, I laughed and smiled politely but the immense pain would not pass. Each day was like a throbbing headache. I slipped so easily into a mood that would chain me down, forcing me to remember the lingering pain. I found myself desperately trying to find a way to express how I was feeling and how I could possibly find peace in my situation. It was hard to explain, again and again I filled the gap with temporary happiness longing to find a way out of the dark hole. It seemed like these years of life were all I had ever dreamed of as an innocent, unknowing child, being a teenager was supposed to be exhilarating and dangerous and memorable for all the right reasons, but I felt trapped and dejected, I was weak and unable to think for myself, this was not what I had expected. I felt as though every fibre of strength and willingness I once had had fled and taken refuge in a body that was thriving and healthy. I found myself turning to material possessions that I hoped could close the gap between my current state and where I wished I was. Every day I woke wondering what I could do to regain a happy spirit and rediscover myself once again. I felt lost and forgotten.
I turned the radio on to help me escape my unrelenting thoughts.
Channel 104.1: “Justin Bieber’s nude photos leaked on Instagram! Did you get a sneak peek?!”
Channel 96.9: “Ring us up and tell us your dirtiest secret to go in the draw to win one thousand dollars’ cash!!”
Channel 103.2: “…Amen, I would now like to leave you with my favourite verse out of the book of Romans, Romans 10:9-10: If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is LORD and believe in your heart the GOD raised him from the dead, you will be saved, anyone who trusts in him will never be disgraced.”
For some reason that was unknown to me in that moment, hearing that verse brought a tear to my eye and an uneasy yet ever so reassuring feeling to the pit of my stomach that had been numb for so long. I did not know it then, but that very moment was the beginning of my rediscovery of self through GOD himself and the day I would discover Heaven for the very first time.
That night as I was immersing myself in reality television to take my mind off my own unfortunate reality, the clock struck 11:00pm *tick tock*, my que to take myself off to bed and sleep my way into another day that would be just as numb and lifeless as the one before that. Sleep was bitter-sweet for me, my crisp sheets enclosed me and warmed my skin but the dead silence exposed my echoing thoughts and reminded me of the unrelenting pain, chilling me from deep within. However, that night was different. I fell to sleep peacefully, feeling warm and comfortable between my sheets. As I drifted into a deep sleep, the world of my sub-conscious began to unravel, I saw I bright light, no, a blinding light, a light that was pure and unearthly. As the light dimmed I stood before thundering, brass gates that opened in front of me beckoning me to enter. The gates were weaved with rich green vines that ended at each stalk with precious white flowers. I entered, passing through the gates, I felt immediately clean, as if I was shedding my misery and hopelessness and closing the gates behind me. As I ventured onwards, footsteps weightless, two angles appeared,
“The LORD has brought you here for reasons unknown to man, a great miracle is upon you”,
They harmonised. Then they disappeared.
“I must be in heaven”
I wept. It was more beautiful than any place I had ever been capable to imagine, it was pure and incomparable by earthly measure… oh it was grand. The grass overflowed in vast abundance of lush and seem to have no end, just like the sky, it consumed me in all its power, I felt small in this great, immortal world. I stood there, unable to move, overwhelmed by the depths of its beauty. Whenever I had thought of what heaven would look like, I had imagined entering and being greeted by loved ones who had passed, having my clothes swapped for robes and being able to fly without fear and have unlimited supply of fine wine and exotic fruit, however I saw no one, this place was not what I expected. As I stood in a field of lush green grass I wondered how GOD would make his entrance, I imagined him hovering in a great light, or walking on water or greeting me as he broke bread and divided fish, all great and mighty appearances. However my thoughts were interrupted as a man appeared in the distance, he was washing his face by the river. It was Jesus, GOD had sent himself to me in the form of his son Jesus Christ. The all mighty, all powerful Jesus was bathing himself like a peasant, humble and gracious. He turned to me calmly,
“Come sit with me my child”
His voice beckoned.
I timidly sat beside the son of GOD, the man who performed miracles with his hands, the one who died and rose again, the saviour of the world, I was afraid to look at him, ashamed of my sins, ashamed of my pathetic, immortal appearance. With his voice echoing among the trees, he said to me,
“My child look at me, do not be afraid, do not feel disheartened or discouraged for you are loved.”
He paused,
“You were fearfully and wonderfully made in the hands of God. Do not let worldly distractions inhabit your mind, do not be intrigued by strange, new things, separate yourself among the unbelievers and live your life according to the purpose I have for you”
I fell to the feet of Jesus as I wept uncontrollably,
“For I know the plans I have for you, they are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope... in those days when you pray I will listen, if you look for me wholeheartedly, you will find me.”
I woke, breathless, unable to fathom what I had just experienced. I had discovered heaven, I had met Jesus. I sat up in my bed, my sheets felt unfamiliar and unclean, those of my past life, I hurried to remove them from my mattress, certain not to let anything taint this new found inner peace. I danced and sung for joy as I cried jubilant tears, for I had been saved. I stood as tall as the trees I had sat beneath in Heaven and my tears ran like the water Jesus used to wash his face.
I swept my curtains open, letting the light of day flood my room just as Jesus had once flooded the earth, and I was in the arc, I safe. I fell to my knees as did before Jesus in Heaven,
“Thank you Lord! I am a new person; you have filled the hole in my heart, a new life has begun! Although I was lost, you never forgot me.”
“Yet what we suffer now
is nothing compared to the glory
he will reveal to us later.”
- Romans 8:18
I felt as if there was a hole in my heart. I did not feel content nor complete nor truly happy. Yes, I laughed and smiled politely but the immense pain would not pass. Each day was like a throbbing headache. I slipped so easily into a mood that would chain me down, forcing me to remember the lingering pain. I found myself desperately trying to find a way to express how I was feeling and how I could possibly find peace in my situation. It was hard to explain, again and again I filled the gap with temporary happiness longing to find a way out of the dark hole. It seemed like these years of life were all I had ever dreamed of as an innocent, unknowing child, being a teenager was supposed to be exhilarating and dangerous and memorable for all the right reasons, but I felt trapped and dejected, I was weak and unable to think for myself, this was not what I had expected. I felt as though every fibre of strength and willingness I once had had fled and taken refuge in a body that was thriving and healthy. I found myself turning to material possessions that I hoped could close the gap between my current state and where I wished I was. Every day I woke wondering what I could do to regain a happy spirit and rediscover myself once again. I felt lost and forgotten.
I turned the radio on to help me escape my unrelenting thoughts.
Channel 104.1: “Justin Bieber’s nude photos leaked on Instagram! Did you get a sneak peek?!”
Channel 96.9: “Ring us up and tell us your dirtiest secret to go in the draw to win one thousand dollars’ cash!!”
Channel 103.2: “…Amen, I would now like to leave you with my favourite verse out of the book of Romans, Romans 10:9-10: If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is LORD and believe in your heart the GOD raised him from the dead, you will be saved, anyone who trusts in him will never be disgraced.”
For some reason that was unknown to me in that moment, hearing that verse brought a tear to my eye and an uneasy yet ever so reassuring feeling to the pit of my stomach that had been numb for so long. I did not know it then, but that very moment was the beginning of my rediscovery of self through GOD himself and the day I would discover Heaven for the very first time.
That night as I was immersing myself in reality television to take my mind off my own unfortunate reality, the clock struck 11:00pm *tick tock*, my que to take myself off to bed and sleep my way into another day that would be just as numb and lifeless as the one before that. Sleep was bitter-sweet for me, my crisp sheets enclosed me and warmed my skin but the dead silence exposed my echoing thoughts and reminded me of the unrelenting pain, chilling me from deep within. However, that night was different. I fell to sleep peacefully, feeling warm and comfortable between my sheets. As I drifted into a deep sleep, the world of my sub-conscious began to unravel, I saw I bright light, no, a blinding light, a light that was pure and unearthly. As the light dimmed I stood before thundering, brass gates that opened in front of me beckoning me to enter. The gates were weaved with rich green vines that ended at each stalk with precious white flowers. I entered, passing through the gates, I felt immediately clean, as if I was shedding my misery and hopelessness and closing the gates behind me. As I ventured onwards, footsteps weightless, two angles appeared,
“The LORD has brought you here for reasons unknown to man, a great miracle is upon you”,
They harmonised. Then they disappeared.
“I must be in heaven”
I wept. It was more beautiful than any place I had ever been capable to imagine, it was pure and incomparable by earthly measure… oh it was grand. The grass overflowed in vast abundance of lush and seem to have no end, just like the sky, it consumed me in all its power, I felt small in this great, immortal world. I stood there, unable to move, overwhelmed by the depths of its beauty. Whenever I had thought of what heaven would look like, I had imagined entering and being greeted by loved ones who had passed, having my clothes swapped for robes and being able to fly without fear and have unlimited supply of fine wine and exotic fruit, however I saw no one, this place was not what I expected. As I stood in a field of lush green grass I wondered how GOD would make his entrance, I imagined him hovering in a great light, or walking on water or greeting me as he broke bread and divided fish, all great and mighty appearances. However my thoughts were interrupted as a man appeared in the distance, he was washing his face by the river. It was Jesus, GOD had sent himself to me in the form of his son Jesus Christ. The all mighty, all powerful Jesus was bathing himself like a peasant, humble and gracious. He turned to me calmly,
“Come sit with me my child”
His voice beckoned.
I timidly sat beside the son of GOD, the man who performed miracles with his hands, the one who died and rose again, the saviour of the world, I was afraid to look at him, ashamed of my sins, ashamed of my pathetic, immortal appearance. With his voice echoing among the trees, he said to me,
“My child look at me, do not be afraid, do not feel disheartened or discouraged for you are loved.”
He paused,
“You were fearfully and wonderfully made in the hands of God. Do not let worldly distractions inhabit your mind, do not be intrigued by strange, new things, separate yourself among the unbelievers and live your life according to the purpose I have for you”
I fell to the feet of Jesus as I wept uncontrollably,
“For I know the plans I have for you, they are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope... in those days when you pray I will listen, if you look for me wholeheartedly, you will find me.”
I woke, breathless, unable to fathom what I had just experienced. I had discovered heaven, I had met Jesus. I sat up in my bed, my sheets felt unfamiliar and unclean, those of my past life, I hurried to remove them from my mattress, certain not to let anything taint this new found inner peace. I danced and sung for joy as I cried jubilant tears, for I had been saved. I stood as tall as the trees I had sat beneath in Heaven and my tears ran like the water Jesus used to wash his face.
I swept my curtains open, letting the light of day flood my room just as Jesus had once flooded the earth, and I was in the arc, I safe. I fell to my knees as did before Jesus in Heaven,
“Thank you Lord! I am a new person; you have filled the hole in my heart, a new life has begun! Although I was lost, you never forgot me.”
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 22, 2016, 11:11:18 pm
I posted my essay just now but i attached the document instead of copy and paste idk if it matters? haha
i said in my last post that i got 4/7 for my creative and was underwhelmed by not only my mark but the comments from my teacher, which was "the use of spiritual discovery is an interesting one however the lack of figurative language did not add depth" i would love it if you could give me some more constructive and useful comments! thank you xxx
Hey shailerpennell! Thanks for posting your creative, definitely doesn't matter whether you attach or copy paste! Either is fine ;D just letting you know I've deleted the version of this you posted in the Essay Marking Thread, we'll get you some feedback here ASAP! ;D
Post by: isaacdelatorre on July 23, 2016, 11:03:05 pm
I would be eternally grateful if you would please take a look at my creative and give some feedback.
It has been an arduous task trying to write it and have been struggling for ages with it.
Could you check to see that the story makes sense and fulfils the rubric. Also I'm concerned with the length, but not sure what parts of it to cull. If you also had some ideas on how to adapt it to other questions or stimuli, I would greatly appreciate it.
Thank you so much! :)
The old door groans as I push against it; its ancient hinges barely surviving the mundane task of opening. Dark stains appear where I stand, the rain on my robes, dripping onto the wood beneath. My hand steadily holds the brass doorknob that burns me with its icy touch. Inside the church, my eyes struggle to see clearly but instantly focus when fluorescent shards of glass plummet towards the already shattered tabernacle, like a bird that is casually hunted and falls screaming to the floor. Looking upwards, I sharply inhale the stale air, looking at the once illustrious stained glass window, that men and girls flocked to like moths. But is now fractured and cracked; ensuring no light of God shines through. In the centre of the window stands Archangel Michael, the soldier of heaven and leader of God’s angel army, who looks down shamefully, at the grotesque parade in front of him.
The church that I’ve called home for so long, now feels freakishly foreign. Familiar pews and familiar statues lay shattered and scattered; strewn across the floor in an unfamiliar fashion. Woven through the labyrinth and mountains of chairs, lie pieces of bodies; unmoving, as if they were toy soldiers waiting to be played with.
I try to move. I try to scream. But I am paralysed by the gory sight of corpses that compel my gaze like Medusa. Everywhere I look, the corpses scream pain; their volume grows with the sight of fragments of flesh that are splattered all over the pews.I finally scream at the sight of a single, detached arm; its fingers outstretched towards the heavens like a sunflower bending towards the sun. Blood drips from the gruesome joint, flowing over the exposed flesh and bone, onto the unrecognisable face of its owner three metres beneath him, who is impaled by a cross that drips with blood. Flailing like a bird with a broken wing, I claw at my neck which has closed itself as if the rosary beads on my neck was a serpent coiling itself tighter and tighter.
My thoughts loud and unnerving, yell at me, reverberating in my ears, “This war for ‘independence’ is just a foolish pursuit that will end in death.” The broken icons of my faith become blurrier, “How horrific is this scene around me, caused by the war that I once thought would save us. How stupid of me. War is merciless in the torture it inflicts, trapping those who fight for freedom in a prison of death.” I scorn myself for commending those fighting for Italia’s unification; when Napoleon is just a ring leader, delivering us to evil, intentionally leading his army to the slaughter. “Unlike the war in Heaven, this second war for independence will only cause death and destroy our nation. Why should we sacrifice our soldiers, our nurses, our children; to the gruesome grasp of war?”
Falling to my knees, I stare at the broken stained glass window above. Archangel Michael’s forlorn expression compels my gaze. The rain outside attacks the window, falling through the cracks and holes as if the angel is crying.
***
“Congratulations Sister Maria! We are proud to welcome you as a nun” Father Antonio exclaimed, his jubilance shone inextricably across his face. Luminous beams shined through the stained glass window, and projected a kaleidoscope of colours on the insides of the church. The angel Michael stands within the window, he seemed to comfortingly smile down on me.
***
Looking at this same window, no comfort comes. Only dread. The memory of my perpetual profession of vows, when I first became a nun, comes flooding back to me, denying any other thoughts. “As a vowed nun, I will continue my growth and development of ministerial, personal and communal life of a sister” the words I once profoundly professed are muttered with disgust, “I will embark on a life of chastity, poverty and benevolence; endeavouring to address all injustices of the world.”
My eyes drift to the once pristine altar, which is now tarnished with streaks of crimson that stain its ornate design. An Austrian soldier lies on top, limbs dangling over the sides of his crucifix. His crown of thorns, marked with an Austrian military symbol is barely held together by the single strap that is fraying at the edges. Staring into his pained eyes, the undeniable look of suffering is branded upon his face as if he was now a possession of death. This same familiar expression is sewn on every toy soldier’s face inside the church.
Scrupulously staring at each soldier’s face, I am overwhelmed by this same expression of suffering. How hadn’t I noticed this before? Darkness appears when I close my eyes, screaming out even though nobody will hear. Constant thoughts permeate my mind, “How could God allow this to happen? If he is our protector, why has he brought this fate upon us?” I stand, trembling in confusion. “I don’t understand; we preach God’s will and those who follow it are all rewarded with death.” Praying for help, safety or guidance seems naïve like a child’s ignorant and optimistic dream. Another shard crashes onto the scorched statue of the crucifix, knocking it off its podium and shattering on the floor, billowing through the hallowed halls. “A God of any religion would not inflict this kind of fate onto his people” I firmly speak out loud, to myself as I stare into the eyes of the Austrian soldier.
Defiantly walking towards the door, I eagerly rip off my habit and toss it liberatingly over the Austrian soldier. My robes fall off easily and fall in a crumpled heap, slowly sagging next to the disfigured face of a man. Statues and corpses all in random piles attempt to block my path, but are easily overcome, falling to rubble when stepped on. I turn and stare at the horrific sight in front of me, looking at my beloved stained glass window. Michael’s figure is barely recognisable from the holes and cracks; but he seems to solemnly smile with his arms in the same outstretched pose. A faint breeze carries with it the delicate scent of daffodils that lure me outside into the reassuring sun.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 24, 2016, 12:37:10 am
Hi can you guys again look through my creative, I've posted this once before and told that the plot needed work, has the plot line improved and where about do you believe in your opinion this story lies in terms of band.
Thanks :))))
Hey Alalamc!! Just letting you know that under the new essay marking policies (see link in my signature), you'll need one more post if you want both this and your AoS essay marked (two pieces = 10 posts required) ;D You can post here to get that last post if you like ;D
Post by: marynguyen18 on July 24, 2016, 10:04:07 pm
Creative Writing for Discovery
Time moves ever so slowly now that you’re gone. Why do bad things happen to good people? It’s just not fair! You were gone within a blink of an eye, all Lauren could think about were those last words, “Take care of Cassie, I’m sorry I couldn’t be the mother she wanted me to be. I’m so proud of the young women that you and your sister have become.” As the casket slowly lowered into the ground, wet patches appeared on the ground where Lauren and Cassie had been standing. This was it, the last farewell. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. How could this happen? Lauren had always been there for her mother and spent her free time caring for her mother. Whilst Cassie struggled to understand what her mother had gone through both mentally and physically. As the clouds started to cover the rising moon Lauren and Cassie slowly started to categorise their mother’s possessions into three separate boxes: keep, donate and throw away.
Whilst cleaning Cassie tripped over a pile of books that were left scattered around a vintage bookshelf. “What does this mean?” Cassie said, as all the words and diagrams that her mother had drawn didn’t seem to correlate with each other. There was an image of a small flute, next to an ever ending rabbit hole. Did this show her mother’s love for interesting instruments? As Cassie carefully flicked through the pages of the journals she had found her mother’s adventures in Wonderland. The way Wonderland was described made it like a real place.
“I need to follow the white rabbit down the rabbit hole, he promised to take me to Wonderland”. Lauren was very concerned about her mother’s mentality as Wonderland doesn’t exist and is only a figment of Alice, her mother’s imagination. The sun in Wonderland would smile and radiate upon Alice creating an atmosphere of joy and happiness, it created a safe haven for Alice. She could no longer tell the differences between reality and imagination, it had engulfed her perception. She was lost in reality. Alice would always be writing or drawing in her journal, even if she was unable to do anything else.
Lauren knew her mother couldn’t be left alone so she enrolled to study her classes online to take care of her mother. At night her mother would be muttering words in her sleep, no doubt that Alice was dreaming about Wonderland. Every night during dinner Alice would be paranoid about whether or not the food she was about to eat would make her grow or make her shrink.
Red, the colour red can symbolise emotions as well as memories of constant hysteria. Alice would occasionally cry out “Oh no! She’s coming for me, off with my head, off with my head, oh! I’ve grown quite fond of my head, don’t let her get me Lauren!”. The constant paranoia was slowly eating her mother alive and Lauren had no way to help her mother’s antagonising pain.
As Cassie slowly continued to flick through the pages of her mother’s journal, she slowly understood her mother’s life and regretted not spending time with her. Alice drew a picture her cat, Dinah in the house she grew up in. Alice cared for Dinah as if Dinah was her child, Cassie had no idea that her mother loved animals and felt at ease when she was around them. There was a photograph of Lauren, Cassie and Alice huddled by a camp fire, and roasting marshmallows.
All the memories had been stored in this simple, worn out journal, memories could have been lost if Alice never wrote them down. The gradual ticking of the clock created a pathway for Cassie to understand what her mother has been through. The adventures of meeting a talking caterpillar that was inhaling hookah smoke and offered the worst advice with such a rude, concise tone.
“Hey Lauren, what does it mean when mum says: the white rabbit was a symbol of hope as he gave her a sense of adventure?”
“Well, Cassie I remember mum telling me that she wanted to follow the white rabbit and how unusual it was to see a white rabbit with a golden pocket watch that glistened in the sunlight. All the adventure that she mentions is her time she had in Wonderland and all the wonderful things that she had encountered; I know it may seem like a ridiculous concept but mum really did believe that Wonderland existed. The only thing we can do is accept it. As for the symbol of hope part maybe Wonderland was her safe haven where she felt happy.”
Every entry from the journal were expressed in explicit details and one of the few phrases Alice would constantly repeat were “Follow the White Rabbit”. Cassie kept reading every journal entry and all she could see was an extended message of hope, live life like it was an adventure and dreaming big. Slowly, elements of Lauren’s and Cassie’s childhood was incorporating within the journal. Memories were all captured and became a part of her history, from the moments of laughter and joy. There was even a letter that Cassie wrote for her mother telling her that she had made her first friend, how they would play in the garden pretending to be fairies.
Cassie’s heart starting to beat in time with the ongoing metronome in the background, she was almost at the end of the journal. Just one more page and it would be over. There was a small yet complicated picture in the bottom left hand corner of a small key hidden underneath a box, the same box that Cassie had in her room. As if it was second nature, Cassie bolted into to her room to find the key that her mother had drawn hoping that it would answer her questions. There it was, the key it was right where her mother had drawn it. She slowly placed the key into the box and kept turning the key until she heard a tiny click. There lying on the bottom of the box was a perfectly engraved golden pocket watch with a note attached reading “I’m late”.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 24, 2016, 11:02:19 pm
Hi i was wondering if you could look at my creative (hopefully i can qualify) i wasn't sure about whether or not you can tell that theres a discovery and if it logically makes sense. It is Alice in Wonderland inspired I'm just a bit worried it sounds too much like the original. Thank you in advance :)
Awesome job on meeting post criteria Mary! You definitely qualify now ;)
PS: Elyse is still feeling ill guys, I'll try and come give some feedback if I can get through a bit of stuff on the essay side. Until then, lots of love and hang in there :-*
Post by: shailerpennell on July 25, 2016, 02:13:48 pm
Hey shailerpennell! Thanks for posting your creative, definitely doesn't matter whether you attach or copy paste! Either is fine ;D just letting you know I've deleted the version of this you posted in the Essay Marking Thread, we'll get you some feedback here ASAP! ;D
thank you!!
Post by: Aliceyyy98 on July 25, 2016, 04:42:37 pm
Could you please have a look at my creative :) the main thing I am struggling with is making my discovery concept clear but not too obvious :( some suggestions would be awesome!
Cheers heaps
Post by: Essej on July 25, 2016, 09:25:27 pm
Hello there! Super happy to have a look at this for you :)
It's in the spoiler here with my comments in bold throughout...and then I'll make a more overall comment at the end :)
You've done some amazing things here! I've read wonderful creative pieces, but none have approached the complexity of allusions like you have. The Mecca allusion brings to mind Islam, when I think you should keep it Christian based to the best of your ability to suit the purpose of the story.
Your ideas are so complicated, which I think is why the story appears complicated in turn. The ideas are amazing, but the expression is convoluted. I mentioned above that I didn't know if you were in a submarine or in an elevator? Thinking back, now I've been to the end, I can't make the connection between the concrete jungle and the garden of Eden. I can't see how the same character made that transition. I can draw some conclusions, but I think that with the unclear plot transition being combined with some confusing imagery within the paragraphs, the work becomes crowded. The allusions are complex, but wonderful. I think with two complicated scenes, and then a transition between them, it needs to decrease in complexity or the expression needs to be completely clear. I pointed out a few sections where I was a bit lost. I don't want you to tell me everything as it happens without leaving anything to the imagination, but my imagination was failing to connect the dots. The office, the elevator, the submarine, the desert, the garden, then to Damascus. There's a lot of settings presented, which isn't bad in itself. But, the expression has to be perfect to nail that. I'm fearing that I'm not being clear enough myself now! Please clarify if something doesn't make sense.
Your allusions are incredible. Your ending sentence is crisp. You transport a reader. These are amazing features of your work.
Now? Making the settings link smoothly so that the plot can be transmitted fluently, and making sure descriptions are as clear as they can be!
You're doing an amazing job. I think clarity will push you into the highest band!
All the best! Let me know if you have any questions :)
Hi Elyse! Hope you are feeling better!
Just wanted to thank you for marking my script, as always AN goes above and beyond the feedback my teachers give me ;D ;D
I've made comprehensive edits to the narrative in line with your recommendations, trying to make the connections clearer and a little less convoluted and crazy. I've highlighted the parts where edits have been made - the stimulus (a picture) is also included which may help you to understand the saturation in religious allusions!
Any suggestions in being able to adapt the piece to unseen and, well, secular or non-religious stimuli would be helpful as i sorta feel i'm limiting myself, would appreciate your thoughts :)
Please take a look when you have time, thankyou once again!!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 25, 2016, 10:01:19 pm
hey elyse ;D if you've got the time, could you have a peep at my creative? i'm not sure if my concept of discovery is too convoluted.
thanks heaps ((:
Thank you for your patience! I'm on the way up to feeling better now :)
Here is your creative, in the spoiler, and I've put my own comments throughout in bold font :)
Spoiler
They jumped to and from the makeshift monkey bars. It wasn’t a real playground; mud sufficed for sand and layers of cardboard were haphazardly pasted together to resemble a swing – but it was their wonderland. Using the hyphen here works, but I think that if you put that in a sentence of it own it would be even more powerful. Isolated and powerful! No matter how grey the air of the complex, the giggles of Kazuya and his little sister Takako would always breathe life into my mornings. Iwate wasn’t as polluted as Tokyo, but the scars of endless streams of floating homes and fatal phone calls were as raw as Tokyo’s industrial quarter without a gas mask. It seemed as if the entire prefecture was deceived by the false promises of a fog – yielding to her claims of bliss, instead feeling her biting chill.
Meant to be a ‘temporary’ complex for the displaced, those who escaped called it ‘the lost and found’, and those who remained named themselves ‘Mother Nature’s Leftovers’. As far as I know, the place seems to permanently engulf both the body and the mind of anybody who dares to tread even in the shallow end of its spirit.
Even a travel writer with the ‘I’ve seen it all’ ego like me.
Seeing these two little critters; watching them swing from bar to bar without a care in the world for their torn t-shirts and uncertain futures, keeps me from drowning in the cesspool of a misery they can’t even comprehend. I don’t understand. I’ve been through the remnants of the Bosnian Civil War; the Nazi death camps; the Congo’s horror. And yet, a run down temporary housing complex in rural Japan is the tightest lock on my soul? I'm not sure what this sentence means - "The tightest lock." I think it is kind of unpicking your soul a bit, not locking it. It doesn’t make sense, but something tells me that sense is a dime a dozen in the ghetto of floaters; in the world of souls neither living nor dead, of the forgotten bosom of Japan upended by the indiscriminate brutality of Mother Nature.
**
Each of the homes—if you can call them that—is identical. Demountable shacks plotted across the wounded village, almost like caravans without the promise of adventure. Everything is square, orderly; much like you’d expect of Japan. But the lives of the floating souls inside are far from orderly. It’s been three years since the tsunami, and the wounds are still fresh. Nobody I’ve spoken to will speak to me about 3.11.
Except Nakata, the frail old man from demountable 7 who has been here from day one.
Nakata tells me about an unspoken social hierarchy of suffering here. Nobody dares complain if their loss is deemed less than somebody else’s. His eyes dart around, as if to check incase somebody is listening.
“We cannot say, we cannot cry, we cannot scream.”
His English is broken, but I think I understand. There’s a taboo about who can feel what; and it’s almost like a simple calculation. If one man lost his home on 3.11, but another lost his home plus a newborn, the first cannot show his suffering. The second is the rightful heir to scorn; the guardian of self-pity. But if another loses all that plus a wife, he is now sorrow’s rightful owner. Simple. Easy to understand. An orderly model for social interaction. This is a very beautiful paragraph.
But I think Nakata is an exception to the rule. He’s so open with me, as we lounge on the makeshift tatami mat inside his temporary home.
“You know, is like prison here. When water come, everything go..”
Tears stream freely down his wrinkled face. Tears streaming is a cliche which you should avoid. Maybe draw some imagery from tears rolling through the crevices of his wrinkles like rivers. Something more original that draws attention to your work.I can feel the tidal wave of pain. This time the water is voluntary.
“My wife, she drown. My grandchild—“
He breaks down, but catches himself before the tears engulf his entire being.
“You know, I don’t understand. Why can we not feel? Why does 3.11 become forever?”
**
I’ve been thinking about Nakata all week. I’m in Tokyo, surrounded by the bustling orchestras of a busy metropolis; by sushi bars and hug cafes. But everything about Nakata is boiling over my mind—his wrinkled brow, his croaky voice, his broken English.
He was the only one who would speak to me. He was the only one willing to relive the horror of 3.11, and possibly even worse, break the taboos of rural Japan.
But maybe I’ve been wrong to think that the Japanese take on suffering is strange. Is the desire for some semblance of social order after Mother Nature steals everything you ever had really unjustified? Nakata sure thought so, and so did I. I think give "so did I" it's own line or its own sentence, just to add to the power of it.
But I don’t anymore. In a strange kind of way, I can see it from both sides. People are people, and people adapt. With all the scars of endless water rushing at your family—and your life—I can understand the want, the need for order.
This is going to be one hell of a blog post.
Meant to be a ‘temporary’ complex for the displaced, those who escaped called it ‘the lost and found’, and those who remained named themselves ‘Mother Nature’s Leftovers’. As far as I know, the place seems to permanently engulf both the body and the mind of anybody who dares to tread even in the shallow end of its spirit.
Even a travel writer with the ‘I’ve seen it all’ ego like me.
Seeing these two little critters; watching them swing from bar to bar without a care in the world for their torn t-shirts and uncertain futures, keeps me from drowning in the cesspool of a misery they can’t even comprehend. I don’t understand. I’ve been through the remnants of the Bosnian Civil War; the Nazi death camps; the Congo’s horror. And yet, a run down temporary housing complex in rural Japan is the tightest lock on my soul? I'm not sure what this sentence means - "The tightest lock." I think it is kind of unpicking your soul a bit, not locking it. It doesn’t make sense, but something tells me that sense is a dime a dozen in the ghetto of floaters; in the world of souls neither living nor dead, of the forgotten bosom of Japan upended by the indiscriminate brutality of Mother Nature.
**
Each of the homes—if you can call them that—is identical. Demountable shacks plotted across the wounded village, almost like caravans without the promise of adventure. Everything is square, orderly; much like you’d expect of Japan. But the lives of the floating souls inside are far from orderly. It’s been three years since the tsunami, and the wounds are still fresh. Nobody I’ve spoken to will speak to me about 3.11.
Except Nakata, the frail old man from demountable 7 who has been here from day one.
Nakata tells me about an unspoken social hierarchy of suffering here. Nobody dares complain if their loss is deemed less than somebody else’s. His eyes dart around, as if to check incase somebody is listening.
“We cannot say, we cannot cry, we cannot scream.”
His English is broken, but I think I understand. There’s a taboo about who can feel what; and it’s almost like a simple calculation. If one man lost his home on 3.11, but another lost his home plus a newborn, the first cannot show his suffering. The second is the rightful heir to scorn; the guardian of self-pity. But if another loses all that plus a wife, he is now sorrow’s rightful owner. Simple. Easy to understand. An orderly model for social interaction. This is a very beautiful paragraph.
But I think Nakata is an exception to the rule. He’s so open with me, as we lounge on the makeshift tatami mat inside his temporary home.
“You know, is like prison here. When water come, everything go..”
Tears stream freely down his wrinkled face. Tears streaming is a cliche which you should avoid. Maybe draw some imagery from tears rolling through the crevices of his wrinkles like rivers. Something more original that draws attention to your work.I can feel the tidal wave of pain. This time the water is voluntary.
“My wife, she drown. My grandchild—“
He breaks down, but catches himself before the tears engulf his entire being.
“You know, I don’t understand. Why can we not feel? Why does 3.11 become forever?”
**
I’ve been thinking about Nakata all week. I’m in Tokyo, surrounded by the bustling orchestras of a busy metropolis; by sushi bars and hug cafes. But everything about Nakata is boiling over my mind—his wrinkled brow, his croaky voice, his broken English.
He was the only one who would speak to me. He was the only one willing to relive the horror of 3.11, and possibly even worse, break the taboos of rural Japan.
But maybe I’ve been wrong to think that the Japanese take on suffering is strange. Is the desire for some semblance of social order after Mother Nature steals everything you ever had really unjustified? Nakata sure thought so, and so did I. I think give "so did I" it's own line or its own sentence, just to add to the power of it.
But I don’t anymore. In a strange kind of way, I can see it from both sides. People are people, and people adapt. With all the scars of endless water rushing at your family—and your life—I can understand the want, the need for order.
This is going to be one hell of a blog post.
I think there's room to enhance this story. The discussion with the old man is the highlight, as it is the most interesting, the most well written, and the vehicle for discovery. I think that in order to enhance the discovery, you should try bring more of a contrast between Western ideas of sympathy and sorrow to Japan's, or, your own ideas of emotion could be compared to what is learnt in Japan. By this I mean, your discovery will have another level added to it if you show what the author knew before, compared to what she has learnt, and knows now. I'm not sure if I'm expressing this clearly at all...
Essentially, if you spend some time at the start talking about how the writer is in the vicious market of travel blogging, or how she was bummed out she got downgraded to economy on the plane, or that she scuffed her new shoes on the way there, then you compare it to the way that the elderly man sees emotion, sympathy, and its worth, then you show an intellectual, emotional, and spiritual discovery at a very deep level. Maybe you could talk about the blogger going to Nazi camps or to Congo, but add an ulterior motive. Perhaps talk about how the travel writer did it because it hadn't been covered yet by the competitors in the writing biz. But in Japan, this whole new revelation came that was worth a whole lot more than clicks on a blog.
Right now, the story is well written, the discovery is clear, but it is shallow. I think you open yourself up to a greater likelihood of getting high marks for responding to the question and the stimulus if you prepare a little more at the start to discuss the "before" so that the "after" discovery is more clear :)
Thank you for your patience again! Not a good time to get sick :(
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 25, 2016, 10:05:22 pm
Thank you all for your patience! Jamon has been working like a horse (ew a cliche - I'm such a hypocrite) to keep things afloat over the weekend! Thank you Jamon!
As for everyone waiting feedback, check back tomorrow and I promise your work will be here with feedback!
Post by: marynguyen18 on July 25, 2016, 10:18:22 pm
Post by: jayceevce on July 25, 2016, 10:55:33 pm
If you or anyone else has extra time I'd love if you could take a look at my work! I've just written it and would love a fresh pair of eyes to read it and see if it makes sense and speaks to them before I submit it to my teacher.
Child's Play
Another month, two weeks and three days, you think to yourself as you laboriously clean the whiteboard. 48 more days of arts ‘n’ crafts, heads-up-thumbs-down and storytime and then you can finally be on your way to cherries and pistachios on the couch and reruns of Grey’s Anatomy with your over-sized belly. 47 days after today, you think.
‘Good morning Miss Applebee,’ the children chime in perfect sing-a-long unison as the bell rings. You put on your biggest, widest smile but you feel that little swoop again, hear the echoing singularity of Miss like the hissing of a coiling snake, a very pregnant single snake. Even King cobras stay to help raise the young of the world’s most poisonous snake, you realise morosely as you catch sight of the National Geographic posters hanging around the classroom.
‘Is everyone ready for their show-and-tell?’ you ask, knowing full well that every child is too excited for show-and-tell Friday to forget to bring their objects. A mad scramble to their cubbies ensues as they reach for their photos and toys and picture books. You keep a wary eye on them, making sure they don’t bring in anything sharp or toxic. The other staff still gossip about how Karen was let go because a girl had brought in scissors and had cut hair off her classmates. Personally you don’t think it was Karen’s fault, but apparently the girl with the bald patch had lawyers for parents and besides, everyone knows the school is in debt because of the budget cuts. You tell yourself that as long as nothing goes wrong they can’t sack you and they have no power over your maternity leave and they can’t touch the $657 per week you’ll be owed.
Angelica is first to volunteer. She brings out a shoebox from which she takes out two Barbie dolls. The girls in the class coo appreciatively over the plastic toy as she boasts about how they’re limited edition and real expensive. You shudder internally at the thought of raising such a brat and wait impatiently for four minutes before you assertively remind her that time’s up and its Jimmy’s turn now. She sulks at being interrupted and insists her object is far more interesting than Jimmy’s pet rock. Jimmy blushes deep crimson while the class laughs at him and he just stands there as still and as ashen as the rock he’s holding.
You gently ask him where it’s from.
“It’s…it’s from my parents’ garden,” he stammers, unconsciously rubbing the angry red splotches that cover his skinny arms.
You should have known to be more sensitive. More careful. More alert. But the hormones get to you and you ask him why he keeps a rock from his parents’ garden.
‘Because they’re dead.”
A hush falls over the classroom like the wave of a tsunami. The air is pregnant with a bloated silence, for in the void of sound the shallowness of their childish conversations lay bare. You unconsciously seek your abdomen for reassurance and you are just about to offer your condolences when Angelica breaks the blanket of sound.
‘Grimmy –Jimmy! Jim’s the Grim!’
The class hesitantly giggles, unsure of what else to do.
‘That’s quite enough, Angelica,” you chide her. “No more arts ‘n’ crafts for you today.”
Her angry eyes flash first in retaliation at you but then you see her glare at Jimmy, who sits cross-legged with all the blood drained from his face. She whispers to her friend, takes something out of her shoebox and nods in his direction.
You relax, thinking this brief lapse of conflict is over, and send the children out to play.
When you supervise children, it’s like watching a younger, happier version of yourself roam free. No bills, no mortgage, no groceries. Just child’s play. You’ve often wondered why it is we have children in the first place. And you’ve come to the conclusion that at some point in our lives we realize we screwed up. Irreparably. So we want to start again. And have children. Little versions of ourselves we can scold and nurture and feed and tell them to achieve what we could not. Succeed where we could not. Someone to get it right this time around. Your hand protectively drifts to your middle and in the midst of the skipping and giggling and chasing of the noisy children you silently promise to do everything you can to give him a better life, even without his father.
A tentative hand taps your elbow. Your eyes swivel down to find Jimmy, who is shorter and scrawnier than others his age.
“I think they’re trying to poison me,” he says matter-of-factly, holding an empty packet of one of those silica gel packets you find in products to keep them dry. The ‘DO NOT EAT’ glares warningly from the packaging, but in his other hand Jimmy holds a sandwich with tiny, almost invisible beads you can only see because he has picked the bread apart.
Your heart thumps quickly as your mind skims through its memories of where these packets belong. Handbags, jewelry, heels…shoeboxes. Jimmy stares up at you expectantly.
You’ve always hated confrontation. You hated it back in sixth grade when Sophia didn’t pay back the money she borrowed from you, or when you asked Tom to be your formal date, or that day you asked the boss for a pay rise. It just isn’t in your nature. But when a young boy stands before you, asking for help, you just can’t say no. So your eyes search for Angelica. You catch the long, golden ponytail that shines even from here and you take a step closer to her, ready to berate her, put her in her place once and for all…but then you see the sun glint unmistakably on the covertly hidden patch of skin where hair used to be and you stop dead in your tracks and think about yourself. And what this means. And what it could mean.
So you turn back to the boy who’s staring desperately at you and you tell him not to worry about it; it was only child’s play. A silly joke. No harm done. And you see what little light remains in his eyes go out like a light bulb bursting and you’ve disappointed him like everyone else in his life and you want to fix it for him, truly you do, but you also know you really need that money and can’t afford for anything to go wrong. So all you can do is offer him a hug which he dodges and you can only watch as he runs away from you like the plague.
At lunchtime the Year 4 teacher offers to watch over your students so you can have a minute to yourself and eat for the two of you. The staff room is quiet except for the low drone of the microwave and the ticking of the clock so you have nothing to distract you from what happened earlier today. As you dig into your pumpkin soup with a hunger you didn’t realize you have, you ponder on how you’re going to make it right for Jimmy because you know what you did was wrong. But just as you reach the end of your soup you find these tiny, almost invisible beads in the dregs of pumpkin and you nearly heave up everything in you. Your hand shakes as badly as your grandmother’s arthritis as you find the number for the Poisons Information Centre.
“Hello, how can we help you today?”
“Are…are those silica gel packets toxic?”
“No madam, the granular silicic acid is non-toxic-“
“-what happens if you’re with child?” you interrupt.
“With child? Oh dear…I’ll have to check with a doctor on that one, let me put you on hold.”
And as you wait your panic rises and your vision blurs and you see Jimmy looking through the window and you know once and for all, this isn’t child’s play.
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 11:48:48 am
get well soon Elyse my biology teacher always tells me to take lots of Vitamin C to the point she made me buy Vitamin C tablets 1000mg.
What a legend! Thank you!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 12:53:41 pm
I posted my essay just now but i attached the document instead of copy and paste idk if it matters? haha
i said in my last post that i got 4/7 for my creative and was underwhelmed by not only my mark but the comments from my teacher, which was "the use of spiritual discovery is an interesting one however the lack of figurative language did not add depth" i would love it if you could give me some more constructive and useful comments! thank you xxx
thank you so much for your patience!
Okay, I'll try keep your teacher's comment in mind when I'm looking at this and see if I can try add to what she's said to make some more sense of it :)
Your work is in the spoiler here with some of my own thoughts in bold font throughout, then I'll write up a comment at the end:
Spoiler
Lost but not forgotten
“Yet what we suffer now
is nothing compared to the glory
he will reveal to us later.”
- Romans 8:18
I felt as if there was a hole in my heart. I did not feel content nor complete nor truly happy. I think adding some commas before each "nor" will really break up the sentence so that the negation becomes more clear in each unique way. Yes, I laughed and smiled politely but the immense pain would not pass. Each day was like a throbbing headache. I slipped so easily into a mood that would chain me down, forcing me to remember the lingering pain. I found myself desperately trying to find a way to express how I was feeling and how I could possibly find peace in my situation. This speaks to me as an opportunity for some imagery, like a metaphor. Consider changing "situation" for something that be a metaphor, like peace in chaos, peace in crisis, peace in turmoil, etc. Maybe a metaphor isn't the right word, maybe you need an oxymoron in a way. This is just a super small suggestion, it won't impact on the way discovery is perceived. Little things like this add up to the integrity of the writing as a whole. It was hard to explain, again and again I filled the gap with temporary happiness longing to find a way out of the dark hole. It seemed like these years of life were all I had ever dreamed of as an innocent, unknowing child, being a teenager was supposed to be exhilarating and dangerous and memorable for all the right reasons, but I felt trapped and dejected, I was weak and unable to think for myself, this was not what I had expected. This last sentence is quite long, consider rephrasing. I felt as though every fibre of strength and willingness I once had had fled and taken refuge in a body that was thriving and healthy. I found myself turning to material possessions that I hoped could close the gap between my current state and where I wished I was. Every day I woke wondering what I could do to regain a happy spirit and rediscover myself once again. I felt lost and forgotten.
I turned the radio on to help me escape my unrelenting thoughts.
Channel 104.1: “Justin Bieber’s nude photos leaked on Instagram! Did you get a sneak peek?!”
Channel 96.9: “Ring us up and tell us your dirtiest secret to go in the draw to win one thousand dollars’ cash!!”
Channel 103.2: “…Amen, I would now like to leave you with my favourite verse out of the book of Romans, Romans 10:9-10: If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is LORD and believe in your heart the GOD raised him from the dead, you will be saved, anyone who trusts in him will never be disgraced.”
For some reason that was unknown to me in that moment, hearing that verse brought a tear to my eye Brought a tear to my eye - this is a cliche. Try to avoid talking about tears, and talk about shivering, or a heavy feeling pulling at the tendons behind the eye ball, or and an uneasy yet ever so reassuring feeling to the pit of my stomach that had been numb for so long. I did not know it then, but that very moment was the beginning of my rediscovery of self through GOD himself and the day I would discover Heaven for the very first time. I like where this is going!
That night as I was immersing myself in reality television to take my mind off my own unfortunate reality, the clock struck 11:00pm *tick tock*, my que to take myself off to bed and sleep my way into another day that would be just as numb and lifeless as the one before that. Sleep was bitter-sweet for me, my crisp sheets enclosed me and warmed my skin but the dead silence exposed my echoing thoughts and reminded me of the unrelenting pain, chilling me from deep within. However, that night was different. I fell to sleep peacefully, feeling warm and comfortable between my sheets. As I drifted into a deep sleep, the world of my sub-conscious began to unravel, I saw I bright light, no, a blinding light, a light that was pure and unearthly. As the light dimmed I stood before thundering, brass gates that opened in front of me beckoning me to enter. The gates were weaved with rich green vines that ended at each stalk with precious white flowers. I entered, passing through the gates, I felt immediately clean, as if I was shedding my misery and hopelessness and closing the gates behind me. As I ventured onwards, footsteps weightless, two angles appeared,
“The LORD has brought you here for reasons unknown to man, a great miracle is upon you”,
They harmonised. Then they disappeared.
“I must be in heaven”
I wept. It was more beautiful than any place I had ever been capable to imagine, it was pure and incomparable by earthly measure… oh it was grand. The grass overflowed in vast abundance of lush and seem to have no end, just like the sky, it consumed me in all its power, I felt small in this great, immortal world. I stood there, unable to move, overwhelmed by the depths of its beauty. Whenever I had thought of what heaven would look like, I had imagined entering and being greeted by loved ones who had passed, having my clothes swapped for robes and being able to fly without fear and have unlimited supply of fine wine and exotic fruit, however I saw no one, this place was not what I expected. As I stood in a field of lush green grass I wondered how GOD would make his entrance, I imagined him hovering in a great light, or walking on water or greeting me as he broke bread and divided fish, all great and mighty appearances. However my thoughts were interrupted as a man appeared in the distance, he was washing his face by the river. It was Jesus, GOD had sent himself to me in the form of his son Jesus Christ. The all mighty, all powerful Jesus was bathing himself like a peasant, humble and gracious. He turned to me calmly,
“Come sit with me my child”
His voice beckoned.
I timidly sat beside the son of GOD, the man who performed miracles with his hands, the one who died and rose again, the saviour of the world, I was afraid to look at him, ashamed of my sins, ashamed of my pathetic, immortal appearance. With his voice echoing among the trees, he said to me,
“My child look at me, do not be afraid, do not feel disheartened or discouraged for you are loved.”
He paused,
“You were fearfully and wonderfully made in the hands of God. Do not let worldly distractions inhabit your mind, do not be intrigued by strange, new things, separate yourself among the unbelievers and live your life according to the purpose I have for you”
I fell to the feet of Jesus as I wept uncontrollably,
“For I know the plans I have for you, they are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope... in those days when you pray I will listen, if you look for me wholeheartedly, you will find me.”
I woke, breathless, unable to fathom what I had just experienced. I had discovered heaven, I had met Jesus. I sat up in my bed, my sheets felt unfamiliar and unclean, those of my past life, I hurried to remove them from my mattress, certain not to let anything taint this new found inner peace. I danced and sung for joy as I cried jubilant tears, for I had been saved. I stood as tall as the trees I had sat beneath in Heaven and my tears ran like the water Jesus used to wash his face.
I swept my curtains open, letting the light of day flood my room just as Jesus had once flooded the earth, and I was in the arc, I safe. I fell to my knees as did before Jesus in Heaven,
“Thank you Lord! I am a new person; you have filled the hole in my heart, a new life has begun! Although I was lost, you never forgot me.”
“Yet what we suffer now
is nothing compared to the glory
he will reveal to us later.”
- Romans 8:18
I felt as if there was a hole in my heart. I did not feel content nor complete nor truly happy. I think adding some commas before each "nor" will really break up the sentence so that the negation becomes more clear in each unique way. Yes, I laughed and smiled politely but the immense pain would not pass. Each day was like a throbbing headache. I slipped so easily into a mood that would chain me down, forcing me to remember the lingering pain. I found myself desperately trying to find a way to express how I was feeling and how I could possibly find peace in my situation. This speaks to me as an opportunity for some imagery, like a metaphor. Consider changing "situation" for something that be a metaphor, like peace in chaos, peace in crisis, peace in turmoil, etc. Maybe a metaphor isn't the right word, maybe you need an oxymoron in a way. This is just a super small suggestion, it won't impact on the way discovery is perceived. Little things like this add up to the integrity of the writing as a whole. It was hard to explain, again and again I filled the gap with temporary happiness longing to find a way out of the dark hole. It seemed like these years of life were all I had ever dreamed of as an innocent, unknowing child, being a teenager was supposed to be exhilarating and dangerous and memorable for all the right reasons, but I felt trapped and dejected, I was weak and unable to think for myself, this was not what I had expected. This last sentence is quite long, consider rephrasing. I felt as though every fibre of strength and willingness I once had had fled and taken refuge in a body that was thriving and healthy. I found myself turning to material possessions that I hoped could close the gap between my current state and where I wished I was. Every day I woke wondering what I could do to regain a happy spirit and rediscover myself once again. I felt lost and forgotten.
I turned the radio on to help me escape my unrelenting thoughts.
Channel 104.1: “Justin Bieber’s nude photos leaked on Instagram! Did you get a sneak peek?!”
Channel 96.9: “Ring us up and tell us your dirtiest secret to go in the draw to win one thousand dollars’ cash!!”
Channel 103.2: “…Amen, I would now like to leave you with my favourite verse out of the book of Romans, Romans 10:9-10: If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is LORD and believe in your heart the GOD raised him from the dead, you will be saved, anyone who trusts in him will never be disgraced.”
For some reason that was unknown to me in that moment, hearing that verse brought a tear to my eye Brought a tear to my eye - this is a cliche. Try to avoid talking about tears, and talk about shivering, or a heavy feeling pulling at the tendons behind the eye ball, or and an uneasy yet ever so reassuring feeling to the pit of my stomach that had been numb for so long. I did not know it then, but that very moment was the beginning of my rediscovery of self through GOD himself and the day I would discover Heaven for the very first time. I like where this is going!
That night as I was immersing myself in reality television to take my mind off my own unfortunate reality, the clock struck 11:00pm *tick tock*, my que to take myself off to bed and sleep my way into another day that would be just as numb and lifeless as the one before that. Sleep was bitter-sweet for me, my crisp sheets enclosed me and warmed my skin but the dead silence exposed my echoing thoughts and reminded me of the unrelenting pain, chilling me from deep within. However, that night was different. I fell to sleep peacefully, feeling warm and comfortable between my sheets. As I drifted into a deep sleep, the world of my sub-conscious began to unravel, I saw I bright light, no, a blinding light, a light that was pure and unearthly. As the light dimmed I stood before thundering, brass gates that opened in front of me beckoning me to enter. The gates were weaved with rich green vines that ended at each stalk with precious white flowers. I entered, passing through the gates, I felt immediately clean, as if I was shedding my misery and hopelessness and closing the gates behind me. As I ventured onwards, footsteps weightless, two angles appeared,
“The LORD has brought you here for reasons unknown to man, a great miracle is upon you”,
They harmonised. Then they disappeared.
“I must be in heaven”
I wept. It was more beautiful than any place I had ever been capable to imagine, it was pure and incomparable by earthly measure… oh it was grand. The grass overflowed in vast abundance of lush and seem to have no end, just like the sky, it consumed me in all its power, I felt small in this great, immortal world. I stood there, unable to move, overwhelmed by the depths of its beauty. Whenever I had thought of what heaven would look like, I had imagined entering and being greeted by loved ones who had passed, having my clothes swapped for robes and being able to fly without fear and have unlimited supply of fine wine and exotic fruit, however I saw no one, this place was not what I expected. As I stood in a field of lush green grass I wondered how GOD would make his entrance, I imagined him hovering in a great light, or walking on water or greeting me as he broke bread and divided fish, all great and mighty appearances. However my thoughts were interrupted as a man appeared in the distance, he was washing his face by the river. It was Jesus, GOD had sent himself to me in the form of his son Jesus Christ. The all mighty, all powerful Jesus was bathing himself like a peasant, humble and gracious. He turned to me calmly,
“Come sit with me my child”
His voice beckoned.
I timidly sat beside the son of GOD, the man who performed miracles with his hands, the one who died and rose again, the saviour of the world, I was afraid to look at him, ashamed of my sins, ashamed of my pathetic, immortal appearance. With his voice echoing among the trees, he said to me,
“My child look at me, do not be afraid, do not feel disheartened or discouraged for you are loved.”
He paused,
“You were fearfully and wonderfully made in the hands of God. Do not let worldly distractions inhabit your mind, do not be intrigued by strange, new things, separate yourself among the unbelievers and live your life according to the purpose I have for you”
I fell to the feet of Jesus as I wept uncontrollably,
“For I know the plans I have for you, they are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope... in those days when you pray I will listen, if you look for me wholeheartedly, you will find me.”
I woke, breathless, unable to fathom what I had just experienced. I had discovered heaven, I had met Jesus. I sat up in my bed, my sheets felt unfamiliar and unclean, those of my past life, I hurried to remove them from my mattress, certain not to let anything taint this new found inner peace. I danced and sung for joy as I cried jubilant tears, for I had been saved. I stood as tall as the trees I had sat beneath in Heaven and my tears ran like the water Jesus used to wash his face.
I swept my curtains open, letting the light of day flood my room just as Jesus had once flooded the earth, and I was in the arc, I safe. I fell to my knees as did before Jesus in Heaven,
“Thank you Lord! I am a new person; you have filled the hole in my heart, a new life has begun! Although I was lost, you never forgot me.”
I didn't comment much on the last section for a number of reasons. Basically, I want to talk about your story as a whole, looking at the plot overview specifically, rather than focusing on sentences individually.
Spiritual discovery is overlooked by most students. Or, if not overlooked, ignored. Which is really dangerous considering it is a definite feature of the rubric. Here, I think you've covered spiritual, physical and emotional discoveries.
It's sometimes scary to hear feedback on your plot because it means huge structural changes, but I think it is important to embrace proposed ideas, even if they are substantially suggesting moving away from the current direction. The magic in your piece happens when the radio is turned on. Starting your piece with the quote from Romans is a great idea. It is cryptic, but strong, and isolated, and very sophisticated. I want to see that kind of artful manipulation of form throughout. Moving from the sophisticated epilogue to a lot of reflection over a depressed life was a bit of a let down, because you've shown your capability as a writer to take on form, and then we've fallen into a basic way of describing life. I think you could enhance your work by shortening the start bit. I think we should cut out anything that is typical of this kind of reflection, like wishing teenage years were different, comparing innocence to reality, and the high modality words of desperation. Instead, we want to leave the bare bones of the argument, then flesh them out with some really succinct imagery. Try to describe this in a really raw way. So rather than being loaded with emotion, we want to be raw. The reason for this is, the character claims they can't put these feelings into words, but then the character spends a lot of words talking about how they feel. Whereas, I tend to think, a character feeling these incredibly intense emotions, would be able to summarise it in very few words. Not because the emotions aren't complicated, but because the energy to try and describe it is stripped of them. Maybe we could talk about driving blindly through the day, and getting to the end of the day and not being able to remember what happened between recess and lunch. Or, reading three chapters of the book and still not being able to recall the protagonist's name. This is the kind of thing I think responds to the character you are creating. You're creating a character that has no direction, and is essentially empty, waiting to be filled by the spirit. So you want to remove the character of all drive, including the drive to describe feelings. You want them to be vacuous. This will help with the word count too!
Then, I think we can keep the end part as is, but enhance the writing. The Bible is incredibly charged with imagery, connotations, links to other sections of the Bible, etc. There are so many symbols that you could use in your own work with a double meaning - a Christian meaning and a meaning for the individual's life. Imagery that relates to the Pentecostal flame, or the Baptismal font, or the green garments worn by a priest in ordinary time - all of that will weave integrity through your work. Those small allusions will link to the initial epigraph and will enhance your work a lot.
In terms of the Heaven meeting: You decide if you think this is the best option. It works, but I'm left curious. Did she or he momentarily die and see Heaven? Or was it a very powerful dream? Because the next day paragraph is awesome. Starting fresh, filled with Jesus, (good spot for an allusion), and the discovery is made clear. So you decide if you want the character to actually die and see Heaven, or if they had a divine intervention in a dream, or was it an apparition? Apparitions are incredibly interesting. My aunty claims she had an apparition once of the Virgin Mary. You should have a google around apparitions if you haven't already, and people will describe their apparitions, which may be useful for adding authenticity to your story. As a writer, I'd be more comfortable following the idea of an apparition, just because it is Earth-bound, and I'm more comfortable writing about this realm of life. If you're daring and confident, then sure, take it to the transcendent level. As a writer myself, I'm more comfortable writing about Earth with interventions of the transcendent, rather than describing a scene from the transcendent. Also to think about: How do you think Heaven is? Do you want to move away from the idea of it being pearly white, or do you want to stay with that notion to make sure it is clear that it is in fact, Heaven? I think that this section here, the potential of changing the visit to Heaven to an apparition, will fix that "figurative language lacking" section that your teacher commented on.
I've given you a lot to think about, I think! You're writing is there, it's just looking to be enhanced. The easiest things to fix are the boring things, like grammar. But you've got that down pat, right now you should be re-evaluating your plot, and making sure that the discovery is accessible for a marker from any walk of life to experience what is a very powerful spiritual discovery. When you re-assess the plot, it is a big task and seems interminable. But constantly adjust, then put it away, and look with fresh eyes, and get some opinions!
Let me know if you need any more help, or if you have any questions! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 12:55:48 pm
I posted my essay just now but i attached the document instead of copy and paste idk if it matters? haha
i said in my last post that i got 4/7 for my creative and was underwhelmed by not only my mark but the comments from my teacher, which was "the use of spiritual discovery is an interesting one however the lack of figurative language did not add depth" i would love it if you could give me some more constructive and useful comments! thank you xxx
I just wrote almost as much as you did for your creative in feedback! Sorry, I didn't realise that was going to be so intense! Feel free to flesh anything out if I rambled :) :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 02:33:01 pm
Hi,
I would be eternally grateful if you would please take a look at my creative and give some feedback.
It has been an arduous task trying to write it and have been struggling for ages with it.
Could you check to see that the story makes sense and fulfils the rubric. Also I'm concerned with the length, but not sure what parts of it to cull. If you also had some ideas on how to adapt it to other questions or stimuli, I would greatly appreciate it.
Thank you so much! :)
Hello! Thank you for both your patience and you're beautiful manners! You're so kind. The struggle for a creative is real. Some days you'll only manage to write a sentence and other times you'll write two paragraphs and realise the entire thing is crap and you want to start all over. I totally empathise! I will have a look at all of the above points you've raised :)
In the spoiler here is your work, with my comments in bold:
Spoiler
The old door groans as I push against it; its ancient hinges barely surviving the mundane task of opening. Dark stains appear where I stand, the rain on my robes, dripping onto the wood beneath. My hand steadily holds the brass doorknob that burns me with its icy touch. Inside the church, my eyes struggle to see clearly but instantly focus when fluorescent shards of glass plummet towards the already shattered tabernacle, like a bird that is casually hunted and falls screaming to the floor. I think this sentence is PACKED with imagery. Here's my thought process: Ok inside a Church, can't see properly, can see stained glass window, the reflection is on the tabernacle, oh the tabernacle is broken, i don't know why that is, then enter a bird. I think each of these ideas is powerful on its own and deserves some breaking up. If the tabernacle is broken, perhaps it is because it is abandoned or old? In which case, I'd be more likely to suggest the smell of dust rather than not being able to see clearly, just because it is still showing and not telling, but it is a little bit more clear to a reader. Looking upwards, I sharply inhale the stale air, looking at the once illustrious stained glass window, that men and girls flocked to like moths. But is now fractured and cracked; ensuring no light of God shines through. In the centre of the window stands Archangel Michael, the soldier of heaven and leader of God’s angel army, who looks down shamefully, at the grotesque parade in front of him.
The church that I’ve called home for so long, now feels freakishly foreign. Familiar pews and familiar statues lay shattered and scattered; strewn across the floor in an unfamiliar fashion. Woven through the labyrinth and mountains of chairs, lie pieces of bodies; unmoving, as if they were toy soldiers waiting to be played with. oh wow...toy soldiers waiting to be played with. amazing.
I try to move. I try to scream. But I am paralysed by the gory sight of corpses that compel my gaze like Medusa. Everywhere I look, the corpses scream pain; their volume grows with the sight of fragments of flesh that are splattered all over the pews.I finally scream at the sight of a single, detached arm; its fingers outstretched towards the heavens like a sunflower bending towards the sun. Blood drips from the gruesome joint, flowing over the exposed flesh and bone, onto the unrecognisable face of its owner three metres beneath him, who is impaled by a cross that drips with blood. Flailing like a bird with a broken wing, I claw at my neck which has closed itself as if the rosary beads on my neck was a serpent coiling itself tighter and tighter.
What I love about the work at this point is the way that worlds are colliding. There is so much devastation in a building supposed to be a safe house. There's so much death in an Institution that endorses peace.
My thoughts loud and unnerving, yell at me, reverberating in my ears, “This war for ‘independence’ is just a foolish pursuit that will end in death.” If you want to keep this in quotation marks, I think you should enhance its isolation by making this sentence its own line. The broken icons of my faith become blurrier, “How horrific is this scene around me, caused by the war that I once thought would save us. How stupid of me. War is merciless in the torture it inflicts, trapping those who fight for freedom in a prison of death.” I think you're telling too much here and not so much showing. Basically, I am getting the feeling from the imagery and your writing that this was a cause that your narrator believed in, and now they realise the devastation. When you used that internal dialogue, it was confirmed in a very blatant way. I think you could instead not use dialogue, and instead keep it internalised in the narrator's voice, rather than putting it in quotation marks, it's too obvious like that, and you're writing is beautifully delicate. I scorn myself for commending those fighting for Italia’s unification; when Napoleon is just a ring leader, delivering us to evil, intentionally leading his army to the slaughter. This is what I mean, you've just done it! Saying the thoughts of the narrator, but not making them "dialogue."“Unlike the war in Heaven, this second war for independence will only cause death and destroy our nation. Why should we sacrifice our soldiers, our nurses, our children; to the gruesome grasp of war?” ** I'm doing this here so I will comment on it at the end :)
Falling to my knees, I stare at the broken stained glass window above. Archangel Michael’s forlorn expression compels my gaze. The rain outside attacks the window, falling through the cracks and holes as if the angel is crying. Incredibly powerful!!!
***
“Congratulations Sister Maria! We are proud to welcome you as a nun” Father Antonio exclaimed, his jubilance shone inextricably across his face. Luminous beams shined through the stained glass window, and projected a kaleidoscope of colours on the insides of the church. The angel Michael stands within the window, he seemed to comfortingly smile down on me.
***
Looking at this same window, no comfort comes. Only dread. The memory of my perpetual profession of vows, when I first became a nun, comes flooding back to me, denying any other thoughts. “As a vowed nun, I will continue my growth and development of ministerial, personal and communal life of a sister” the words I once profoundly professed are muttered with disgust, “I will embark on a life of chastity, poverty and benevolence; endeavouring to address all injustices of the world.”
My eyes drift to the once pristine altar, which is now tarnished with streaks of crimson that stain its ornate design. An Austrian soldier lies on top, limbs dangling over the sides of his crucifix. His crown of thorns, marked with an Austrian military symbol is barely held together by the single strap that is fraying at the edges. Staring into his pained eyes, the undeniable look of suffering is branded upon his face as if he was now a possession of death. This same familiar expression is sewn on every toy soldier’s face inside the church.
Scrupulously staring at each soldier’s face, I am overwhelmed by this same expression of suffering. How hadn’t I noticed this before? Darkness appears when I close my eyes, screaming out even though nobody will hear. Constant thoughtspermeateto much of a calculated word for this organic thought process, in my opinion. Try finding a synonym that's less sophisticated/calculated, etc my mind, “How could God allow this to happen? If he is our protector, why has he brought this fate upon us?” I stand, trembling in confusion. “I don’t understand; we preach God’s will and those who follow it are all rewarded with death.” Praying for help, safety or guidance seems naïve like a child’s ignorant and optimistic dream. Another shard crashes onto the scorched statue of the crucifix, knocking it off its podium and shattering on the floor, billowing through the hallowed halls. “A God of any religion would not inflict this kind of fate onto his people” I firmly speak out loud, to myself as I stare into the eyes of the Austrian soldier.
Defiantly walking towards the door, I eagerly rip off my habit and toss it liberatingly over the Austrian soldier. My robes fall off easily and fall in a crumpled heap, slowly sagging next to the disfigured face of a man. Statues and corpses all in random piles attempt to block my path, but are easily overcome, falling to rubble when stepped on. I turn and stare at the horrific sight in front of me, looking at my beloved stained glass window. Michael’s figure is barely recognisable from the holes and cracks; but he seems to solemnly smile with his arms in the same outstretched pose. A faint breeze carries with it the delicate scent of daffodils that lure me outside into the reassuring sun.
The church that I’ve called home for so long, now feels freakishly foreign. Familiar pews and familiar statues lay shattered and scattered; strewn across the floor in an unfamiliar fashion. Woven through the labyrinth and mountains of chairs, lie pieces of bodies; unmoving, as if they were toy soldiers waiting to be played with. oh wow...toy soldiers waiting to be played with. amazing.
I try to move. I try to scream. But I am paralysed by the gory sight of corpses that compel my gaze like Medusa. Everywhere I look, the corpses scream pain; their volume grows with the sight of fragments of flesh that are splattered all over the pews.I finally scream at the sight of a single, detached arm; its fingers outstretched towards the heavens like a sunflower bending towards the sun. Blood drips from the gruesome joint, flowing over the exposed flesh and bone, onto the unrecognisable face of its owner three metres beneath him, who is impaled by a cross that drips with blood. Flailing like a bird with a broken wing, I claw at my neck which has closed itself as if the rosary beads on my neck was a serpent coiling itself tighter and tighter.
What I love about the work at this point is the way that worlds are colliding. There is so much devastation in a building supposed to be a safe house. There's so much death in an Institution that endorses peace.
My thoughts loud and unnerving, yell at me, reverberating in my ears, “This war for ‘independence’ is just a foolish pursuit that will end in death.” If you want to keep this in quotation marks, I think you should enhance its isolation by making this sentence its own line. The broken icons of my faith become blurrier, “How horrific is this scene around me, caused by the war that I once thought would save us. How stupid of me. War is merciless in the torture it inflicts, trapping those who fight for freedom in a prison of death.” I think you're telling too much here and not so much showing. Basically, I am getting the feeling from the imagery and your writing that this was a cause that your narrator believed in, and now they realise the devastation. When you used that internal dialogue, it was confirmed in a very blatant way. I think you could instead not use dialogue, and instead keep it internalised in the narrator's voice, rather than putting it in quotation marks, it's too obvious like that, and you're writing is beautifully delicate. I scorn myself for commending those fighting for Italia’s unification; when Napoleon is just a ring leader, delivering us to evil, intentionally leading his army to the slaughter. This is what I mean, you've just done it! Saying the thoughts of the narrator, but not making them "dialogue."“Unlike the war in Heaven, this second war for independence will only cause death and destroy our nation. Why should we sacrifice our soldiers, our nurses, our children; to the gruesome grasp of war?” ** I'm doing this here so I will comment on it at the end :)
Falling to my knees, I stare at the broken stained glass window above. Archangel Michael’s forlorn expression compels my gaze. The rain outside attacks the window, falling through the cracks and holes as if the angel is crying. Incredibly powerful!!!
***
“Congratulations Sister Maria! We are proud to welcome you as a nun” Father Antonio exclaimed, his jubilance shone inextricably across his face. Luminous beams shined through the stained glass window, and projected a kaleidoscope of colours on the insides of the church. The angel Michael stands within the window, he seemed to comfortingly smile down on me.
***
Looking at this same window, no comfort comes. Only dread. The memory of my perpetual profession of vows, when I first became a nun, comes flooding back to me, denying any other thoughts. “As a vowed nun, I will continue my growth and development of ministerial, personal and communal life of a sister” the words I once profoundly professed are muttered with disgust, “I will embark on a life of chastity, poverty and benevolence; endeavouring to address all injustices of the world.”
My eyes drift to the once pristine altar, which is now tarnished with streaks of crimson that stain its ornate design. An Austrian soldier lies on top, limbs dangling over the sides of his crucifix. His crown of thorns, marked with an Austrian military symbol is barely held together by the single strap that is fraying at the edges. Staring into his pained eyes, the undeniable look of suffering is branded upon his face as if he was now a possession of death. This same familiar expression is sewn on every toy soldier’s face inside the church.
Scrupulously staring at each soldier’s face, I am overwhelmed by this same expression of suffering. How hadn’t I noticed this before? Darkness appears when I close my eyes, screaming out even though nobody will hear. Constant thoughts
Defiantly walking towards the door, I eagerly rip off my habit and toss it liberatingly over the Austrian soldier. My robes fall off easily and fall in a crumpled heap, slowly sagging next to the disfigured face of a man. Statues and corpses all in random piles attempt to block my path, but are easily overcome, falling to rubble when stepped on. I turn and stare at the horrific sight in front of me, looking at my beloved stained glass window. Michael’s figure is barely recognisable from the holes and cracks; but he seems to solemnly smile with his arms in the same outstretched pose. A faint breeze carries with it the delicate scent of daffodils that lure me outside into the reassuring sun.
** What I want to talk about specifically is your use of quotation marks. It is like your narrator is making a distinction between themselves and their feelings, and the voice in their head. The quotation marks seem awkward to me in most circumstances, because the first person carries over between the quotation marks and the normal narration, so it is hard to distinguish the need for the quotation marks. If you think it is important to keep it in the quotes, then just drop a line and leave it in isolation, just so it is known to the reader that this is a different voice than the usual narration.
I think the work here is wonderful It definitely makes sense. I think, what can be improved, is the start. And the start is not bad, by any means, but if you go back and adjust the start, with the end in mind, you'll be able to create more of a circular structure. So, some more hinting towards the role of the woman as a nun is important. I'm also wanting to know if every dead person is a soldier or a citizen? or a combination? Could you maybe bring in some imagery about statues and people lying in the rubble together? I think you could create a wonderful metaphor by doing this. So if you bring up that statues of saints and what not are laying on the ground in the rubble amongst the dead people at the start, and then at the end, you bring up some kind of notion rejecting Christianity, like, that Saints or idols in the faith are admired for their transcendence, but an act of war means that all their mightiness can be cancelled in seconds, and the things we look to for guidance in a time of need, are what comes tumbling down with us and ends up in a rubbled heap when things get really tough. If you want to go down the path of complete rejection of the false hope that Christianity provides, then you can do this. This realisation at the end will mean that the scenery becomes a metaphor, the discovery will be enhanced, and the rejection of the nun's garments will be enhanced in symbolism. Does this make any sense at all? I kind of think this is the most brilliant way to add an extra level to your work, for not a lot of effort.
Spiritually, emotionally, and to some extent, physically, this ex-nun discovered. So you're ticking a lot of the rubric. I want to know what brought the nun to the church, and how fresh the chaos was? Could she perhaps smell the gun powder? Or is some blood still moist? Or is this very retrospective? That kind of detail has the potential to make a discovery very fresh or very pensive.
In terms of length, I think you could actually cut out the part where the nun takes the vows, or that flashback to being a nun. The reason being, when you talk about her taking off her garments at the end, as long as you do it in a very distinguished way, the reader will have a "ohhh!" moment in the climax of the story, which works in your favour in terms of engagement. So that will cut out about 150-200 words I think!
The only thing I'm thinking of that may be suggested in the rubric that you don't cover - is that discovery may be planned. I think you'd need to add something at the very beginning to discuss the planned nature of her returning to the Church. What do you think you'd do in that situation?
All the best! Let me know if you want to question something or flesh out an idea more :) You should be proud of this work!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 04:34:17 pm
Hi i was wondering if you could look at my creative (hopefully i can qualify) i wasn't sure about whether or not you can tell that there's a discovery and if it logically makes sense. It is Alice in Wonderland inspired I'm just a bit worried it sounds too much like the original. Thank you in advance :)
No problemo! Will take a look at this now :) My comments are in bold font, followed by a comment at the end :)
Spoiler
Time moves ever so slowly now that you’re gone. Why do bad things happen to good people? It’s just not fair! You were gone within a blink of an eye, At this point I want to raise two issues: You're using a cliche by talking about time moving slowly, particularly when its coupled with a questioning of why bad things happen to good people, and then being gone in a blink of an eye. Markers are looking from fresh, intensely meaningful, and unique descriptions - especially in the opening! Also, the "you're" brings the second person into play, which doesn't make a lot of sense when you bounce into the third person for the rest of the paragraph. Be consistent in your narrator's voice, except when you are artfully manipulating it. all Lauren could think about were those last words, “Take care of Cassie, I’m sorry I couldn’t be the mother she wanted me to be. I’m so proud of the young women that you and your sister have become.” This should be on its own line - because it is dialogue but also because it is so significant.As the casket slowly lowered into the ground, wet patches appeared on the ground where Lauren and Cassie had been standing. This was it, the last farewell. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. How could this happen? Lauren had always been there for her mother and spent her free time caring for her mother. Whilst Cassie struggled to understand what her mother had gone through both mentally and physically. As the clouds started to cover the rising moon Lauren and Cassie slowly started to categorise their mother’s possessions into three separate boxes: keep, donate and throw away.
Whilst cleaning Cassie tripped over a pile of books that were left scattered around a vintage bookshelf. “What does this mean?” Cassie said, as all the words and diagrams that her mother had drawn didn’t seem to correlate with each other. There was an image of a small flute, next to an ever a never*ending rabbit hole. Did this show her mother’s love for interesting instruments? As Cassie carefully flicked through the pages of the journals she had found her mother’s adventures in Wonderland. The way Wonderland was described made it like a real place.
“I need to follow the white rabbit down the rabbit hole, he promised to take me to Wonderland”. Lauren was very concerned about her mother’s mentality as Wonderland doesn’t exist and is only a figment of Alice, her mother’s imagination. The sun in Wonderland would smile and radiate upon Alice creating an atmosphere of joy and happiness, it created a safe haven for Alice. She could no longer tell the differences between reality and imagination, it had engulfed her perception. She was lost in reality. Alice would always be writing or drawing in her journal, even if she was unable to do anything else.
Lauren knew her mother couldn’t be left alone so she enrolled to study her classes online to take care of her mother. At night her mother would be muttering words in her sleep, no doubt that Alice was dreaming about Wonderland. Every night during dinner Alice would be paranoid about whether or not the food she was about to eat would make her grow or make her shrink.
Red, the colour red can symbolise emotions as well as memories of constant hysteria. Alice would occasionally cry out “Oh no! She’s coming for me, off with my head, off with my head, oh! I’ve grown quite fond of my head, don’t let her get me Lauren!”. The constant paranoia was slowly eating her mother alive and Lauren had no way to help her mother’s antagonising pain.
As Cassie slowly continued to flick through the pages of her mother’s journal, she slowly understood her mother’s life and regretted not spending time with her. Alice drew a picture her cat, Dinah in the house she grew up in. Alice cared for Dinah as if Dinah was her child, Cassie had no idea that her mother loved animals and felt at ease when she was around them. There was a photograph of Lauren, Cassie and Alice huddled by a camp fire, and roasting marshmallows.
All the memories had been stored in this simple, worn out journal, memories could have been lost if Alice never wrote them down. The gradual ticking of the clock created a pathway for Cassie to understand what her mother has been through. The adventures of meeting a talking caterpillar that was inhaling hookah smoke and offered the worst advice with such a rude, concise tone.
“Hey Lauren, what does it mean when mum says: the white rabbit was a symbol of hope as he gave her a sense of adventure?”
“Well, Cassie think about how siblings talk to one another. Do they usually address one another by first name when they are responding?I remember mum telling me that she wanted to follow the white rabbit and how unusual it was to see a white rabbit with a golden pocket watch that glistened in the sunlight. All the adventure that she mentions is her time she had in Wonderland and all the wonderful things that she had encountered; I know it may seem like a ridiculous concept but mum really did believe that Wonderland existed. The only thing we can do is accept it. As for the symbol of hope part maybe Wonderland was her safe haven where she felt happy.”
Every entry from the journal were expressed in explicit details and one of the few phrases Alice would constantly repeat were “Follow the White Rabbit”. Cassie kept reading every journal entry and all she could see was an extended message of hope, live life like it was an adventure and dreaming big. Slowly, elements of Lauren’s and Cassie’s childhood was incorporating within the journal. Memories were all captured and became a part of her history, from the moments of laughter and joy. There was even a letter that Cassie wrote for her mother telling her that she had made her first friend, how they would play in the garden pretending to be fairies.
Cassie’s heart starting to beat in time with the ongoing metronome in the background, she was almost at the end of the journal. Just one more page and it would be over. There was a small yet complicated picture in the bottom left hand corner of a small key hidden underneath a box, the same box that Cassie had in her room. As if it was second nature, Cassie bolted into to her room to find the key that her mother had drawn hoping that it would answer her questions. There it was, the key it was right where her mother had drawn it. She slowly placed the key into the box and kept turning the key until she heard a tiny click. There lying on the bottom of the box was a perfectly engraved golden pocket watch with a note attached reading “I’m late”.
Whilst cleaning Cassie tripped over a pile of books that were left scattered around a vintage bookshelf. “What does this mean?” Cassie said, as all the words and diagrams that her mother had drawn didn’t seem to correlate with each other. There was an image of a small flute, next to an ever a never*ending rabbit hole. Did this show her mother’s love for interesting instruments? As Cassie carefully flicked through the pages of the journals she had found her mother’s adventures in Wonderland. The way Wonderland was described made it like a real place.
“I need to follow the white rabbit down the rabbit hole, he promised to take me to Wonderland”. Lauren was very concerned about her mother’s mentality as Wonderland doesn’t exist and is only a figment of Alice, her mother’s imagination. The sun in Wonderland would smile and radiate upon Alice creating an atmosphere of joy and happiness, it created a safe haven for Alice. She could no longer tell the differences between reality and imagination, it had engulfed her perception. She was lost in reality. Alice would always be writing or drawing in her journal, even if she was unable to do anything else.
Lauren knew her mother couldn’t be left alone so she enrolled to study her classes online to take care of her mother. At night her mother would be muttering words in her sleep, no doubt that Alice was dreaming about Wonderland. Every night during dinner Alice would be paranoid about whether or not the food she was about to eat would make her grow or make her shrink.
Red, the colour red can symbolise emotions as well as memories of constant hysteria. Alice would occasionally cry out “Oh no! She’s coming for me, off with my head, off with my head, oh! I’ve grown quite fond of my head, don’t let her get me Lauren!”. The constant paranoia was slowly eating her mother alive and Lauren had no way to help her mother’s antagonising pain.
As Cassie slowly continued to flick through the pages of her mother’s journal, she slowly understood her mother’s life and regretted not spending time with her. Alice drew a picture her cat, Dinah in the house she grew up in. Alice cared for Dinah as if Dinah was her child, Cassie had no idea that her mother loved animals and felt at ease when she was around them. There was a photograph of Lauren, Cassie and Alice huddled by a camp fire, and roasting marshmallows.
All the memories had been stored in this simple, worn out journal, memories could have been lost if Alice never wrote them down. The gradual ticking of the clock created a pathway for Cassie to understand what her mother has been through. The adventures of meeting a talking caterpillar that was inhaling hookah smoke and offered the worst advice with such a rude, concise tone.
“Hey Lauren, what does it mean when mum says: the white rabbit was a symbol of hope as he gave her a sense of adventure?”
“Well, Cassie think about how siblings talk to one another. Do they usually address one another by first name when they are responding?I remember mum telling me that she wanted to follow the white rabbit and how unusual it was to see a white rabbit with a golden pocket watch that glistened in the sunlight. All the adventure that she mentions is her time she had in Wonderland and all the wonderful things that she had encountered; I know it may seem like a ridiculous concept but mum really did believe that Wonderland existed. The only thing we can do is accept it. As for the symbol of hope part maybe Wonderland was her safe haven where she felt happy.”
Every entry from the journal were expressed in explicit details and one of the few phrases Alice would constantly repeat were “Follow the White Rabbit”. Cassie kept reading every journal entry and all she could see was an extended message of hope, live life like it was an adventure and dreaming big. Slowly, elements of Lauren’s and Cassie’s childhood was incorporating within the journal. Memories were all captured and became a part of her history, from the moments of laughter and joy. There was even a letter that Cassie wrote for her mother telling her that she had made her first friend, how they would play in the garden pretending to be fairies.
Cassie’s heart starting to beat in time with the ongoing metronome in the background, she was almost at the end of the journal. Just one more page and it would be over. There was a small yet complicated picture in the bottom left hand corner of a small key hidden underneath a box, the same box that Cassie had in her room. As if it was second nature, Cassie bolted into to her room to find the key that her mother had drawn hoping that it would answer her questions. There it was, the key it was right where her mother had drawn it. She slowly placed the key into the box and kept turning the key until she heard a tiny click. There lying on the bottom of the box was a perfectly engraved golden pocket watch with a note attached reading “I’m late”.
I haven't commented a lot throughout, because I want to respond to the plot as a whole rather than by focusing on specific sentences in the later part of the story. I think the parallels between Alice and Wonderland and your own are very strong, and I don't know that it works in your favour. It's not as though you're alluding to the text, it's as though you've hybridised your own story with the classic story. Together, some parts of the story seem unnecessary because I'm not understanding the connections between aspects of the plot. Is your mother the writer of the original Alice in Wonderland? Or was she a big fan of the story? The part at the beginning about mother saying things about how proud she is, as her last words, doesn't tie in at all to the rest of the story later on. It's just adding emotion to the start of the story for the purpose of emotion.
So, my suggestion is:
Perhaps the two sisters start going through the mother's stuff after death, and realise her obsession with Alice in Wonderland. Not so much in the form of a diary entry, although that still works, but perhaps finding out she has movie stubbs, merchandise, the original book, the DVDs, the cassettes, etc, all collected. And maybe it could be revealed that the mother actually suffered a depression that could only be released through Alice in Wonderland. Or perhaps the mother was in an unhappy marriage, or just a rut in life, and her escape was Alice in Wonderland. This was, the girls make a physical discovery about her mother's obsession, but also a more emotional discovery about their own mother's existence.
Your writing is great. The ideas are there and you don't repeat yourself or anything mundane like that. It's not just about getting the plot on track and then going from there! I hope you don't mind my suggestions! If you want to ask any questions, please do!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 05:59:04 pm
Hi,
Could you please have a look at my creative :) the main thing I am struggling with is making my discovery concept clear but not too obvious :( some suggestions would be awesome!
Cheers heaps
Heya!
Will take a look at this now :) My comments are in bold throughout, although I've been tending to not write much throughout and instead a big comment at the end, so we'll see what I do this time :P
Spoiler
You raised your head a little, and observed the opaque and timeworn sky, painted by Nyx herself. Interesting use of the second person! I'm engaged.
The tiny sparkly specks beckoned you. For you were curious; curious about the wisdom they embodied, the reality they concealed, and the mystery they evoked. But in a way, they were like beacons of hope for all the lost souls of the world, including you.
Gentle breezes swished across the treetops and burned your face. The soil was damp from yesterday’s rain; a ladder penetrated into its flesh and explored depths never reached before. Its rusty rungs were marked by moist and muddy footprints, left behind by your Converses.
Stars, I have seen them fall,
But when they drop and die
No star is lost at all
From all the star-sown sky…
― A.E. Housman
“Mum! Hurry up!” You grasped the rungs of the brand new ladder and banged them impatiently against the brick wall. Fall’s sweet breath embraced the sleepy land. Beams of moonlight kissed outstretched wings, bound for warmer shores, whilst fruits harkened to those that stayed. In the darkness of the autumn night, summer petals curled delicately into the earth and the crisp metallic clank echoed. Your writing is beautiful.
“Sh, sweet heart, you will disturb the neighbours.” Her brows creased, and she pursed her lips together. Her thick jet-black hair danced freely in the evening breeze, cascading down her delicate cheeks like midnight waves on a sandy beach. She casually tucked away a strand behind her ears, while the lingering rays from the lamp shone upon the profile of her face.
“Nice weather for star-viewing, isn’t it?” She stroked the baby hair from your forehead and corrected the parting of your fringe. “Be careful, off you go.” She patted your back.
The ladder squeaked under your weight; you bit your lips hard, after all, you were just a little girl. A moth was circling around your head, flapping its wings, and its antennas were twitching like miniature feathers. Its perky brown colour merged perfectly with the night, but you could still hear quiet fluttering, seeking, and searching. Mum supported the rails and you felt more secure and at ease. Step by step, you moved up, your childish heart pounded with eager and excitement. The higher you went, the more you could see. You were getting closer to the end.
However, the ladder seemed to go on forever, pointing towards emptiness. Your heart beat slower under the glare of the moon. Your fingers trembled and your nails made clinking sounds on the metal. The metal was warm from your touch and droplets of sweat appeared on your palm. You held onto the rung tighter than ever, until your arms tensed up and your elbows and knuckles popped out. The moth had returned and landed softly on your shoulder, tickling your ear as it gave its papery wings a shake. You could smell the fresh earth from its feet. It wiggled, curling up its skinny abdomen, and panted in exhaustion. But it had a mission, and that meant hard work. Taking off, again, into unknown space; it left behind a few specks of pollen on your t-shirt from some place faraway.
You followed its lead. It soared upwards with a reddish hue and on its rear wing was a dark circle, like an eye, watching tentatively. At last, your palm touched the dusty planks. You hoisted yourself up, wiped your hands on your jeans and relaxed your muscles. The fragrance of dust and air had never been so apparent. “Mum, your turn!” Dialogue needs a new line :) The ladder wobbled in your grip, as it creaked and groaned under Mum’s weight.
You lay yourselves flat on the rooftop, head to head, and hip to hip. The stars were like a surreal blanket above your heads. You could feel mum’s pulse against your temple and her soft breaths against your cheek.
“Don’t you think we are like stars?” Mum pinched your nose, “We fall to make someone’s wish come true.” The maroon tiles rattled in the dark as she turned over…
The toil of all that be
Helps not the primal fault…
You felt the moist maroon tiles next to you; mould was crawling up the clay. You studied the empty seat, in its place, was your own swaying shadow.
Some people never come back.
You felt a raindrop against your skin, followed by several others, but you didn’t have the heart to go back inside. The deep gray clouds were gradually drawing a curtain over the silvery-blue stars. You moved over and sat on the edge of the roof, crossing one leg over the other. You leaned back on your palms to examine the remaining constellations uncovered from the clouds. The tiles didn’t feel the same, nor did the ladder and the stars. The moon hung full and hazy beneath an eclipse of blazing stars, allowing you to see the rooftops of your neighbours, identically bleak buildings surrounding your own. Your body was a fountain for the incoming rain. The water made your eyelids heavy. You closed your dull dark-brown eyes and a sigh passed through your parted lips as you did so, causing your breath to fog up before you. It obscured your vision, as you took in the feeling of wet, bruised skin.
I just want to let you know that at this point I am completely enthralled by your writing. You haven't used cliches, you have always found unique imagery, and every word is adequately chosen.
You thought about your mum…
And the star you shared burnt a little brighter.
It rains into the sea,
And still the sea is salt…
The tiny sparkly specks beckoned you. For you were curious; curious about the wisdom they embodied, the reality they concealed, and the mystery they evoked. But in a way, they were like beacons of hope for all the lost souls of the world, including you.
Gentle breezes swished across the treetops and burned your face. The soil was damp from yesterday’s rain; a ladder penetrated into its flesh and explored depths never reached before. Its rusty rungs were marked by moist and muddy footprints, left behind by your Converses.
Stars, I have seen them fall,
But when they drop and die
No star is lost at all
From all the star-sown sky…
― A.E. Housman
“Mum! Hurry up!” You grasped the rungs of the brand new ladder and banged them impatiently against the brick wall. Fall’s sweet breath embraced the sleepy land. Beams of moonlight kissed outstretched wings, bound for warmer shores, whilst fruits harkened to those that stayed. In the darkness of the autumn night, summer petals curled delicately into the earth and the crisp metallic clank echoed. Your writing is beautiful.
“Sh, sweet heart, you will disturb the neighbours.” Her brows creased, and she pursed her lips together. Her thick jet-black hair danced freely in the evening breeze, cascading down her delicate cheeks like midnight waves on a sandy beach. She casually tucked away a strand behind her ears, while the lingering rays from the lamp shone upon the profile of her face.
“Nice weather for star-viewing, isn’t it?” She stroked the baby hair from your forehead and corrected the parting of your fringe. “Be careful, off you go.” She patted your back.
The ladder squeaked under your weight; you bit your lips hard, after all, you were just a little girl. A moth was circling around your head, flapping its wings, and its antennas were twitching like miniature feathers. Its perky brown colour merged perfectly with the night, but you could still hear quiet fluttering, seeking, and searching. Mum supported the rails and you felt more secure and at ease. Step by step, you moved up, your childish heart pounded with eager and excitement. The higher you went, the more you could see. You were getting closer to the end.
However, the ladder seemed to go on forever, pointing towards emptiness. Your heart beat slower under the glare of the moon. Your fingers trembled and your nails made clinking sounds on the metal. The metal was warm from your touch and droplets of sweat appeared on your palm. You held onto the rung tighter than ever, until your arms tensed up and your elbows and knuckles popped out. The moth had returned and landed softly on your shoulder, tickling your ear as it gave its papery wings a shake. You could smell the fresh earth from its feet. It wiggled, curling up its skinny abdomen, and panted in exhaustion. But it had a mission, and that meant hard work. Taking off, again, into unknown space; it left behind a few specks of pollen on your t-shirt from some place faraway.
You followed its lead. It soared upwards with a reddish hue and on its rear wing was a dark circle, like an eye, watching tentatively. At last, your palm touched the dusty planks. You hoisted yourself up, wiped your hands on your jeans and relaxed your muscles. The fragrance of dust and air had never been so apparent. “Mum, your turn!” Dialogue needs a new line :) The ladder wobbled in your grip, as it creaked and groaned under Mum’s weight.
You lay yourselves flat on the rooftop, head to head, and hip to hip. The stars were like a surreal blanket above your heads. You could feel mum’s pulse against your temple and her soft breaths against your cheek.
“Don’t you think we are like stars?” Mum pinched your nose, “We fall to make someone’s wish come true.” The maroon tiles rattled in the dark as she turned over…
The toil of all that be
Helps not the primal fault…
You felt the moist maroon tiles next to you; mould was crawling up the clay. You studied the empty seat, in its place, was your own swaying shadow.
Some people never come back.
You felt a raindrop against your skin, followed by several others, but you didn’t have the heart to go back inside. The deep gray clouds were gradually drawing a curtain over the silvery-blue stars. You moved over and sat on the edge of the roof, crossing one leg over the other. You leaned back on your palms to examine the remaining constellations uncovered from the clouds. The tiles didn’t feel the same, nor did the ladder and the stars. The moon hung full and hazy beneath an eclipse of blazing stars, allowing you to see the rooftops of your neighbours, identically bleak buildings surrounding your own. Your body was a fountain for the incoming rain. The water made your eyelids heavy. You closed your dull dark-brown eyes and a sigh passed through your parted lips as you did so, causing your breath to fog up before you. It obscured your vision, as you took in the feeling of wet, bruised skin.
I just want to let you know that at this point I am completely enthralled by your writing. You haven't used cliches, you have always found unique imagery, and every word is adequately chosen.
You thought about your mum…
And the star you shared burnt a little brighter.
It rains into the sea,
And still the sea is salt…
I think your writing is beautiful. You write so eloquently. You discuss the parts of life considered so small, and bring it to literary life. The use of the second person is very interesting and I think it works really well. I have a suggestion, and it's not something I'm 100% saying is the best thing for you, just because I want to let you decide. Do you think that you should change tense when I think about my mum? Like, when you prompt me, to think about my mum haha. My story mum. I think that can be the volta, the moment where it shifts in both tense and emotion. Just a suggestion :)
In terms of discovery, this is what I pick up:
-The reader makes a discovery about the relationship between the two characters.
-There is the spiritual/emotional and physical discovery that the mum has never left, and she lingers in the sky.
What confuses me is the fragmented quote that connects the first and second part, and also introduces and concludes the poem. Maybe it is a really famous quote and I'm just totally missing the point? I don't know. But right now it's just not speaking to me. Which is a shame, because I love when people get creative with their form.
Ok back to discovery: I think you can be more obvious. It is a fine line, I know! but truly, it is left very much so open to interpretation right now, which can be hit or miss.
Perhaps you can make a greater distinction of time elapsing between the first and second half of the story? I imagined the protagonist to be the same age in both parts, but I think that having a little son or daughter spending time with mum, compared to a teenager without a mum, is a very powerful comparison to consider.
When you wrote this, what is the discovery you targeted? I might be able to give you some suggestions on how to channel that specifically.
You should be very pleased with your writing ability!
Post by: Aliceyyy98 on July 26, 2016, 06:05:28 pm
Heya!
Will take a look at this now :) My comments are in bold throughout, although I've been tending to not write much throughout and instead a big comment at the end, so we'll see what I do this time :PSpoilerYou raised your head a little, and observed the opaque and timeworn sky, painted by Nyx herself. Interesting use of the second person! I'm engaged.
The tiny sparkly specks beckoned you. For you were curious; curious about the wisdom they embodied, the reality they concealed, and the mystery they evoked. But in a way, they were like beacons of hope for all the lost souls of the world, including you.
Gentle breezes swished across the treetops and burned your face. The soil was damp from yesterday’s rain; a ladder penetrated into its flesh and explored depths never reached before. Its rusty rungs were marked by moist and muddy footprints, left behind by your Converses.
Stars, I have seen them fall,
But when they drop and die
No star is lost at all
From all the star-sown sky…
― A.E. Housman
“Mum! Hurry up!” You grasped the rungs of the brand new ladder and banged them impatiently against the brick wall. Fall’s sweet breath embraced the sleepy land. Beams of moonlight kissed outstretched wings, bound for warmer shores, whilst fruits harkened to those that stayed. In the darkness of the autumn night, summer petals curled delicately into the earth and the crisp metallic clank echoed. Your writing is beautiful.
“Sh, sweet heart, you will disturb the neighbours.” Her brows creased, and she pursed her lips together. Her thick jet-black hair danced freely in the evening breeze, cascading down her delicate cheeks like midnight waves on a sandy beach. She casually tucked away a strand behind her ears, while the lingering rays from the lamp shone upon the profile of her face.
“Nice weather for star-viewing, isn’t it?” She stroked the baby hair from your forehead and corrected the parting of your fringe. “Be careful, off you go.” She patted your back.
The ladder squeaked under your weight; you bit your lips hard, after all, you were just a little girl. A moth was circling around your head, flapping its wings, and its antennas were twitching like miniature feathers. Its perky brown colour merged perfectly with the night, but you could still hear quiet fluttering, seeking, and searching. Mum supported the rails and you felt more secure and at ease. Step by step, you moved up, your childish heart pounded with eager and excitement. The higher you went, the more you could see. You were getting closer to the end.
However, the ladder seemed to go on forever, pointing towards emptiness. Your heart beat slower under the glare of the moon. Your fingers trembled and your nails made clinking sounds on the metal. The metal was warm from your touch and droplets of sweat appeared on your palm. You held onto the rung tighter than ever, until your arms tensed up and your elbows and knuckles popped out. The moth had returned and landed softly on your shoulder, tickling your ear as it gave its papery wings a shake. You could smell the fresh earth from its feet. It wiggled, curling up its skinny abdomen, and panted in exhaustion. But it had a mission, and that meant hard work. Taking off, again, into unknown space; it left behind a few specks of pollen on your t-shirt from some place faraway.
You followed its lead. It soared upwards with a reddish hue and on its rear wing was a dark circle, like an eye, watching tentatively. At last, your palm touched the dusty planks. You hoisted yourself up, wiped your hands on your jeans and relaxed your muscles. The fragrance of dust and air had never been so apparent. “Mum, your turn!” Dialogue needs a new line :) The ladder wobbled in your grip, as it creaked and groaned under Mum’s weight.
You lay yourselves flat on the rooftop, head to head, and hip to hip. The stars were like a surreal blanket above your heads. You could feel mum’s pulse against your temple and her soft breaths against your cheek.
“Don’t you think we are like stars?” Mum pinched your nose, “We fall to make someone’s wish come true.” The maroon tiles rattled in the dark as she turned over…
The toil of all that be
Helps not the primal fault…
You felt the moist maroon tiles next to you; mould was crawling up the clay. You studied the empty seat, in its place, was your own swaying shadow.
Some people never come back.
You felt a raindrop against your skin, followed by several others, but you didn’t have the heart to go back inside. The deep gray clouds were gradually drawing a curtain over the silvery-blue stars. You moved over and sat on the edge of the roof, crossing one leg over the other. You leaned back on your palms to examine the remaining constellations uncovered from the clouds. The tiles didn’t feel the same, nor did the ladder and the stars. The moon hung full and hazy beneath an eclipse of blazing stars, allowing you to see the rooftops of your neighbours, identically bleak buildings surrounding your own. Your body was a fountain for the incoming rain. The water made your eyelids heavy. You closed your dull dark-brown eyes and a sigh passed through your parted lips as you did so, causing your breath to fog up before you. It obscured your vision, as you took in the feeling of wet, bruised skin.
I just want to let you know that at this point I am completely enthralled by your writing. You haven't used cliches, you have always found unique imagery, and every word is adequately chosen.
You thought about your mum…
And the star you shared burnt a little brighter.
It rains into the sea,
And still the sea is salt…
I think your writing is beautiful. You write so eloquently. You discuss the parts of life considered so small, and bring it to literary life. The use of the second person is very interesting and I think it works really well. I have a suggestion, and it's not something I'm 100% saying is the best thing for you, just because I want to let you decide. Do you think that you should change tense when I think about my mum? Like, when you prompt me, to think about my mum haha. My story mum. I think that can be the volta, the moment where it shifts in both tense and emotion. Just a suggestion :)
In terms of discovery, this is what I pick up:
-The reader makes a discovery about the relationship between the two characters.
-There is the spiritual/emotional and physical discovery that the mum has never left, and she lingers in the sky.
What confuses me is the fragmented quote that connects the first and second part, and also introduces and concludes the poem. Maybe it is a really famous quote and I'm just totally missing the point? I don't know. But right now it's just not speaking to me. Which is a shame, because I love when people get creative with their form.
Ok back to discovery: I think you can be more obvious. It is a fine line, I know! but truly, it is left very much so open to interpretation right now, which can be hit or miss.
Perhaps you can make a greater distinction of time elapsing between the first and second half of the story? I imagined the protagonist to be the same age in both parts, but I think that having a little son or daughter spending time with mum, compared to a teenager without a mum, is a very powerful comparison to consider.
When you wrote this, what is the discovery you targeted? I might be able to give you some suggestions on how to channel that specifically.
You should be very pleased with your writing ability!
Thanks Elyse! Yes i planned to have the memory to be when the character was young and a kid and the transition to teenager, but i guess it didnt come across clearly, how would i achieve that exactly? My discovery concept is that memory of loved ones stay with you and also slight discovery of the transience and impermanence of things, do you think i communicated that well? Thank you again so much!! This will help me heaps
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 06:26:19 pm
Thanks Elyse! Yes i planned to have the memory to be when the character was young and a kid and the transition to teenager, but i guess it didnt come across clearly, how would i achieve that exactly? My discovery concept is that memory of loved ones stay with you and also slight discovery of the transience and impermanence of things, do you think i communicated that well? Thank you again so much!! This will help me heaps
I think one of the things you could look at is something like hair length. Having hair in pigtails at the start, and then in the second half, maybe dyed blue, or very long, or something like that. Another indicator of time would be actually noticing how much bigger you felt sitting on the roof the second time. Or, making a bigger contrast when you talk about the tiles. Perhaps claiming that they are now very frail, and actually identifying blatantly that they had aged. I know you're trying to credit the reader enough so that you don't explain every little detail, but you can take it a little more obvious in your description of things!
I think your discoveries come across well. Be prepared to use that end part of the story to relate to a stimulus. I think the discovery hangs on the end heavily, which is completely fine, but that is likely to mean that when you integrate a stimulus, it will probably be in that section there. So consider if you are comfortable enough to do that. if the stimulus asks for your piece to describe the intensely meaningful or transformative nature of discovery, how will you go about that? or if the stimulus talks about a planned discovery, do you have a plan for that? I bring up these things not to scare you, but just because they appear to me to be three places that might throw you because your story doesn't lend itself to those particular sections of the rubric easily. Which is, of course, fine! Because a story can't respond beautifully to every aspect of the stimulus. it's just about preparing how you will respond if you need to!
Post by: Aliceyyy98 on July 26, 2016, 06:41:47 pm
I think one of the things you could look at is something like hair length. Having hair in pigtails at the start, and then in the second half, maybe dyed blue, or very long, or something like that. Another indicator of time would be actually noticing how much bigger you felt sitting on the roof the second time. Or, making a bigger contrast when you talk about the tiles. Perhaps claiming that they are now very frail, and actually identifying blatantly that they had aged. I know you're trying to credit the reader enough so that you don't explain every little detail, but you can take it a little more obvious in your description of things!
I think your discoveries come across well. Be prepared to use that end part of the story to relate to a stimulus. I think the discovery hangs on the end heavily, which is completely fine, but that is likely to mean that when you integrate a stimulus, it will probably be in that section there. So consider if you are comfortable enough to do that. if the stimulus asks for your piece to describe the intensely meaningful or transformative nature of discovery, how will you go about that? or if the stimulus talks about a planned discovery, do you have a plan for that? I bring up these things not to scare you, but just because they appear to me to be three places that might throw you because your story doesn't lend itself to those particular sections of the rubric easily. Which is, of course, fine! Because a story can't respond beautifully to every aspect of the stimulus. it's just about preparing how you will respond if you need to!
Ohh yes i see! Just a few more questions, sorry. The one you mentioned earler about changing the tense at the end i think is a cool idea! But did you by changing the second person to first person or? And i was thinking of making the memory part also a sort of discovery for the younger protagonist just about something different, like maybe the support and security others offer you?
About the transformative part of the rubric, i could maybe establish the protagonist thinking something different at the start... But i feel the planned would throw me :(
Post by: shailerpennell on July 26, 2016, 06:43:58 pm
thank you so much for your patience!
Okay, I'll try keep your teacher's comment in mind when I'm looking at this and see if I can try add to what she's said to make some more sense of it :)
Your work is in the spoiler here with some of my own thoughts in bold font throughout, then I'll write up a comment at the end:SpoilerLost but not forgotten
“Yet what we suffer now
is nothing compared to the glory
he will reveal to us later.”
- Romans 8:18
I felt as if there was a hole in my heart. I did not feel content nor complete nor truly happy. I think adding some commas before each "nor" will really break up the sentence so that the negation becomes more clear in each unique way. Yes, I laughed and smiled politely but the immense pain would not pass. Each day was like a throbbing headache. I slipped so easily into a mood that would chain me down, forcing me to remember the lingering pain. I found myself desperately trying to find a way to express how I was feeling and how I could possibly find peace in my situation. This speaks to me as an opportunity for some imagery, like a metaphor. Consider changing "situation" for something that be a metaphor, like peace in chaos, peace in crisis, peace in turmoil, etc. Maybe a metaphor isn't the right word, maybe you need an oxymoron in a way. This is just a super small suggestion, it won't impact on the way discovery is perceived. Little things like this add up to the integrity of the writing as a whole. It was hard to explain, again and again I filled the gap with temporary happiness longing to find a way out of the dark hole. It seemed like these years of life were all I had ever dreamed of as an innocent, unknowing child, being a teenager was supposed to be exhilarating and dangerous and memorable for all the right reasons, but I felt trapped and dejected, I was weak and unable to think for myself, this was not what I had expected. This last sentence is quite long, consider rephrasing. I felt as though every fibre of strength and willingness I once had had fled and taken refuge in a body that was thriving and healthy. I found myself turning to material possessions that I hoped could close the gap between my current state and where I wished I was. Every day I woke wondering what I could do to regain a happy spirit and rediscover myself once again. I felt lost and forgotten.
I turned the radio on to help me escape my unrelenting thoughts.
Channel 104.1: “Justin Bieber’s nude photos leaked on Instagram! Did you get a sneak peek?!”
Channel 96.9: “Ring us up and tell us your dirtiest secret to go in the draw to win one thousand dollars’ cash!!”
Channel 103.2: “…Amen, I would now like to leave you with my favourite verse out of the book of Romans, Romans 10:9-10: If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is LORD and believe in your heart the GOD raised him from the dead, you will be saved, anyone who trusts in him will never be disgraced.”
For some reason that was unknown to me in that moment, hearing that verse brought a tear to my eye Brought a tear to my eye - this is a cliche. Try to avoid talking about tears, and talk about shivering, or a heavy feeling pulling at the tendons behind the eye ball, or and an uneasy yet ever so reassuring feeling to the pit of my stomach that had been numb for so long. I did not know it then, but that very moment was the beginning of my rediscovery of self through GOD himself and the day I would discover Heaven for the very first time. I like where this is going!
That night as I was immersing myself in reality television to take my mind off my own unfortunate reality, the clock struck 11:00pm *tick tock*, my que to take myself off to bed and sleep my way into another day that would be just as numb and lifeless as the one before that. Sleep was bitter-sweet for me, my crisp sheets enclosed me and warmed my skin but the dead silence exposed my echoing thoughts and reminded me of the unrelenting pain, chilling me from deep within. However, that night was different. I fell to sleep peacefully, feeling warm and comfortable between my sheets. As I drifted into a deep sleep, the world of my sub-conscious began to unravel, I saw I bright light, no, a blinding light, a light that was pure and unearthly. As the light dimmed I stood before thundering, brass gates that opened in front of me beckoning me to enter. The gates were weaved with rich green vines that ended at each stalk with precious white flowers. I entered, passing through the gates, I felt immediately clean, as if I was shedding my misery and hopelessness and closing the gates behind me. As I ventured onwards, footsteps weightless, two angles appeared,
“The LORD has brought you here for reasons unknown to man, a great miracle is upon you”,
They harmonised. Then they disappeared.
“I must be in heaven”
I wept. It was more beautiful than any place I had ever been capable to imagine, it was pure and incomparable by earthly measure… oh it was grand. The grass overflowed in vast abundance of lush and seem to have no end, just like the sky, it consumed me in all its power, I felt small in this great, immortal world. I stood there, unable to move, overwhelmed by the depths of its beauty. Whenever I had thought of what heaven would look like, I had imagined entering and being greeted by loved ones who had passed, having my clothes swapped for robes and being able to fly without fear and have unlimited supply of fine wine and exotic fruit, however I saw no one, this place was not what I expected. As I stood in a field of lush green grass I wondered how GOD would make his entrance, I imagined him hovering in a great light, or walking on water or greeting me as he broke bread and divided fish, all great and mighty appearances. However my thoughts were interrupted as a man appeared in the distance, he was washing his face by the river. It was Jesus, GOD had sent himself to me in the form of his son Jesus Christ. The all mighty, all powerful Jesus was bathing himself like a peasant, humble and gracious. He turned to me calmly,
“Come sit with me my child”
His voice beckoned.
I timidly sat beside the son of GOD, the man who performed miracles with his hands, the one who died and rose again, the saviour of the world, I was afraid to look at him, ashamed of my sins, ashamed of my pathetic, immortal appearance. With his voice echoing among the trees, he said to me,
“My child look at me, do not be afraid, do not feel disheartened or discouraged for you are loved.”
He paused,
“You were fearfully and wonderfully made in the hands of God. Do not let worldly distractions inhabit your mind, do not be intrigued by strange, new things, separate yourself among the unbelievers and live your life according to the purpose I have for you”
I fell to the feet of Jesus as I wept uncontrollably,
“For I know the plans I have for you, they are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope... in those days when you pray I will listen, if you look for me wholeheartedly, you will find me.”
I woke, breathless, unable to fathom what I had just experienced. I had discovered heaven, I had met Jesus. I sat up in my bed, my sheets felt unfamiliar and unclean, those of my past life, I hurried to remove them from my mattress, certain not to let anything taint this new found inner peace. I danced and sung for joy as I cried jubilant tears, for I had been saved. I stood as tall as the trees I had sat beneath in Heaven and my tears ran like the water Jesus used to wash his face.
I swept my curtains open, letting the light of day flood my room just as Jesus had once flooded the earth, and I was in the arc, I safe. I fell to my knees as did before Jesus in Heaven,
“Thank you Lord! I am a new person; you have filled the hole in my heart, a new life has begun! Although I was lost, you never forgot me.”
I didn't comment much on the last section for a number of reasons. Basically, I want to talk about your story as a whole, looking at the plot overview specifically, rather than focusing on sentences individually.
Spiritual discovery is overlooked by most students. Or, if not overlooked, ignored. Which is really dangerous considering it is a definite feature of the rubric. Here, I think you've covered spiritual, physical and emotional discoveries.
It's sometimes scary to hear feedback on your plot because it means huge structural changes, but I think it is important to embrace proposed ideas, even if they are substantially suggesting moving away from the current direction. The magic in your piece happens when the radio is turned on. Starting your piece with the quote from Romans is a great idea. It is cryptic, but strong, and isolated, and very sophisticated. I want to see that kind of artful manipulation of form throughout. Moving from the sophisticated epilogue to a lot of reflection over a depressed life was a bit of a let down, because you've shown your capability as a writer to take on form, and then we've fallen into a basic way of describing life. I think you could enhance your work by shortening the start bit. I think we should cut out anything that is typical of this kind of reflection, like wishing teenage years were different, comparing innocence to reality, and the high modality words of desperation. Instead, we want to leave the bare bones of the argument, then flesh them out with some really succinct imagery. Try to describe this in a really raw way. So rather than being loaded with emotion, we want to be raw. The reason for this is, the character claims they can't put these feelings into words, but then the character spends a lot of words talking about how they feel. Whereas, I tend to think, a character feeling these incredibly intense emotions, would be able to summarise it in very few words. Not because the emotions aren't complicated, but because the energy to try and describe it is stripped of them. Maybe we could talk about driving blindly through the day, and getting to the end of the day and not being able to remember what happened between recess and lunch. Or, reading three chapters of the book and still not being able to recall the protagonist's name. This is the kind of thing I think responds to the character you are creating. You're creating a character that has no direction, and is essentially empty, waiting to be filled by the spirit. So you want to remove the character of all drive, including the drive to describe feelings. You want them to be vacuous. This will help with the word count too!
Then, I think we can keep the end part as is, but enhance the writing. The Bible is incredibly charged with imagery, connotations, links to other sections of the Bible, etc. There are so many symbols that you could use in your own work with a double meaning - a Christian meaning and a meaning for the individual's life. Imagery that relates to the Pentecostal flame, or the Baptismal font, or the green garments worn by a priest in ordinary time - all of that will weave integrity through your work. Those small allusions will link to the initial epigraph and will enhance your work a lot.
In terms of the Heaven meeting: You decide if you think this is the best option. It works, but I'm left curious. Did she or he momentarily die and see Heaven? Or was it a very powerful dream? Because the next day paragraph is awesome. Starting fresh, filled with Jesus, (good spot for an allusion), and the discovery is made clear. So you decide if you want the character to actually die and see Heaven, or if they had a divine intervention in a dream, or was it an apparition? Apparitions are incredibly interesting. My aunty claims she had an apparition once of the Virgin Mary. You should have a google around apparitions if you haven't already, and people will describe their apparitions, which may be useful for adding authenticity to your story. As a writer, I'd be more comfortable following the idea of an apparition, just because it is Earth-bound, and I'm more comfortable writing about this realm of life. If you're daring and confident, then sure, take it to the transcendent level. As a writer myself, I'm more comfortable writing about Earth with interventions of the transcendent, rather than describing a scene from the transcendent. Also to think about: How do you think Heaven is? Do you want to move away from the idea of it being pearly white, or do you want to stay with that notion to make sure it is clear that it is in fact, Heaven? I think that this section here, the potential of changing the visit to Heaven to an apparition, will fix that "figurative language lacking" section that your teacher commented on.
I've given you a lot to think about, I think! You're writing is there, it's just looking to be enhanced. The easiest things to fix are the boring things, like grammar. But you've got that down pat, right now you should be re-evaluating your plot, and making sure that the discovery is accessible for a marker from any walk of life to experience what is a very powerful spiritual discovery. When you re-assess the plot, it is a big task and seems interminable. But constantly adjust, then put it away, and look with fresh eyes, and get some opinions!
Let me know if you need any more help, or if you have any questions! :)
Wow! Thank you so much, you have helped me heaps! X
Post by: victoriad98 on July 26, 2016, 08:30:40 pm
--
“Bye”
That look. That very last look before he turned around and walked through the corridor to customs. I had never seen my dad cry, only when we went to his cousins viewing, that’s when I really saw him cry. But today was another rare occasion where I’d see him tear up. Mum and I were crying too, typically, but my brother? Oh, he’s tough, he never cries. But I could tell he was devastated as well, I mean who wouldn’t be, living with your dad for your whole life, in the same damn house, and then that just changing within seconds.
All three of us spin around and slowly pace back to the car park, in dead silence. I could tell what we were all thinking… “How is this going to work?” I mean really, how was it going to work? You tell me, how would you feel if your dad moved overseas to work for a few years? My parents aren’t even divorced, it’s a very confusing situation, but I guess what has to happen, has to happen. I look to my mum, whose face is steaming red and her eyes are as wet as the road from the downpour outside, and I think, how will she cope? You have your husband by your side for your whole life and you suddenly have to act like a single mother for as long as this lasts. I then shift my head to see my brother, blank faced. And I wonder, how would it feel, to have your dad around your whole life, and in the most important years you need him, he goes? Then I look straight ahead. What about me? How would it feel, having the man you look up to your whole life, who motivates you, works hard everyday, who shows you to never give up, just leave? What about him? Leaving every piece of family he has behind, just to right the wrongs he made in his working life. He’ll come every few months to visit for a few weeks, but I mean does that time even equate to the time he’s not here? Thank god for technology these days, imagine having no Skype, no texting, no Facebook? At least I’m grateful to have so many ways at communicating at the tips of my fingers.
This is a new chapter in life, a chapter without having the man of the house be there for the majority of the time, a chapter where we have to experience how millions of families around the world live; with just one parent. I’m a firm believer in “everything happens for a reason” it’s my life motto, I live by it, because it just makes so much sense. Everything in this world has a reason for being here, a reason for happening, even if we don’t know why.
As the days go past, it gets harder and harder. The plan was 2 years, but that turned into 4 years. It’s weird what was normal to me when I was 13, is not the normal I experience at 17. Life without my dad, I didn’t think it would be this hard. My brother became a little distant from my mum and I around the time by dad departed. He was in his last years of school, he always went out with his mates, he got a girlfriend, he just hated being at home. I get it, I understand why he acted the way he did, but my mum didn’t. She blamed herself for his behaviour, she probably felt as if she wasn’t good enough that he became very distant. I wish she could just see it how I saw it, he was just confused, with no manly figure. But thank god that didn’t remain that way; he eventually came back around, closer to the time my dad was coming back around.
These 4 years, I realised a lot. I saw how hard being a single-parent is, and it makes me really admire all the single-parents out there, how strong they are to keep on going even when the times get tough. I realised how to get through the hardest times in life when you could just count on yourself, and make it work. I realised that whatever you want in life, you just have to go for it, even if it’s difficult to let go of some things, you have to try, persevere, and push for it, because if you never go for what you want, you’ll never get it.
And again, the times are changing, he’s finally moving back. No one understands how long I waited for this, how many times I cried for him to come back, how many times I hoped it would be soon, and the time finally came, because patience is the key. Now my normal will soon have to adapt to having a father around, but I don’t care, because these 4 years made me realise how important family is, and how hard it is to not have them around. I would not change them for anything in the world.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 26, 2016, 08:36:24 pm
Hi, so i wrote a new creative as my old one was so bad, and i was wondering if you could take a look and tell me what you think? I was wanting a rough estimate of what it'd be worth. thank you so much!
Hey there Victoria! Welcome to the forums!! ;D
Thanks for posting your creative. Unfortunately, we require that every user has 5 ATAR Notes posts for every essay/creative they'd like marked. So 1 creative needs 5 posts, 5 creatives need 25 posts, etc. This is to ensure that the service remains accessible and attainable for active members of the ATAR Notes community. Feel free to hang around the forums, ask some questions, say hey in our chit chat thread, and build up your post count! Then just pop back in and let us know when you meet the threshold. Thanks in advance!! ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 08:44:29 pm
Ohh yes i see! Just a few more questions, sorry. The one you mentioned earler about changing the tense at the end i think is a cool idea! But did you by changing the second person to first person or? And i was thinking of making the memory part also a sort of discovery for the younger protagonist just about something different, like maybe the support and security others offer you?
About the transformative part of the rubric, i could maybe establish the protagonist thinking something different at the start... But i feel the planned would throw me :(
I think you should keep it in the first person! But you're in the past tense. What about bringing it into the present tense? As though the narrator is forcing you to look back on your younger life, and then suddenly, the second person narrator paired with present tense will increase the climatic nature of that part of your script!
Perhaps with the planned part of the rubric, if you were tested on it, you could bring up the idea that your mother planned for you to always be taken care of? So even though you have only just made the discovery, your mother always planned that you would be taken care of. And you will only realise it later.
What do you think? Its something to consider even before the stimulus throws you. I think it is worth looking into just as a simple way of adding an extra layer of discovery to enhance your discovery.
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 08:47:12 pm
Wow! Thank you so much, you have helped me heaps! X
Woohoo! Perfect! Glad to hear it :)
Post by: cmaatouk on July 26, 2016, 08:50:57 pm
Can you please look over my discovery short story and please give me some feedback like is there enough discovery and if it has enough techniques and is it effective enough etc. Thank you!
The earthy smell of freshly ground coffee beans can only do so much to soothe my racing thoughts. I haven’t been in Wynyard since I graduated from La Trobe University. The most important lesson I learnt there is to only trust myself, because if you trust anybody else they’ll eventually betray you. It’s just human nature. Eve never should have trusted the snake and eaten the forbidden fruit. The only way to stay out of trouble is to trust your instincts. Life tried to teach me this early in life, but I ignored the signs. Have you ever had a friend that knew everything about you and you were willing to do anything for, only to discover they’ve been tearing down your armor with the purpose of leaving you vulnerable to a stabbing in the back? Since then, I’ve been building up my armour, pushing everyone away so I’ll never be betrayed again. The only way to protect yourself is to have that armor. One so strong no knife can penetrate it. But I didn’t always know this. I expected so much from others because I was willing to do so much for them. But the greater your expectations the greater the inevitable disappointment.
I sit in the back corner of the familiar café, my gaze drawn to the front door as the bell rings. My body freezes as my life lesson walks in. I’d recognise that stuck up nose anywhere, even if it is hidden under layers of foundation. My blood begins to boil after the initial shock of seeing her. I fist my hands, digging my nails into my palm. Mika was my best friend at uni. But after what she did to me, I was hoping I wouldn’t run into her.
* * *
“Hey Mika, are we still going to the Ivy this weekend?”
“Yeah of course babe, I wouldn’t ditch you. Oh, by the way, drinks are on me. I owe you after that last assignment. Thanks heaps for sending me what you wrote. It really inspired me.”
“Of course, you’re my best friend, I trust you.”
We link arms and head into our next lecture. Mika knows how much I care about uni and my determination to do my best. Although she never used to care about school, she is learning to share my passion to strive for success. We’ve gotten into the habit of doing everything together at uni, from lectures to tutorials. Things couldn’t be better for my friendship. We are practically sisters, I tell her all my secrets, but she’s still learning to open up to me.
My thoughts are interrupted by the loud thump of the heavy lecture theatre door. The Headmaster strides in, his face stern. Something about the way he walks across the hall rubs me the wrong way. He whispers to the lecturer who’s face contorts in shock.
“Mika Kunis, please come with me to my office.”
My heart races, I turn to Mika who stiffly leaves the lecture, not even acknowledging me.
I sit for the rest of the lecture on the edge of my seat. But before we finish, the Headmaster comes back and asks for me. A lump in my throat prevents me from answering, I simply nod and shoving everything in my back weakly stand up, shaking like a leaf. Sweat beads my hands, I flex them nervously at my side, armoring myself for the battle.
As we’re walking I see Mika coming the other way. She glances my way, but her eyes seem to stare right through me, her shaped eyes reminding me of a snake. It makes my gut sink, and I imagine hiding my face behind a helmet.
The Headmaster invites me to have a seat in his office. I feel like rushing out, but I have to accept the chair.
“Miss Silverton, does this paper look familiar to you?”
He slips a small bundle of papers across the table. I immediately recognise it.
“Yes, this is my assignment which I handed in only a few days ago.”
“I see, and did you copy this assignment from your friend Miss Kunis?”
My body freezes, my mouth like sandpaper. My fists clench tightly and I imagine myself slipping on steel gauntlets. I should have known better.
“No! No I would never copy. I sent her my work because she asked to see it and I thought that she would never copy me. We’re… we’re best friends.” The last sentence seems to hang awkwardly.
“I understand Miss Silverton, it is clear that Miss Kunis has plagarised your work as she has never submitted an essay of this quality. However, under the La Trobe University Integrity Policy this clearly amounts to an act of collusion. The issue is although you did not have the intention of Miss Kunis copying you, we have repeated time and time again not to share your work.”
My head bobs up and down but his words don’t sink in. Mika copied me. Mika lied straight to my face.
“The consequence of your actions may result in an immediate expulsion,” my head snaps up, a gasp escapes my lips. “However, this will be decided by the Disciplinary Committee.”
* * *
My mind sinks back into reality. I was lucky to get away with a warning, and a reminder to armor up and always stay on my guard. I regret not confronting Mika and asking her why. I could never bring myself to speak to her, my armor too heavy, pulling me down.
But I want to make her own up to what she did. I want to make her admit that she had wronged me. I want an apology. I want to be able to take this armor off and feel the fresh air on my skin and not be afraid of the consequences.
I push my chair back with a screech determined to find her, but it only takes a moment to realise that the war was already over. She’s gone because I had done too little too late. I let her strip down my armor again long enough for me to scratch at a scab and reopen an old wound which should have been left to heal.
“If you spend your time hoping someone will suffer the consequences for what they did to your heart, then you’re allowing them to hurt you a second time in your mind.” ~Shannon Alder.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 26, 2016, 08:52:59 pm
Hey Fam!
Can you please look over my discovery short story and please give me some feedback like is there enough discovery and if it has enough techniques and is it effective enough etc. Thank you!
Hey there cmaatouk! Welcome to the forums!! ;D
Thanks for posting your creative. Unfortunately, we require that every user has 5 ATAR Notes posts for every essay/creative they'd like marked. So 1 creative needs 5 posts, 5 creatives need 25 posts, etc. This is to ensure that the service remains accessible and attainable for active members of the ATAR Notes community. Feel free to hang around the forums, ask some questions, say hey in our chit chat thread, and build up your post count! Then just pop back in and let us know when you meet the threshold. Thanks in advance!! ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 09:44:45 pm
Hi Elyse! Hope you are feeling better!
Just wanted to thank you for marking my script, as always AN goes above and beyond the feedback my teachers give me ;D ;D
I've made comprehensive edits to the narrative in line with your recommendations, trying to make the connections clearer and a little less convoluted and crazy. I've highlighted the parts where edits have been made - the stimulus (a picture) is also included which may help you to understand the saturation in religious allusions!
Any suggestions in being able to adapt the piece to unseen and, well, secular or non-religious stimuli would be helpful as i sorta feel i'm limiting myself, would appreciate your thoughts :)
Please take a look when you have time, thankyou once again!!
Thank you so much for your well wishes and your patience! That is a very religiously charged stimulus and I just don't think it emulates a stimulus that they would use in the HSC, they usually stay away from obviously religious references. But, nonetheless, you've got a really cool piece inspired by the stimulus!
Spoiler
Silence. As it always did, the boardroom seemed to eviscerate any trace of sound. The senseless chitter-chatter of workers was drowned out by this work of God, this safe haven. For this temple of solace served as my beginning, my Genesis.
“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head.
I pinch myself until my forearm bleeds. My Eden, so long hidden under a facade of solitude and serenity, falls away from under my feet like some rusty iron boardwalk. My heart leaps into my throat as the realisation is driven home by the unceremonious “twang” of the heavenly Cloud’s bow.
Blinded by perspiration, my hand reaches for the elevator’s smooth handlebar as it begins its descent. My knuckles whiten as I tighten my grip, my hands erupting in sweat. Like a submarine, I was sinking - but suspected the elevator was not the sole perpetrator of the crime. This is a lot more clear than it was previously! A lot!
“You’re fired”. Never had a phrase been so perfectly apt. For the match had been lit; the blaze within my heart ignited amidst the lift’s impenetrable darkness. Like a photograph, I had been framed, left for the world to stroll past and ridicule at their leisure. Who was the catalyst for my exodus? Why me?
Every man considers himself loyaI until he is exposed to the irresistible fruits of temptation. The dual-headed snake had succeeded in his satanic plight, gifting me Judas’ conscience. The covenant, my hope and my faith, lies in tatters on the brown panelled floors of the elevator. The guilt of my betrayal would haunt me for the rest of my days.
Breath escapes me in short gasps. Was the heat expanding? The metallic cage of transportation was surely overflowing with baptismal fires (baptism of fire by the way, hope this is ok?). Ahhh I see your connection with this one now. Best to get a second opinion on this, it didn't click with me until you suggested it in the brackets but it just could be because I'm not very familiar with that phrase.Thrown amidst the volcanic wreckage of the unknown, I am Dante. But in this secluded exile, my line of sight envisions no paradiso. Is it an illusion? Or are the sauna like walls encroaching upon me?
Outside is no better. As quickly as the internal fire was kindled, it is doused by the unrelenting rain. A cold trickle of water slithers down my spine. My suit, much like my reputation, is unsalvageable.
My stomach churns as a sickening worm of doubt enters. Why did I choose this decrepit path? Was I not ready? The disappointed drip-drop of the sleeting downpour spurs me on to seek answers. Seek forgiveness. Seek retribution.
Ambition. Knowledge. Were they the seeds of wisdom the bible Perhaps a capital for Bible?could not provide me? Were they the Genesis of the devil?
The worm slithers and squirms, but is ultimately devoured by the snake within.
“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head. I really like the use of "ugly" here. We teach to use better words than the ordinary, but this works so blatantly raw. I love it.
The path ahead is foggy; the saddened clouds disguise my view. I must never have left the elevator, for I am submerged under indescribable doubts. In a city of millions, of designated signs, pathways and maps, I am hopelessly lost.
The saturated delta of my arch-like thumb stumbles across the weakened spine of an untended book, haphazardly engulfed by my box of office possessions. I begin to rub the accumulated dust between my thumb and its neighbouring index.
In an instant, darkness.
The subzero climate of the sprawling metropolis is replaced by the unforgiving purgatorio of the desert. The balmy wind forms an alliance with the coarse yellow sand, joined in their judgement. I could taste the mockery in the pure, unadulterated air. My arm extends, looking hopelessly for the faintest trace of truth and forgiveness; that i may be able once more to see.
“Hiss” smirks the snake.
Was this not just a momentary respite? A pure fantasy? I live in the real world. A realm of torrential rain, rolling thunder and broken dreams. A secular locale wherein you will find no confessional to take flight from the inescapable clutches of desire and temptation that so encompassed my hubris.
The snake is nowhere to be found, but neither is the covenant. Neither is my flame. Neither is my God.
I feel myself being disassembled, with the most valuable part taken away, and the remainder put up for auction to the highest bidder.
My wandering nails attempt to pluck the desert’s crystals as they encrust my eyelids. A blinding ray of light welcomes me back to the realm of vision. Evaporated is the impregnable torrent of water threatening to overwhelm each of my bodily extremities. I fall to my knees, longing for a trace of truth and honesty. I wish for the day of Judgement, if such a thing truly exists, if only to ease the agony of helplessness.
A voice. Rich. Undulating.
I cannot discern each phrase from the next. My legs beg to differ, knees burning as my muscles protest in agony. My body screams as the flame re-enters, but I no longer feel the pain.
The rain’s hell is the flame’s paradiso.
My hand clamps on His, transferring the trust I believed to be extinct.
Damascus awaits.
“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head.
I pinch myself until my forearm bleeds. My Eden, so long hidden under a facade of solitude and serenity, falls away from under my feet like some rusty iron boardwalk. My heart leaps into my throat as the realisation is driven home by the unceremonious “twang” of the heavenly Cloud’s bow.
Blinded by perspiration, my hand reaches for the elevator’s smooth handlebar as it begins its descent. My knuckles whiten as I tighten my grip, my hands erupting in sweat. Like a submarine, I was sinking - but suspected the elevator was not the sole perpetrator of the crime. This is a lot more clear than it was previously! A lot!
“You’re fired”. Never had a phrase been so perfectly apt. For the match had been lit; the blaze within my heart ignited amidst the lift’s impenetrable darkness. Like a photograph, I had been framed, left for the world to stroll past and ridicule at their leisure. Who was the catalyst for my exodus? Why me?
Every man considers himself loyaI until he is exposed to the irresistible fruits of temptation. The dual-headed snake had succeeded in his satanic plight, gifting me Judas’ conscience. The covenant, my hope and my faith, lies in tatters on the brown panelled floors of the elevator. The guilt of my betrayal would haunt me for the rest of my days.
Breath escapes me in short gasps. Was the heat expanding? The metallic cage of transportation was surely overflowing with baptismal fires (baptism of fire by the way, hope this is ok?). Ahhh I see your connection with this one now. Best to get a second opinion on this, it didn't click with me until you suggested it in the brackets but it just could be because I'm not very familiar with that phrase.Thrown amidst the volcanic wreckage of the unknown, I am Dante. But in this secluded exile, my line of sight envisions no paradiso. Is it an illusion? Or are the sauna like walls encroaching upon me?
Outside is no better. As quickly as the internal fire was kindled, it is doused by the unrelenting rain. A cold trickle of water slithers down my spine. My suit, much like my reputation, is unsalvageable.
My stomach churns as a sickening worm of doubt enters. Why did I choose this decrepit path? Was I not ready? The disappointed drip-drop of the sleeting downpour spurs me on to seek answers. Seek forgiveness. Seek retribution.
Ambition. Knowledge. Were they the seeds of wisdom the bible Perhaps a capital for Bible?could not provide me? Were they the Genesis of the devil?
The worm slithers and squirms, but is ultimately devoured by the snake within.
“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head. I really like the use of "ugly" here. We teach to use better words than the ordinary, but this works so blatantly raw. I love it.
The path ahead is foggy; the saddened clouds disguise my view. I must never have left the elevator, for I am submerged under indescribable doubts. In a city of millions, of designated signs, pathways and maps, I am hopelessly lost.
The saturated delta of my arch-like thumb stumbles across the weakened spine of an untended book, haphazardly engulfed by my box of office possessions. I begin to rub the accumulated dust between my thumb and its neighbouring index.
In an instant, darkness.
The subzero climate of the sprawling metropolis is replaced by the unforgiving purgatorio of the desert. The balmy wind forms an alliance with the coarse yellow sand, joined in their judgement. I could taste the mockery in the pure, unadulterated air. My arm extends, looking hopelessly for the faintest trace of truth and forgiveness; that i may be able once more to see.
“Hiss” smirks the snake.
Was this not just a momentary respite? A pure fantasy? I live in the real world. A realm of torrential rain, rolling thunder and broken dreams. A secular locale wherein you will find no confessional to take flight from the inescapable clutches of desire and temptation that so encompassed my hubris.
The snake is nowhere to be found, but neither is the covenant. Neither is my flame. Neither is my God.
I feel myself being disassembled, with the most valuable part taken away, and the remainder put up for auction to the highest bidder.
My wandering nails attempt to pluck the desert’s crystals as they encrust my eyelids. A blinding ray of light welcomes me back to the realm of vision. Evaporated is the impregnable torrent of water threatening to overwhelm each of my bodily extremities. I fall to my knees, longing for a trace of truth and honesty. I wish for the day of Judgement, if such a thing truly exists, if only to ease the agony of helplessness.
A voice. Rich. Undulating.
I cannot discern each phrase from the next. My legs beg to differ, knees burning as my muscles protest in agony. My body screams as the flame re-enters, but I no longer feel the pain.
The rain’s hell is the flame’s paradiso.
My hand clamps on His, transferring the trust I believed to be extinct.
Damascus awaits.
This is so much better! You've made it a lot tighter, it's a joy to read. It's cryptic but engaging, so I'm never feeling like I want to give up because I don't know exactly what is happening, I'm just waiting for the moment I do! Which, I do realise at the end!
Let me know if this is correct: Protagonist loses job, protagonist feels completely lost and sinking. Then we see an increase in allusions, an increase in the references. The protagonist continues to question their circumstance but with an intruding power of a greater force. Eventually, the protagonist meets the hand of God and they walk hand in hand, down "the road to Damascus" which symbolises the conversion?
Let me know if this is how you see your story. If I'm telling you something I see in your story that you aren't intending, you can ask me why I see that and I can pinpoint where I see it so you can consider adjusting.
With a very complicated story, comes a need to be meticulous in every detail so that the story unravels in perfect time. You've done an awesome job with editing this. I think this is the best editing job of the year!
If you don't mind my asking, how did you become so well versed in Biblical allusions? Are you raised a Christian, or did you study specifically for this? I'm always encouraging students to search for authenticity, which you have truly nailed, so if you aren't raised in the deeply Christian environment, then I'm very keen to know how you made this work for you!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 10:27:10 pm
Rest up Elyse!! Being sick is no fun at all :(
If you or anyone else has extra time I'd love if you could take a look at my work! I've just written it and would love a fresh pair of eyes to read it and see if it makes sense and speaks to them before I submit it to my teacher.
Hello! Thank you for your well wishes and patience :)
My thoughts are in bold font in the spoiler below, and then I'll leave a comment at the end :)
Spoiler
Another month, two weeks and three days, you think to yourself as you laboriously clean the whiteboard. 48 more days of arts ‘n’ crafts, heads-up-thumbs-down I always thought it was "heads down, thumbs up"? and storytime and then you can finally be on your way to cherries and pistachios on the couch and reruns of Grey’s Anatomy with your over-sized belly. 47 days after today, you think.
‘Good morning Miss Applebee,’ the children chime in perfect sing-a-long unison as the bell rings. You put on your biggest, widest smile but you feel that little swoop again, hear the echoing singularity of Miss like the hissing of a coiling snake, a very pregnant single snake. Even King cobras stay to help raise the young of the world’s most poisonous snake, you realise morosely as you catch sight of the National Geographic posters hanging around the classroom.
‘Is everyone ready for their show-and-tell?’ you ask, knowing full well that every child is too excited for show-and-tell Friday to forget to bring their objects. A mad scramble to their cubbies ensues as they reach for their photos and toys and picture books. You keep a wary eye on them, making sure they don’t bring in anything sharp or toxic. The other staff still gossip about how Karen was let go because a girl had brought in scissors and had cut hair off her classmates. Personally you don’t think it was Karen’s fault, but apparently the girl with the bald patch had lawyers for parents and besides, everyone knows the school is in debt because of the budget cuts. You tell yourself that as long as nothing goes wrong they can’t sack you and they have no power over your maternity leave and they can’t touch the $657 per week you’ll be owed.
Angelica is first to volunteer. She brings out a shoebox from which she takes out two Barbie dolls. The girls in the class coo appreciatively over the plastic toy as she boasts about how they’re limited edition and real "real expensive" is more colloquial than "really expensive" - and because it isn't the first person narration reading this, I think you should stay out of the slight colloquialism,expensive. You shudder internally at the thought of raising such a brat and wait impatiently for four minutes before you assertively remind her that time’s up and its Jimmy’s turn now. She sulks at being interrupted and insists her object is far more interesting than Jimmy’s pet rock. Jimmy blushes deep crimson while the class laughs at him and he just stands there as still and as ashen as the rock he’s holding.
You gently ask him where it’s from.
“It’s…it’s from my parents’ garden,” he stammers, unconsciously rubbing the angry red splotches that cover his skinny arms.
You should have known to be more sensitive. More careful. More alert. But the hormones get to you and you ask him why he keeps a rock from his parents’ garden.
‘Because they’re dead.”
A hush falls over the classroom like the wave of a tsunami. The air is pregnant with a bloated silence, for in the void of sound the shallowness of their childish conversations lay bare. You unconsciously seek your abdomen for reassurance and you are just about to offer your condolences when Angelica breaks the blanket of sound.
‘Grimmy –Jimmy! Jim’s the Grim!’
The class hesitantly giggles, unsure of what else to do.
‘That’s quite enough, Angelica,” you chide her. “No more arts ‘n’ crafts for you today.”
Her angry eyes flash first in retaliation at you but then you see her glare at Jimmy, who sits cross-legged with all the blood drained from his face. She whispers to her friend, takes something out of her shoebox and nods in his direction.
You relax, thinking this brief lapse of conflict is over, and send the children out to play.
When you supervise children, it’s like watching a younger, happier version of yourself roam free. No bills, no mortgage, no groceries. Just child’s play. You’ve often wondered why it is we have children in the first place. And you’ve come to the conclusion that at some point in our lives we realize realise, *we screwed up. Irreparably. So we want to start again. And have children. Little versions of ourselves we can scold and nurture and feed and tell them to achieve what we could not. Succeed where we could not. Someone to get it right this time around. Your hand protectively drifts to your middle and in the midst of the skipping and giggling and chasing of the noisy children you silently promise to do everything you can to give him a better life, even without his father.
A tentative hand taps your elbow. Your eyes swivel down to find Jimmy, who is shorter and scrawnier than others his age.
“I think they’re trying to poison me,” he says matter-of-factly, holding an empty packet of one of those silica gel packets you find in products to keep them dry. The ‘DO NOT EAT’ glares warningly from the packaging, but in his other hand Jimmy holds a sandwich with tiny, almost invisible beads you can only see because he has picked the bread apart.
Your heart thumps quickly as your mind skims through its memories of where these packets belong. Handbags, jewelry, heels…shoeboxes. Jimmy stares up at you expectantly.
You’ve always hated confrontation. You hated it back in sixth grade when Sophia didn’t pay back the money she borrowed from you, or when you asked Tom to be your formal date, or that day you asked the boss for a pay rise. It just isn’t in your nature. But when a young boy stands before you, asking for help, you just can’t say no. So your eyes search for Angelica. You catch the long, golden ponytail that shines even from here and you take a step closer to her, ready to berate her, put her in her place once and for all…but then you see the sun glint unmistakably on the covertly hidden patch of skin where hair used to be and you stop dead in your tracks and think about yourself. And what this means. And what it could mean.
So you turn back to the boy who’s staring desperately at you and you tell him not to worry about it; it was only child’s play. A silly joke. No harm done. And you see what little light remains in his eyes go out like a light bulb bursting and you’ve disappointed him like everyone else in his life and you want to fix it for him, truly you do, but you also know you really need that money and can’t afford for anything to go wrong. So all you can do is offer him a hug which he dodges and you can only watch as he runs away from you like the plague.
At lunchtime the Year 4 teacher offers to watch over your students so you can have a minute to yourself and eat for the two of you. The staff room is quiet except for the low drone of the microwave and the ticking of the clock so you have nothing to distract you from what happened earlier today. As you dig into your pumpkin soup with a hunger you didn’t realize realise* you have, you ponder on how you’re going to make it right for Jimmy because you know what you did was wrong. But just as you reach the end of your soup you find these tiny, almost invisible beads in the dregs of pumpkin and you nearly heave up everything in you. Your hand shakes as badly as your grandmother’s arthritis as you find the number for the Poisons Information Centre.
“Hello, how can we help you today?”
“Are…are those silica gel packets toxic?”
“No madam, the granular silicic acid is non-toxic-“
“-what happens if you’re with child?” you interrupt.
“With child? Oh dear…I’ll have to check with a doctor on that one, let me put you on hold.”
And as you wait your panic rises and your vision blurs and you see Jimmy looking through the window of the staff room and you know once and for all, this isn’t child’s play.
‘Good morning Miss Applebee,’ the children chime in perfect sing-a-long unison as the bell rings. You put on your biggest, widest smile but you feel that little swoop again, hear the echoing singularity of Miss like the hissing of a coiling snake, a very pregnant single snake. Even King cobras stay to help raise the young of the world’s most poisonous snake, you realise morosely as you catch sight of the National Geographic posters hanging around the classroom.
‘Is everyone ready for their show-and-tell?’ you ask, knowing full well that every child is too excited for show-and-tell Friday to forget to bring their objects. A mad scramble to their cubbies ensues as they reach for their photos and toys and picture books. You keep a wary eye on them, making sure they don’t bring in anything sharp or toxic. The other staff still gossip about how Karen was let go because a girl had brought in scissors and had cut hair off her classmates. Personally you don’t think it was Karen’s fault, but apparently the girl with the bald patch had lawyers for parents and besides, everyone knows the school is in debt because of the budget cuts. You tell yourself that as long as nothing goes wrong they can’t sack you and they have no power over your maternity leave and they can’t touch the $657 per week you’ll be owed.
Angelica is first to volunteer. She brings out a shoebox from which she takes out two Barbie dolls. The girls in the class coo appreciatively over the plastic toy as she boasts about how they’re limited edition and real "real expensive" is more colloquial than "really expensive" - and because it isn't the first person narration reading this, I think you should stay out of the slight colloquialism,expensive. You shudder internally at the thought of raising such a brat and wait impatiently for four minutes before you assertively remind her that time’s up and its Jimmy’s turn now. She sulks at being interrupted and insists her object is far more interesting than Jimmy’s pet rock. Jimmy blushes deep crimson while the class laughs at him and he just stands there as still and as ashen as the rock he’s holding.
You gently ask him where it’s from.
“It’s…it’s from my parents’ garden,” he stammers, unconsciously rubbing the angry red splotches that cover his skinny arms.
You should have known to be more sensitive. More careful. More alert. But the hormones get to you and you ask him why he keeps a rock from his parents’ garden.
‘Because they’re dead.”
A hush falls over the classroom like the wave of a tsunami. The air is pregnant with a bloated silence, for in the void of sound the shallowness of their childish conversations lay bare. You unconsciously seek your abdomen for reassurance and you are just about to offer your condolences when Angelica breaks the blanket of sound.
‘Grimmy –Jimmy! Jim’s the Grim!’
The class hesitantly giggles, unsure of what else to do.
‘That’s quite enough, Angelica,” you chide her. “No more arts ‘n’ crafts for you today.”
Her angry eyes flash first in retaliation at you but then you see her glare at Jimmy, who sits cross-legged with all the blood drained from his face. She whispers to her friend, takes something out of her shoebox and nods in his direction.
You relax, thinking this brief lapse of conflict is over, and send the children out to play.
When you supervise children, it’s like watching a younger, happier version of yourself roam free. No bills, no mortgage, no groceries. Just child’s play. You’ve often wondered why it is we have children in the first place. And you’ve come to the conclusion that at some point in our lives we realize realise, *we screwed up. Irreparably. So we want to start again. And have children. Little versions of ourselves we can scold and nurture and feed and tell them to achieve what we could not. Succeed where we could not. Someone to get it right this time around. Your hand protectively drifts to your middle and in the midst of the skipping and giggling and chasing of the noisy children you silently promise to do everything you can to give him a better life, even without his father.
A tentative hand taps your elbow. Your eyes swivel down to find Jimmy, who is shorter and scrawnier than others his age.
“I think they’re trying to poison me,” he says matter-of-factly, holding an empty packet of one of those silica gel packets you find in products to keep them dry. The ‘DO NOT EAT’ glares warningly from the packaging, but in his other hand Jimmy holds a sandwich with tiny, almost invisible beads you can only see because he has picked the bread apart.
Your heart thumps quickly as your mind skims through its memories of where these packets belong. Handbags, jewelry, heels…shoeboxes. Jimmy stares up at you expectantly.
You’ve always hated confrontation. You hated it back in sixth grade when Sophia didn’t pay back the money she borrowed from you, or when you asked Tom to be your formal date, or that day you asked the boss for a pay rise. It just isn’t in your nature. But when a young boy stands before you, asking for help, you just can’t say no. So your eyes search for Angelica. You catch the long, golden ponytail that shines even from here and you take a step closer to her, ready to berate her, put her in her place once and for all…but then you see the sun glint unmistakably on the covertly hidden patch of skin where hair used to be and you stop dead in your tracks and think about yourself. And what this means. And what it could mean.
So you turn back to the boy who’s staring desperately at you and you tell him not to worry about it; it was only child’s play. A silly joke. No harm done. And you see what little light remains in his eyes go out like a light bulb bursting and you’ve disappointed him like everyone else in his life and you want to fix it for him, truly you do, but you also know you really need that money and can’t afford for anything to go wrong. So all you can do is offer him a hug which he dodges and you can only watch as he runs away from you like the plague.
At lunchtime the Year 4 teacher offers to watch over your students so you can have a minute to yourself and eat for the two of you. The staff room is quiet except for the low drone of the microwave and the ticking of the clock so you have nothing to distract you from what happened earlier today. As you dig into your pumpkin soup with a hunger you didn’t realize realise* you have, you ponder on how you’re going to make it right for Jimmy because you know what you did was wrong. But just as you reach the end of your soup you find these tiny, almost invisible beads in the dregs of pumpkin and you nearly heave up everything in you. Your hand shakes as badly as your grandmother’s arthritis as you find the number for the Poisons Information Centre.
“Hello, how can we help you today?”
“Are…are those silica gel packets toxic?”
“No madam, the granular silicic acid is non-toxic-“
“-what happens if you’re with child?” you interrupt.
“With child? Oh dear…I’ll have to check with a doctor on that one, let me put you on hold.”
And as you wait your panic rises and your vision blurs and you see Jimmy looking through the window of the staff room and you know once and for all, this isn’t child’s play.
I did not want to interrupt this story for a single second. I was completely enthralled. I think the second person narration works for you 100%! It is so strong in engaging the reader. I was forced, in the most artful way, to understand what this teacher was going through.
Your writing has so much character. I think, again, the second person narration works so well because it creates a distance so that I'm guided on a story, not forced to be a part of it. I'm invited. There is only one structural flaw I want to suggest. I believe that most teacher's know if there is a child in their class that has deceased parents. So when she asks about the parent's garden, I think it becomes a structural fault in the piece. And, seeing as the people marking your work may be teachers, it might stick out to them as a little peculiar. Of course, your story is brilliant overall, but you don't want to give a marker any little thing to latch on to and leave them with an unpleasant after taste - although this is a really small thing. Maybe it can be as simple as the boy saying that he keeps the pet rock because his parent's don't play with him. Or something like that. This adds early on to his psychotic nature. Dammit Jimmy! Such a creepy little boy. You painted him perfectly when he suggested someone tried to poison him. I could see his character perfectly.
In terms of discovery, we discover that Jimmy is crazy. There is a physical discovery found there. Although I immensely enjoyed your story, how do you think you will incorporate a stimulus that prompts a spiritual, emotional, intellectual discovery, or a discovery that is intensely meaningful?
If it requests that you talk about discoveries as being transformative, I think you could add a little something extra at the end to flesh out the reasons behind Jimmy's behaviour, like you're doubling back through the events to see where this could have been prevented, what you, as a teacher, could have done.
I'm raising this not to frighten you, but just to get you thinking about this early on so that you can make these adaptations while you are in the early stage son your work :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 27, 2016, 12:36:04 am
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 27, 2016, 10:31:38 pm
Hey Elyse/Jamon i was just wondering if either one of you could take a look at my creative writing piece any corrections would be greatly appreciated thank you in advance :)
Hi! Did you see the feedback on the previous page? Scroll back on page on this thread and you have feedback! It's the 9th post from the top. Let me know if you have any questions! :)
Post by: marynguyen18 on July 27, 2016, 10:38:59 pm
Post by: studybuddy7777 on July 30, 2016, 02:05:22 pm
I'm just wondering if you could mark this (preferably before my trials on monday :-\) and give the amazing feedback you also do!
Some general questions:
1. Do I change tense too much?
2. Is this the appropriate text type?
3. Does it flow well?
4. Is this a good creative piece for an Advanced student doing Discovery?
5. I know I need a better conclusion, do you have any pointers on how to improve it and avoid cliches?
6. Is this long enough? Im seeing some of the creative pieces on here and mine looks so short
Please also check any grammar/spelling mistakes.
Just some info: I planned for 10 mins and wrote for 30 upon viewing an unseen stimulus.
Thank you :)
Aos creative writing (under 40 mins exam conds)
In the bottom of the box lay an old dog eared photo album of a life much happier and complete than this. When he had no cares in the world, perfectly healthy with his friends coming around to do such trivial things like kicking a ball or egging his least favourite teacher's car. Back in the days when he was young, wild and free.
As he filtered through the photo album, the crinkling of pages reminded him about how many tears he had shed over them. As he reminisced of the times, the photos came to life in his memory. He saw his third person self stoked that he had topped the class in English, a proud face when he went up to receive his award for his efforts. There were a few darker moments where he didn't look happy about the marks he had achieved from early secondary school. Looking back on them, he had to ask himself why he was so worried about such petty things.
On the last page of the album sat a sleeve full of documents and writings; nothing that could be classified a picture. He looked through them carefully and as he was flicking through some and reading others it was if they were made of gold. Shiny; help of newly formed and shed tears, long sought after but hard to find and even harder to lift.
He heard movement and shut the album with a snap so quickly he spooked himself. He quickly started repacking the other things into the box, amongst them being his favourite book from primary school, a letter, his last in fact, from his biological mother and father and his teddy bear. His bear heavy as lead as the intensity of the wondrous memories came flooding back to him. His teddy was always there for him when there was no-one else and it stares at him now with the soft, forgiving eyes of a mother. He could have sworn it nodded and winked at him as he placed him gently back into the wooden box, careful not to rip his teddy's arm any further than it already was due to the many years of love and affection. It was like the teddy bear understood he had moved on from him quickly, and was perfectly okay with it. The footsteps come down and the stairs creak and moan from overuse and age. A moment of indecision of whether to greet them or hide from them. As the intruder comes around the corner, he slowly comes to the realisation that it is not a real person but his mother's spirit advising him to keep calm and carry on, a poster he had once stuck on the back of his door, which remained there until he could no longer do what it instructed. His mother's smiling eyes look down on him and she whispers something in his ear that immediately puts him at peace and makes him feel better. The spirit of his mother is already receding, almost gone and he wonders to himself if it was actually real. Then he tells himself it does not really matter. When the spirit fades, he has a strong urge right then to go back to the park where he and his dad used to play when he was a kid. His dad used to carry him on his shoulders and he would pretend to be flying, and truly believed then that anything was possible and he could do anything he put his mind to.
[As he goes outside for the first time in what feels like ages, a warm breeze wraps around him like a hug and warms him up from the inside. As the sun shows it peak between the two buildings he comes to the understanding that he cannot just simply wait it out, head in the sand and hope it goes away. The only way to move on is to keep calm and carry on, just like his mother told him to.]
Post by: kamstermac0312 on July 30, 2016, 02:33:24 pm
I know it is currently 1300 words, i need to cut it down but first would like feedback on it as a whole
Thanks
Post by: studybuddy7777 on July 30, 2016, 03:15:56 pm
Hey, i would greatly appreciate it if someone could mark my discovery creative
I know it is currently 1300 words, i need to cut it down but first would like feedback on it as a whole
Thanks
Hey kamstermac0312, welcome to atarnotes forums!! Im sure youll love the notes and feedback offered here! However.. Jamon has recently changed the posting requirements.
So unfortunately youll have to accumulate 14 more posts. But fortunately, there is a "make your first post" that counts as a post, lots of forums on different topics. If you ask a question, that counts. If you answer a question, that counts. If you provide any advice that counts.
Youll get those few more posts in no time!!
Attention! The essay marking requirements have been updated, in effect for every creative piece posted below this mark ;D The post exchange rate has now been increased to 15, that is, every piece of feedback is now worth 15 posts. 3 essays marked needs 45 ATAR Notes posts, 10 essays needs 150 posts, etc etc. The full essay rules are available at this link! Thanks everyone! ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 30, 2016, 04:02:49 pm
Hi All!!
I'm just wondering if you could mark this (preferably before my trials on monday :-\) and give the amazing feedback you also do!
Some general questions:
1. Do I change tense too much?
2. Is this the appropriate text type?
3. Does it flow well?
4. Is this a good creative piece for an Advanced student doing Discovery?
5. I know I need a better conclusion, do you have any pointers on how to improve it and avoid cliches?
6. Is this long enough? Im seeing some of the creative pieces on here and mine looks so short
Please also check any grammar/spelling mistakes.
Just some info: I planned for 10 mins and wrote for 30 upon viewing an unseen stimulus.
Hey there! It just so happens that I'm online as you posted this, so the feedback is fairly immediate! In your exam, try to cut down that planning time to 5 minutes max. The difference that you can make in that extra five minutes of writing is potentially an entire plot twist! Answering number six of your questions...this is a short creative. That doesn't mean its bad, but I think it is a reflection of your ten minute planning time. If you struggle with planning a creative on the spot, try and see if you can buy time in the unseen text section of the essay section to give you some more space here. Don't sabotage your other marks, but if you have a strength somewhere, try give some of that love to your creative. The criteria for a marker doesn't specify a length, so you're not in trouble there. The only reason you'd be cutting yourself short is that you are just literally giving yourself less wiggle room to show your stuff. Some people will write 1200 words of pure greatness, some people will write 1000 words, 750 of which are good, and some people will write 600 words of incredible writing. It totally depends. But, the more you write, the more chance you give yourself to gain the extra marks. But this is only true to a certain extent of course. Ok, enough about length, and let's see the actual work :)
Spoiler
In the bottom of the box lay an old dog eared photo album of a life much happier and complete than this. When he had no cares in the world, perfectly healthy This doesn't link smoothly. Are you saying, "When he had no cares in the world, he was perfectly healthy, and he has friends come around to do such trivial things..."with his friends coming around to do such trivial things like kicking a ball or egging his least favourite teacher's car. Back in the days when he was young, wild and free. Because "young, wild, and free" is a cliche term, I'm inclined to ask you to substitute at least one word in the trio to something more original, that adds a unique aspect to your work.
As he filtered through the photo album, the crinkling of pages reminded him about how many tears he had shed over them. As he reminisced of the times, the photos came to life in his memory. He saw his third person ?? Not sure what this means? self stoked that he had topped the class in English, a proud face when he went up to receive his award for his efforts. There were a few darker moments where he didn't look happy about the marks he had achieved from early secondary school. Looking back on them, he had to ask himself why he was so worried about such petty things.
On the last page of the album sat a sleeve full of documents and writings; nothing that could be classified a picture. He looked through them carefully and as he was flicking through some and reading others it was if they were made of gold. Shiny; help of newly formed and shed tears, long sought after but hard to find and even harder to lift.
He heard movement and shut the album with a snap so quickly he spooked himself. He quickly started repacking the other things into the box, amongst them being his favourite book from primary school, a letter, his last in fact, from his biological mother and father and his teddy bear. Just review this sentence and see how jarred it is because of the punctuation. Perhaps we could look at it more like this: "He quickly started repacking the other things into the box. Among them was his favourite possession from primary school, a teddy bear and a letter from his biological parents. The last letter from his biological parents." <<We could even emphasise the "the last letter..." by putting it on its own line below. This shows a comfort in manipulating form! His bear was as heavy as lead as the intensity of the wondrous memories came flooding back to him. His teddy was always there for him when there was no-one else and it stares at him now with the soft, forgiving eyes of a mother. He could have sworn it nodded and winked at him as he placed him gently back into the wooden box, careful not to rip his teddy's arm any further than it already was due to the many years of love and affection. You've got a very powerful sentence, and then there's this large chunk on the end. I think the large chunk is great, don't get me wrong, but when it is paired with the first half of the sentence it appears like a dead weight. Consider adjusting the phrasing and giving it its own sentence :) It was like the teddy bear understood he had moved on from him quickly, and was perfectly okay with it. The footsteps come down and the stairs creak and moan from overuse and age. I'd drop a line here to bring suspense to the story! A moment of indecision of whether to greet them or hide from them. As the intruder comes around the corner, he slowly comes to the realisation that it is not a real person but his mother's spirit advising him to keep calm and carry on, a poster he had once stuck on the back of his door, which remained there until he could no longer do what it instructed. I'm going to suggest a rephrasing of this, because, like the last sentence I commented on, we are cramming too much in to a sentence which means the second half isn't as appreciated as the first half. "As the intruder comes around the corner, he slowly comes to the realisation that his mum's spirit is advising him to keep calm. The spirit brings to mind the red poster on my childhood door: "Keep calm and carry on." The mantra remained on the door until it no longer could be followed in all its simplicity." His mother's smiling eyes look down on him and she whispers something in his ear that immediately puts him at peace and makes him feel better. The spirit of his mother is already receding, almost gone and he wonders to himself if it was actually real. Then he tells himself it does not really matter. When the spirit fades, he has a strong urge right then to go back to the park where he and his dad used to play when he was a kid. His dad used to carry him on his shoulders and he would pretend to be flying, and truly believed then that anything was possible and he could do anything he put his mind to.
[As he goes outside for the first time in what feels like ages, a warm breeze wraps around him like a hug and warms him up from the inside. As the sun shows it peak between the two buildings he comes to the understanding that he cannot just simply wait it out, head in the sand and hope it goes away. The only way to move on is to keep calm and carry on, just like his mother told him to.]
As he filtered through the photo album, the crinkling of pages reminded him about how many tears he had shed over them. As he reminisced of the times, the photos came to life in his memory. He saw his third person ?? Not sure what this means? self stoked that he had topped the class in English, a proud face when he went up to receive his award for his efforts. There were a few darker moments where he didn't look happy about the marks he had achieved from early secondary school. Looking back on them, he had to ask himself why he was so worried about such petty things.
On the last page of the album sat a sleeve full of documents and writings; nothing that could be classified a picture. He looked through them carefully and as he was flicking through some and reading others it was if they were made of gold. Shiny; help of newly formed and shed tears, long sought after but hard to find and even harder to lift.
He heard movement and shut the album with a snap so quickly he spooked himself. He quickly started repacking the other things into the box, amongst them being his favourite book from primary school, a letter, his last in fact, from his biological mother and father and his teddy bear. Just review this sentence and see how jarred it is because of the punctuation. Perhaps we could look at it more like this: "He quickly started repacking the other things into the box. Among them was his favourite possession from primary school, a teddy bear and a letter from his biological parents. The last letter from his biological parents." <<We could even emphasise the "the last letter..." by putting it on its own line below. This shows a comfort in manipulating form! His bear was as heavy as lead as the intensity of the wondrous memories came flooding back to him. His teddy was always there for him when there was no-one else and it stares at him now with the soft, forgiving eyes of a mother. He could have sworn it nodded and winked at him as he placed him gently back into the wooden box, careful not to rip his teddy's arm any further than it already was due to the many years of love and affection. You've got a very powerful sentence, and then there's this large chunk on the end. I think the large chunk is great, don't get me wrong, but when it is paired with the first half of the sentence it appears like a dead weight. Consider adjusting the phrasing and giving it its own sentence :) It was like the teddy bear understood he had moved on from him quickly, and was perfectly okay with it. The footsteps come down and the stairs creak and moan from overuse and age. I'd drop a line here to bring suspense to the story! A moment of indecision of whether to greet them or hide from them. As the intruder comes around the corner, he slowly comes to the realisation that it is not a real person but his mother's spirit advising him to keep calm and carry on, a poster he had once stuck on the back of his door, which remained there until he could no longer do what it instructed. I'm going to suggest a rephrasing of this, because, like the last sentence I commented on, we are cramming too much in to a sentence which means the second half isn't as appreciated as the first half. "As the intruder comes around the corner, he slowly comes to the realisation that his mum's spirit is advising him to keep calm. The spirit brings to mind the red poster on my childhood door: "Keep calm and carry on." The mantra remained on the door until it no longer could be followed in all its simplicity." His mother's smiling eyes look down on him and she whispers something in his ear that immediately puts him at peace and makes him feel better. The spirit of his mother is already receding, almost gone and he wonders to himself if it was actually real. Then he tells himself it does not really matter. When the spirit fades, he has a strong urge right then to go back to the park where he and his dad used to play when he was a kid. His dad used to carry him on his shoulders and he would pretend to be flying, and truly believed then that anything was possible and he could do anything he put his mind to.
[As he goes outside for the first time in what feels like ages, a warm breeze wraps around him like a hug and warms him up from the inside. As the sun shows it peak between the two buildings he comes to the understanding that he cannot just simply wait it out, head in the sand and hope it goes away. The only way to move on is to keep calm and carry on, just like his mother told him to.]
I think this flows well, because I was never caught thinking "wait, how did we get to here?" But, as I pointed out above, there are times when the sentences just flow for too long. This isn't an uncommon problem, let it be known! It is so tempting to write something like that in exam conditions, because you're just trying to get down as much as possible in that short time that you forget how long your sentence already is!
The discovery is there, but I think it could be enhanced. I'm not sure who the intruder is? Perhaps we could ground the story in a setting, explaining why he was going through the photos? If you give purpose to the protagonist going through the photos, then it seems more than just a coincidence that the spirit arrived in that time. Perhaps describe him as incredibly frail, or in his deathly days, but make it more than just age. Is he about to die? Is it the anniversary of his parent's death?
Then answer questions like, why is this about biological parents? Because it isn't explained who his non-biological parents are, it is just as effective to imply that the parent's died young in a car accident or something like that. So your story flows well, and the tense isn't a problem, but it is more just about beefing up the bones of the essay earlier on to bring a level of cohesiveness in to the story. You just need to tie it all together to enhance the discovery!
I kind of have an idea that perhaps they were all in a car accident, a boating accident, or something like that, when he was young. And he isn't actually an old man now, but perhaps just a 25 year old. His parents died, and he became severely disabled. This way, he is battling with a depression about living his life. As he sorts through the photos, he finds a renewed confidence. Then, the conclusion can stay as is, but it is enhanced because the disabled man is now walking, because he is guided by the spirit of his parents.
This is a suggestion, it doesn't need to be taken on board completely! I think your work has all of the elements in place, it's just about putting meat on the bones now to make it a stellar effort! What do you think? Hopefully this makes some sense!
Post by: studybuddy7777 on July 30, 2016, 04:19:06 pm
Hey there! It just so happens that I'm online as you posted this, so the feedback is fairly immediate! In your exam, try to cut down that planning time to 5 minutes max. The difference that you can make in that extra five minutes of writing is potentially an entire plot twist! Answering number six of your questions...this is a short creative. That doesn't mean its bad, but I think it is a reflection of your ten minute planning time. If you struggle with planning a creative on the spot, try and see if you can buy time in the unseen text section of the essay section to give you some more space here. Don't sabotage your other marks, but if you have a strength somewhere, try give some of that love to your creative. The criteria for a marker doesn't specify a length, so you're not in trouble there. The only reason you'd be cutting yourself short is that you are just literally giving yourself less wiggle room to show your stuff. Some people will write 1200 words of pure greatness, some people will write 1000 words, 750 of which are good, and some people will write 600 words of incredible writing. It totally depends. But, the more you write, the more chance you give yourself to gain the extra marks. But this is only true to a certain extent of course. Ok, enough about length, and let's see the actual work :)SpoilerIn the bottom of the box lay an old dog eared photo album of a life much happier and complete than this. When he had no cares in the world, perfectly healthy This doesn't link smoothly. Are you saying, "When he had no cares in the world, he was perfectly healthy, and he has friends come around to do such trivial things..."with his friends coming around to do such trivial things like kicking a ball or egging his least favourite teacher's car. Back in the days when he was young, wild and free. Because "young, wild, and free" is a cliche term, I'm inclined to ask you to substitute at least one word in the trio to something more original, that adds a unique aspect to your work.
As he filtered through the photo album, the crinkling of pages reminded him about how many tears he had shed over them. As he reminisced of the times, the photos came to life in his memory. He saw his third person ?? Not sure what this means? self stoked that he had topped the class in English, a proud face when he went up to receive his award for his efforts. There were a few darker moments where he didn't look happy about the marks he had achieved from early secondary school. Looking back on them, he had to ask himself why he was so worried about such petty things.
On the last page of the album sat a sleeve full of documents and writings; nothing that could be classified a picture. He looked through them carefully and as he was flicking through some and reading others it was if they were made of gold. Shiny; help of newly formed and shed tears, long sought after but hard to find and even harder to lift.
He heard movement and shut the album with a snap so quickly he spooked himself. He quickly started repacking the other things into the box, amongst them being his favourite book from primary school, a letter, his last in fact, from his biological mother and father and his teddy bear. Just review this sentence and see how jarred it is because of the punctuation. Perhaps we could look at it more like this: "He quickly started repacking the other things into the box. Among them was his favourite possession from primary school, a teddy bear and a letter from his biological parents. The last letter from his biological parents." <<We could even emphasise the "the last letter..." by putting it on its own line below. This shows a comfort in manipulating form! His bear was as heavy as lead as the intensity of the wondrous memories came flooding back to him. His teddy was always there for him when there was no-one else and it stares at him now with the soft, forgiving eyes of a mother. He could have sworn it nodded and winked at him as he placed him gently back into the wooden box, careful not to rip his teddy's arm any further than it already was due to the many years of love and affection. You've got a very powerful sentence, and then there's this large chunk on the end. I think the large chunk is great, don't get me wrong, but when it is paired with the first half of the sentence it appears like a dead weight. Consider adjusting the phrasing and giving it its own sentence :) It was like the teddy bear understood he had moved on from him quickly, and was perfectly okay with it. The footsteps come down and the stairs creak and moan from overuse and age. I'd drop a line here to bring suspense to the story! A moment of indecision of whether to greet them or hide from them. As the intruder comes around the corner, he slowly comes to the realisation that it is not a real person but his mother's spirit advising him to keep calm and carry on, a poster he had once stuck on the back of his door, which remained there until he could no longer do what it instructed. I'm going to suggest a rephrasing of this, because, like the last sentence I commented on, we are cramming too much in to a sentence which means the second half isn't as appreciated as the first half. "As the intruder comes around the corner, he slowly comes to the realisation that his mum's spirit is advising him to keep calm. The spirit brings to mind the red poster on my childhood door: "Keep calm and carry on." The mantra remained on the door until it no longer could be followed in all its simplicity." His mother's smiling eyes look down on him and she whispers something in his ear that immediately puts him at peace and makes him feel better. The spirit of his mother is already receding, almost gone and he wonders to himself if it was actually real. Then he tells himself it does not really matter. When the spirit fades, he has a strong urge right then to go back to the park where he and his dad used to play when he was a kid. His dad used to carry him on his shoulders and he would pretend to be flying, and truly believed then that anything was possible and he could do anything he put his mind to.
[As he goes outside for the first time in what feels like ages, a warm breeze wraps around him like a hug and warms him up from the inside. As the sun shows it peak between the two buildings he comes to the understanding that he cannot just simply wait it out, head in the sand and hope it goes away. The only way to move on is to keep calm and carry on, just like his mother told him to.]
I think this flows well, because I was never caught thinking "wait, how did we get to here?" But, as I pointed out above, there are times when the sentences just flow for too long. This isn't an uncommon problem, let it be known! It is so tempting to write something like that in exam conditions, because you're just trying to get down as much as possible in that short time that you forget how long your sentence already is!
The discovery is there, but I think it could be enhanced. I'm not sure who the intruder is? Perhaps we could ground the story in a setting, explaining why he was going through the photos? If you give purpose to the protagonist going through the photos, then it seems more than just a coincidence that the spirit arrived in that time. Perhaps describe him as incredibly frail, or in his deathly days, but make it more than just age. Is he about to die? Is it the anniversary of his parent's death?
Then answer questions like, why is this about biological parents? Because it isn't explained who his non-biological parents are, it is just as effective to imply that the parent's died young in a car accident or something like that. So your story flows well, and the tense isn't a problem, but it is more just about beefing up the bones of the essay earlier on to bring a level of cohesiveness in to the story. You just need to tie it all together to enhance the discovery!
I kind of have an idea that perhaps they were all in a car accident, a boating accident, or something like that, when he was young. And he isn't actually an old man now, but perhaps just a 25 year old. His parents died, and he became severely disabled. This way, he is battling with a depression about living his life. As he sorts through the photos, he finds a renewed confidence. Then, the conclusion can stay as is, but it is enhanced because the disabled man is now walking, because he is guided by the spirit of his parents.
This is a suggestion, it doesn't need to be taken on board completely! I think your work has all of the elements in place, it's just about putting meat on the bones now to make it a stellar effort! What do you think? Hopefully this makes some sense!
Firstly thanks so much for replying so quickly!!
Secondly, it never fails to amaze me how many implications you can draw from such a short piece ;D
You hit the nail on the head in bold, but I just have to be careful because writing about disability, depression and death is a minefield and so many people do this badly and just comes off like teen angst
(At least that is what my teacher told me. My teacher also told me to plan for 10, write for 30 for a creative writing).
I'll get the sentences fixed up but do you consider me memorising this after I get it all sorted? Eg answering the above questions youve given me?
Your feedback is truly amazing and it all makes sense!
Thanks again!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 30, 2016, 04:31:34 pm
Firstly thanks so much for replying so quickly!!
Secondly, it never fails to amaze me how many implications you can draw from such a short piece ;D
You hit the nail on the head in bold, but I just have to be careful because writing about disability, depression and death is a minefield and so many people do this badly and just comes off like teen angst
(At least that is what my teacher told me. My teacher also told me to plan for 10, write for 30 for a creative writing).
I'll get the sentences fixed up but do you consider me memorising this after I get it all sorted? Eg answering the above questions youve given me?
Your feedback is truly amazing and it all makes sense!
Thanks again!
You're 100% correct that death, disability, etc is a bit of a minefield. I think with the right delicacy you can do it. The main trouble with this topic comes about when someone who has never experienced any of it, writes emotively about the implications. A simple one sentence reflection of the implications of such a thing is fine and not crossing any line, and I think the nature of your work allows for that very simplistic but meaningful moment. Perhaps you don't have to even say what kind of accident the family was involved in, but potentially just allude to an event that took your parents and left you like a hermit. Which is another idea, perhaps you don't have to be physically hurt, but you've reclused from society because it all seems too dangerous?
I think if you can adjust this to beef it up, then committing it to memory is not a bad idea at all. That means that you'll be able to use as much of the 40 minutes as possible, only spending a few minutes to work out what needs to be adapted in order to suit the stimulus. Of course, you don't need to remember it word for word, but just becoming comfortable enough with it so that you can respond to the stimulus, without wasting too much time trying to think of what to write! :)
Post by: studybuddy7777 on July 31, 2016, 09:10:38 am
You're 100% correct that death, disability, etc is a bit of a minefield. I think with the right delicacy you can do it. The main trouble with this topic comes about when someone who has never experienced any of it, writes emotively about the implications. A simple one sentence reflection of the implications of such a thing is fine and not crossing any line, and I think the nature of your work allows for that very simplistic but meaningful moment. Perhaps you don't have to even say what kind of accident the family was involved in, but potentially just allude to an event that took your parents and left you like a hermit. Which is another idea, perhaps you don't have to be physically hurt, but you've reclused from society because it all seems too dangerous?
I think if you can adjust this to beef it up, then committing it to memory is not a bad idea at all. That means that you'll be able to use as much of the 40 minutes as possible, only spending a few minutes to work out what needs to be adapted in order to suit the stimulus. Of course, you don't need to remember it word for word, but just becoming comfortable enough with it so that you can respond to the stimulus, without wasting too much time trying to think of what to write! :)
Thankyou for all your help with this!! I was originally writing it from a perspective that since the parents accident he has had trust issues and thinks everyone is out to get him, he is depressed and then finally goes outside for the first time since the accident. Should I introduce maybe a friend to help him get through it all at the end or will that be too cheesy ;D (<-- like this)
He wasnt in the accident so couldnt have any physical hurt (unless self-harm but thats another minefield).
See where I am coming from?
Thanks again you are an absolute legend that makes english seem that much more livable :D ;)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 31, 2016, 12:53:14 pm
Thankyou for all your help with this!! I was originally writing it from a perspective that since the parents accident he has had trust issues and thinks everyone is out to get him, he is depressed and then finally goes outside for the first time since the accident. Should I introduce maybe a friend to help him get through it all at the end or will that be too cheesy ;D (<-- like this)
He wasnt in the accident so couldnt have any physical hurt (unless self-harm but thats another minefield).
See where I am coming from?
Thanks again you are an absolute legend that makes english seem that much more livable :D ;)
Ahh yes that makes perfect sense! This makes sense about the intruder as well, but that wasn't quite clear. Try emphasise the paranoia a bit I think! Perhaps take out the "biological parent" title because it implies surrogacy, adoption or fostering. So that detracted from the accident idea. I love the paranoia idea, that he's scared to step out until he finds a moment of courage with his parent's spirit. Definitely run with that! Now you've just got to enhance the sense of him being scared, rather than there being an actual threat (which I thought the intruder was :P)
No, no, YOU'RE a legend!
Post by: franciscasabere on July 31, 2016, 03:14:43 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 31, 2016, 03:18:11 pm
Could you please please take a look at my creative writing on discovery.
Hey there! Thanks for posting your creative, welcome to the forums!! Be sure to let me know if you need anything ;D
Unfortunately you have not met the posting requirements to receive feedback. We have a post exchange policy in place to make sure the service doesn't get too clogged (essay marking rules available here). It is 15 posts per essay/creative, so if you hang around the forums for a bit, ask a few questions and have a chat (make your 'first' post here if you like), then you'll get there really quick! Just let us know when you reach the post count, and we'll give you some feedback! Thanks in Advance :D
Post by: studybuddy7777 on August 01, 2016, 06:34:04 am
Ahh yes that makes perfect sense! This makes sense about the intruder as well, but that wasn't quite clear. Try emphasise the paranoia a bit I think! Perhaps take out the "biological parent" title because it implies surrogacy, adoption or fostering. So that detracted from the accident idea. I love the paranoia idea, that he's scared to step out until he finds a moment of courage with his parent's spirit. Definitely run with that! Now you've just got to enhance the sense of him being scared, rather than there being an actual threat (which I thought the intruder was :P)
No, no, YOU'RE a legend!
Thank you (again!) for this! I will try and put all this in the creative I have to write today! My Eng Paper 1 starts at 9:00am. Not nervous at all what are you talking about... :P 😱😰
Post by: elysepopplewell on August 01, 2016, 01:56:53 pm
Thank you (again!) for this! I will try and put all this in the creative I have to write today! My Eng Paper 1 starts at 9:00am. Not nervous at all what are you talking about... :P 😱😰
Not a problem! Be sure to tell us what you thought about the paper over here!
Post by: studybuddy7777 on August 01, 2016, 05:24:03 pm
Post by: bethjomay on August 09, 2016, 05:37:55 pm
(Also my trial is tomorrow so this is a bit last minute :P)
She sat on the timber fence at the top of the beach and gazed out over the ocean. It was getting later in the afternoon as the sun swung slowly lower through a clear blue canvas. The long grass that transitioned into the sand below her swayed back and forth, tickling the bottoms of her feet. The last week had gone by so quickly she felt as though she had only just arrived back in her hometown. The trip had been a long anticipated one. The past few months had been so stressful down south, with exams, family gatherings and working extra shifts at her job for the Christmas season. Once the money was saved up she had booked tickets straight away, and the thought of coming up here again was part of what had kept her going. Everything being so crazy, she had found herself longing for a sense of home and she was sure that coming up here would satisfy that better than anything else.
On Tuesday night she had been invited to go out for drinks with a group of her old friends from high school…
She walked across the crowded bar and scanned for her friends. It hadn’t occurred to her until this point that she might not even recognise some of them, and they might not recognise her. Someone called out to her from across the room.
“Liz! Elizabeth, hey! We’re over here!” It was Marley, a girl she had never been particularly close to. She wove her way over to them and was greeted with a chorus of enthusiastic “Hello’s!” followed by many a “How are you?” and a procession of hugs. After telling everyone separately that she was well, Marley offered to buy her a drink.
“Oh thank you, that would be lovely!”
“So how’s life in the city treating you?”
“It’s good! University is crazy but I’m really enjoying my course.”
“Great! You’re living with your Aunty and Uncle right?”
“Yeah.” Re-examining the group she noticed a lack of a few faces she had been hoping to see.
“Is Drew around? I haven’t been able to get in contact him?”
“Who?”
“Drew Sommers?”
“Oh, his family moved away not long after yours! Didn’t you know?”
“No I didn’t. What about Rachel Godfrey?”
“Ah, I think she’s studying overseas, but I’m not sure, we were never really close!”
“Oh ok.” Drew and Rachel had been her closest friends when she lived there and she was left feeling oddly alone knowing they weren’t around, despite the fact they hadn’t spoken in years. After a few hours of shallow conversation she went back home, unsure how she was feeling.
On Sunday morning she went to her old church service, where her family had gone for years. She knew that a new minister had taken over recently as the Coopers had moved went to do inland mission. She sat towards the back in order to observe the church more easily. It felt much the same as when she had last been there, if a little mustier. The service itself was also quite similar, although she had only ever heard one of the songs played. What struck her most was how many young kids filled the church. The front few rows were full of families with kids running around all over the place. At morning tea she lingered in the hall, awkwardly looking for someone she could talk to. Young mothers all chatted amongst themselves as their kids ran around, eyeing Elizabeth off.
“Elizabeth? Is that you?” A frail voice behind her spoke.
“Yes, it is! Oh hello Lyn! How wonderful to see you!” The woman who had been like a grandmother to her as a child was now bent over a walking frame and had a slightly dazed look in her eyes. Elizabeth clasped her hand over one of Lyn’s.
“How are you going? I was so sorry to hear about Harold.”
“Yes, it was very hard on both of us, but I know he’s in a better place now.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Are you still at school?”
“No, I’m almost finished my university degree actually!”
“My goodness, you have grown up fast!” As she spoke a woman Elizabeth had never seen before came over to them.
“Lyn, come sit down, you’ve been standing much too long.”
“Oh, yes ok. Timothy, how are you dear?” She addressed a small child gazing up at her. Elizabeth felt like she was invading and excused herself to go talk to someone else…
Looking out at the ocean now, and reflecting on the past few days she realised that what she was feeling was not a sense of home but rather one of nostalgia. She looked at her watch and thought about all her friends in the city, and her Aunty and Uncle, who knew her just as well as she knew them. Her plane was leaving in an hour. She was going home.
Post by: olivercutbill on August 09, 2016, 09:06:32 pm
I wanted to know what your opinion on 'non-story' stories is? ie. A variety of receipts, letters, notes organised to create a story etc. Is this a good way to use a general story idea with a weird stimulus.
For this CW, the stimulus was a note which had written: "you are going to be okay, but maybe not in the way you planned to be".
You are never too free to admire something too much. The Balliol sandstone walls and long, fern lined roads, long roads promised something. University always promises something—its the system. I had done well at school, so I felt that I deserved to be there. I heard words thrown around like “anti-establishment” and “Iraq” and remembered to nod thoughtfully in the hope they would pass be as knowing. How I admired them—the true Balliol men, expensive jackets, Lattes and marbled inner-book covers. Conversations of foreign films, ‘non-linear structures’ and ‘counter-revolutions’. I always wondered what is must have felt like-
To have all the answers.
Arriving originally at Balliol, in my first years I had no answers—and you learn quickly that they are difficult to find. My first day included not being able to find my first lecture, scampering in and knocking chairs over with everyone, already, primed with their own answers which I sought desperately. Distinctly, i’ll never forget some paper which was left on my desk from the previous lecture, which I read after everything had settled around me. It’s one of those moments that stays, self-conscious of holding it as a memory, in the mind forever. Under the waves of answers and knowledge that were pouring on me during the lecture, a rafle ticket for an anxiety foundation stared up at me. It seemed like nothing thought provoking at the time—nothing much—I needed something more sophisticated and ‘non-linear’ than a small note. It said “you are going to be okay, (ridiculous american spelling), but maybe not in the way you planned to be. With that in mind, I took plato’s Republic out of my public school bag (affording me many stares from the boys in tweed) and attempted to catch my answers up with everyone else’s. I was drowning in those waves…
It did, as these things unfortunately do, (the youth really is wasted on the young) take years of Balliol before I realised everyone there was just as terrified as I was. Sure, I had learnt now how to speak with some fluency about small obscure Russian films, but couldn’t shake the fact the fact that everyone knew it was fake. Such discoveries are never straight forward however…
I learnt how to use the library and was always there. Working on papers or reading ‘Advanced literature’. It was who I wanted to be. Plato’s Republic flew onto the desk now, where that note had sat—now long forgotten—and the answers were mine. I didn’t need the dumber students. I was the student they wanted to be. I was intelligent, I dictated the conversation and I knew why ‘non-linear’ narrative structure were important. The waves of knowledge were greeted now with [A HANDSHAKE] rather than a life-vest.
I was intelligent. Of course I was. But not yet in the way I required.
My final year was centred around ‘The Republic’ and working on my last paper. In the library for hours and hours and hours and hours I remained in a chasm between two shelves of bound books. It was starting to feel as though me entire reality was there. A prison. Of…knowledge? I couldn’t know, but I needed to escape. Violently—as in the capacity we indulge the young with—I wouldn’t have it. Just as the waves of answers were looking for a new victim (they were hitherto finished with me), I called them back from a tsunami. I had to leave.
The answers were not mine. I was trapped inside a vortex of paradoxical thinking. The more I knew, the less I knew. My answers were not, my answers. They were the Balliol answers. I didn’t know how to think, I realised. I knew ‘what’ to think.
I again, in the pattern of violent changes of lifestyle with which we indulge the youth, I, the next day, swapped my latte and desk at the library for a blanket and a seat under a tree (like Newton—obviously). If I were to be in conversation with my contemporaries at Balliol, Im sure it would have seemed perfectly cliche (the mark of poor film). It didn't for me though, for at that moment, I laughed as I remembered that note, in its own cliche, with this this member already germinating in my mind and of course knew “I was going to be ok (I refused the american spelling)l just not in the way I had planned to be”.
I had my own answers. My own answers.
Post by: elysepopplewell on August 10, 2016, 01:02:21 pm
Hey! This is my potential base for a creative writing story! I know it's pretty basic but I'm not sure how to make it more complex/explore discovery more! Any feedback would be much appreciated :)
(Also my trial is tomorrow so this is a bit last minute :P)
Apologies for not getting this back to you last night! I don't get home from Uni until 9 on Tuesdays usually and I missed this! I'll give some feedback now, and then I suppose you can compare it with the feedback from your teacher after the trial, and then you can put the two together to create an improved creative?
Comments are in bold in the spoiler - and then I'll make some notes at the end :)
Spoiler
She sat on the timber fence at the top of the beach and gazed out over the ocean. It was getting later in the afternoon as the sun swung slowly lower through a clear blue canvas. The long grass that transitioned into the sand below her swayed back and forth, tickling the bottoms of her feet. I'm absolutely loving the imagery so far. I can truly imagine the long grass and the sand. How about we try and do a slight personification of the wind here? Like, "The long grass that transitioned into the sand below her was tugged by the Eastern wind and tickled her ankles." This is rough, but something to that effect, just to take the grass' movements beyond a "back and forth." Maybe the grass was dancing? Or contorting? Something just to give that little bit of imagery a slight bit more punch. Because as I said, the imagery is beautiful here because nothing is taken too far, but just a slight enhancement there won't crowd the piece, but enhance it, I think!The last week had gone by so quickly she felt as though she had only just arrived back in her hometown. The trip had been a long anticipated one. The past few months had been so stressful down south, with exams, family gatherings and working extra shifts at her job for the Christmas season. Once the money was saved up she had booked tickets straight away, and the thought of coming up here again was part of what had kept her going. Everything being so crazy, she had found herself longing for a sense of home and she was sure that coming up here would satisfy that better than anything else. I'm not sure if it is your intention to set this in an old school way, but I'm really enjoying it. You haven't necessarily told me that this was set 30+ years ago by the setting, but your really gentle tone of description being paired with the simplistic view of location. It reminds me a lot of the prescribed text that I used for Module C People and Landscapes - Brooklyn. It's really nice. It mightn't be set in the past, but I think the old school simplicity of location and writing adds such a fresh tone to this.
On Tuesday night she had been invited to go out for drinks with a group of her old friends from high school…
She walked across the crowded bar and scanned for her friends. It hadn’t occurred to her until this point that she might not even recognise some of them, and they might not recognise her. Someone called out to her from across the room.
“Liz! Elizabeth, hey! We’re over here!” It was Marley, a girl she had never been particularly close to. Shewove This is the only word so far that I'm just not gelling with.her way over to them and was greeted with a chorus of enthusiastic “Hello’s!” followed by many a “How are you?” and a procession of hugs. After telling everyone separately that she was well, Marley offered to buy her a drink.
“Oh thank you, that would be lovely!”
“So how’s life in the city treating you?”
“It’s good! University is crazy but I’m really enjoying my course.”
“Great! You’re living with your Aunty and Uncle right?”
“Yeah.” Re-examining the group she noticed a lack of a few faces she had been hoping to see.
“Is Drew around? I haven’t been able to get in contact him?”
“Who?”
“Drew Sommers?”
“Oh, his family moved away not long after yours! Didn’t you know?”
“No I didn’t. What about Rachel Godfrey?”
“Ah, I think she’s studying overseas, but I’m not sure, we were never really close!”
“Oh ok.” Drew and Rachel had been her closest friends when she lived there and she was left feeling oddly alone knowing they weren’t around, despite the fact they hadn’t spoken in years. After a few hours of shallow conversation she went back home, unsure how she was feeling. Them not being in touch on Facebook also hints to me that this is set maybe 10+ years ago.
On Sunday morning she went to her old church service, where her family had gone for years. She knew that a new minister had taken over recently as the Coopers had moved went to do inland mission. She sat towards the back in order to observe the church more easily. It felt much the same as when she had last been there, if a little mustier. The service itself was also quite similar, although she had only ever heard one of the songs played. What struck her most was how many young kids filled the church. The front few rows were full of families with kids running around all over the place. At morning tea she lingered in the hall, awkwardly looking for someone she could talk to. Young mothers all chatted amongst themselves as their kids ran around, eyeing Elizabeth off.
“Elizabeth? Is that you?” A frail voice behind her spoke.
“Yes, it is! Oh hello Lyn! How wonderful to see you!” The woman who had been like a grandmother to her as a child was now bent over a walking frame and had a slightly dazed look in her eyes. Elizabeth clasped her hand over one of Lyn’s.
“How are you going? I was so sorry to hear about Harold.”
“Yes, it was very hard on both of us, but I know he’s in a better place now.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Are you still at school?”
“No, I’m almost finished my university degree actually!”
“My goodness, you have grown up fast!” As she spoke a woman Elizabeth had never seen before came over to them.
“Lyn, come sit down, you’ve been standing much too long.”
“Oh, yes ok. Timothy, how are you dear?” She addressed a small child gazing up at her. Elizabeth felt like she was invading and excused herself to go talk to someone else…
Looking out at the ocean now, and reflecting on the past few days she realised that what she was feeling was not a sense of home but rather one of nostalgia. She looked at her watch and thought about all her friends in the city, and her Aunty and Uncle, who knew her just as well as she knew them. Her plane was leaving in an hour. She was going home.
On Tuesday night she had been invited to go out for drinks with a group of her old friends from high school…
She walked across the crowded bar and scanned for her friends. It hadn’t occurred to her until this point that she might not even recognise some of them, and they might not recognise her. Someone called out to her from across the room.
“Liz! Elizabeth, hey! We’re over here!” It was Marley, a girl she had never been particularly close to. She
“Oh thank you, that would be lovely!”
“So how’s life in the city treating you?”
“It’s good! University is crazy but I’m really enjoying my course.”
“Great! You’re living with your Aunty and Uncle right?”
“Yeah.” Re-examining the group she noticed a lack of a few faces she had been hoping to see.
“Is Drew around? I haven’t been able to get in contact him?”
“Who?”
“Drew Sommers?”
“Oh, his family moved away not long after yours! Didn’t you know?”
“No I didn’t. What about Rachel Godfrey?”
“Ah, I think she’s studying overseas, but I’m not sure, we were never really close!”
“Oh ok.” Drew and Rachel had been her closest friends when she lived there and she was left feeling oddly alone knowing they weren’t around, despite the fact they hadn’t spoken in years. After a few hours of shallow conversation she went back home, unsure how she was feeling. Them not being in touch on Facebook also hints to me that this is set maybe 10+ years ago.
On Sunday morning she went to her old church service, where her family had gone for years. She knew that a new minister had taken over recently as the Coopers had moved went to do inland mission. She sat towards the back in order to observe the church more easily. It felt much the same as when she had last been there, if a little mustier. The service itself was also quite similar, although she had only ever heard one of the songs played. What struck her most was how many young kids filled the church. The front few rows were full of families with kids running around all over the place. At morning tea she lingered in the hall, awkwardly looking for someone she could talk to. Young mothers all chatted amongst themselves as their kids ran around, eyeing Elizabeth off.
“Elizabeth? Is that you?” A frail voice behind her spoke.
“Yes, it is! Oh hello Lyn! How wonderful to see you!” The woman who had been like a grandmother to her as a child was now bent over a walking frame and had a slightly dazed look in her eyes. Elizabeth clasped her hand over one of Lyn’s.
“How are you going? I was so sorry to hear about Harold.”
“Yes, it was very hard on both of us, but I know he’s in a better place now.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Are you still at school?”
“No, I’m almost finished my university degree actually!”
“My goodness, you have grown up fast!” As she spoke a woman Elizabeth had never seen before came over to them.
“Lyn, come sit down, you’ve been standing much too long.”
“Oh, yes ok. Timothy, how are you dear?” She addressed a small child gazing up at her. Elizabeth felt like she was invading and excused herself to go talk to someone else…
Looking out at the ocean now, and reflecting on the past few days she realised that what she was feeling was not a sense of home but rather one of nostalgia. She looked at her watch and thought about all her friends in the city, and her Aunty and Uncle, who knew her just as well as she knew them. Her plane was leaving in an hour. She was going home.
This is such a beautiful piece! As I commented throughout, this was a real pleasure to read because it read so smoothly. Everything was well connected and I wasn't lost in transit anywhere. I have a few suggestions that are more plot based rather than being picky on writing, because I think your writing is really stunning, it's just about enhancing the plot to work with it.
Something that I'm having trouble placing is the situation of the protagonist. So, she's at Uni in the city, which is a plane ride away from her hometown? Liz seems mature, really mature, which is nice. I tend to think that this story works best if you remove it from the now completely, and just make a few small connections to connecting it to a past time. This could be as simple as recognising the girls at drinks as growing out of their Posh Spice bangs, or no more high pony tail scrunchies, etc. It just has to be super subtle, but I think it will kind of cover over the fact that she could have stayed in touch online so easily, if it were in the present.
I liked at the end that she says she's "going home" but at the start, the place she visits is her "hometown." So I think that maybe towards the end you could possibly link to two by saying how she dreamt of her home town, but it just made her realise it was just a town, and her home was somewhere else. I think that works in terms of discovery because it adds a slightly more intense layer to the discovery revealed in that last pocket of sentences.
Otherwise, this is a wonderful piece, which I've said like three times now lol. You should be so proud! There's an emotional, physical and potentially even spiritual discovery at place here. The discovery is intensely meaningful because the shift of what "home" is, is so clear. The discovery itself wasn't planned, but the journey to the hometown was planned, so you tick two syllabus boxes there too!
Post by: elysepopplewell on August 10, 2016, 01:52:54 pm
Hey! Below is my CW.Very interesting stimulus! Honestly, in my time on ATAR Notes I've only marked maybe 2 CWs that aren't short stories. This does not at all mean they are better than a hybrid creative, or just a different form all together. I think your idea is really cool and will work well.
I wanted to know what your opinion on 'non-story' stories is? ie. A variety of receipts, letters, notes organised to create a story etc. Is this a good way to use a general story idea with a weird stimulus.
For this CW, the stimulus was a note which had written: "you are going to be okay, but maybe not in the way you planned to be".
Okay, let's go! Comments in bold in the spoiler below, plus some comments outside the spoiler in the end :)
Spoiler
You are never too free to admire something too much. The Balliol sandstone walls and long, fern lined roads, long roads promised something. University always promises something—its the system. I had done well at school, so I felt that I deserved to be there. I heard words thrown around like “anti-establishment” and “Iraq” and remembered to nod thoughtfully in the hope they would pass be me? as knowing. How I admired them—the true Balliol men, expensive jackets, Lattes and marbled inner-book covers. Conversations of foreign films, ‘non-linear structures’ and ‘counter-revolutions’. I always wondered what is must have felt like-
To have all the answers. I really enjoy this break here. It's very sophisticated.
Arriving originally at Balliol, in my first years I had no answers—and you learn quickly that they are difficult to find. My first day included not being able to find my first lecture, scampering in and knocking chairs over with everyone, already, primed with their own answers which I sought desperately. Distinctly, i’ll I'll* never forget some paper which was left on my desk from the previous lecture, which I read after everything had settled around me. It’s one of those moments that stays, self-conscious of holding it as a memory, in the mind forever. Under the waves of answers and knowledge that were pouring on me during the lecture, a rafle raffle* ticket for an anxiety foundation stared up at me. It seemed like nothing thought provoking at the time—nothing much—I needed something more sophisticated and ‘non-linear’ than a small note. It said “you are going to be okay, (ridiculous american spelling), but maybe not in the way you planned to be. With that in mind, I took plato’s Plato's* Republic out of my public school bag (affording me many stares from the boys in tweed) and attempted to catch my answers up with everyone else’s. I was drowning in those waves…
It did, as these things unfortunately do, (the youth really is wasted on the young) This is your third set of brackets in a dense area. I'd reconsider this because you are speaking in the first person, so your story is like one huge aside. But when you add brackets, it is like, an aside from the aside? Sparingly, brackets can be great. But I'd think twice about them here :)take years of Balliol before I realised everyone there was just as terrified as I was. Sure, I had learnt now how to speak with some fluency about small obscure Russian films, but couldn’t shake the factthe fact is it a fact? or is it paranoia?that everyone knew it was fake. Such discoveries are never straight forward however…What is the discovery you're referring to? Unless it is absolutely necessary, I think avoid using the word discovery here. In AOS, it's not just a word anymore. It's a trigger for the marker to quickly locate the discovery to assess you on it. But here it isn't clear which discovery you are talking about, so I'm inclined to suggest that you change the word, or clarify the discovery.
I learnt how to use the library and was always there. Working on papers or reading ‘Advanced literature’. It was who I wanted to be. Plato’s Republic flew onto the desk now, Using the past tense and then saying "now" shows inconsistency of tense, consider changing :) where that note had sat—now long forgotten perhaps change "forgotten" to something about being buried in the mind or concealed - because they are recalling it now, so it's not forgotten.—and the answers were mine. I didn’t need the dumber students. I was the student they wanted to be. I was intelligent, I dictated the conversation and I knew why ‘non-linear’ narrative structure were important. The waves of knowledge were greeted now with [A HANDSHAKE] rather than a life-vest.
I was intelligent. Of course I was. But not yet in the way I required.
My final year was centred around ‘The Republic’ and working on my last paper. In the library for hours and hours and hours and hours I remained in a chasm between two shelves of bound books. It was starting to feel as thoughme my entire reality was there. A prison. Of…knowledge? I couldn’t know, but I needed to escape. Violently—as in the capacity we indulge the young with—I wouldn’t have it. Just as the waves of answers were looking for a new victim (they were hitherto finished with me), I called them back from a tsunami. I had to leave.
The answers were not mine. I was trapped inside a vortex of paradoxical thinking. The more I knew, the less I knew. My answers were not, my answers. They were the Balliol answers. I didn’t know how to think, I realised. I knew ‘what’ to think.
I again, in the pattern of violent changes of lifestyle with which we indulge the youth, I, the next day, swapped my latte and desk at the library for a blanket and a seat under a tree (like Newton—obviously). If I were to be in conversation with my contemporaries at Balliol, Im sure it would have seemed perfectly cliche (the mark of poor film). It didn't for me though, for at that moment, I laughed as I remembered that note, in its own cliche, with this this member already germinating in my mind and of course knew “I was going to be ok (I refused the american spelling)l just not in the way I had planned to be”.
I had my own answers. My own answers.
To have all the answers. I really enjoy this break here. It's very sophisticated.
Arriving originally at Balliol, in my first years I had no answers—and you learn quickly that they are difficult to find. My first day included not being able to find my first lecture, scampering in and knocking chairs over with everyone, already, primed with their own answers which I sought desperately. Distinctly, i’ll I'll* never forget some paper which was left on my desk from the previous lecture, which I read after everything had settled around me. It’s one of those moments that stays, self-conscious of holding it as a memory, in the mind forever. Under the waves of answers and knowledge that were pouring on me during the lecture, a rafle raffle* ticket for an anxiety foundation stared up at me. It seemed like nothing thought provoking at the time—nothing much—I needed something more sophisticated and ‘non-linear’ than a small note. It said “you are going to be okay, (ridiculous american spelling), but maybe not in the way you planned to be. With that in mind, I took plato’s Plato's* Republic out of my public school bag (affording me many stares from the boys in tweed) and attempted to catch my answers up with everyone else’s. I was drowning in those waves…
It did, as these things unfortunately do, (the youth really is wasted on the young) This is your third set of brackets in a dense area. I'd reconsider this because you are speaking in the first person, so your story is like one huge aside. But when you add brackets, it is like, an aside from the aside? Sparingly, brackets can be great. But I'd think twice about them here :)take years of Balliol before I realised everyone there was just as terrified as I was. Sure, I had learnt now how to speak with some fluency about small obscure Russian films, but couldn’t shake the fact
I learnt how to use the library and was always there. Working on papers or reading ‘Advanced literature’. It was who I wanted to be. Plato’s Republic flew onto the desk now, Using the past tense and then saying "now" shows inconsistency of tense, consider changing :) where that note had sat—now long forgotten perhaps change "forgotten" to something about being buried in the mind or concealed - because they are recalling it now, so it's not forgotten.—and the answers were mine. I didn’t need the dumber students. I was the student they wanted to be. I was intelligent, I dictated the conversation and I knew why ‘non-linear’ narrative structure were important. The waves of knowledge were greeted now with [A HANDSHAKE] rather than a life-vest.
I was intelligent. Of course I was. But not yet in the way I required.
My final year was centred around ‘The Republic’ and working on my last paper. In the library for hours and hours and hours and hours I remained in a chasm between two shelves of bound books. It was starting to feel as though
The answers were not mine. I was trapped inside a vortex of paradoxical thinking. The more I knew, the less I knew. My answers were not, my answers. They were the Balliol answers. I didn’t know how to think, I realised. I knew ‘what’ to think.
I again, in the pattern of violent changes of lifestyle with which we indulge the youth, I, the next day, swapped my latte and desk at the library for a blanket and a seat under a tree (like Newton—obviously). If I were to be in conversation with my contemporaries at Balliol, Im sure it would have seemed perfectly cliche (the mark of poor film). It didn't for me though, for at that moment, I laughed as I remembered that note, in its own cliche, with this this member already germinating in my mind and of course knew “I was going to be ok (I refused the american spelling)l just not in the way I had planned to be”.
I had my own answers. My own answers.
There is an incredibly powerful discovery and plot to this. The idea that you can learn to be whoever or whatever you want is scarily true, but the discovery that being you the way you are, and the way you learn, and the way you express, will not just suffice, but also feel incredibly natural. So the story has a lot of meaning.
There were a few sections of the story that didn't flow well, although it didn't hurt my overall understanding of the work. When we are talking about the note, which is the stimulus so it had to be there, and then later on, the note is replaced by Plato, I'm wondering if that desk had more significance than I realised? We mention Plato three times (I think), and I think that puts too much emphasis on Plato as opposed to another philosopher, economist, etc. If you were fleshing out an exact idea of Plato and it became a motif, that would be really strong! But otherwise, I think changing it up a bit with who the protagonist is reading would kind of give that understanding that these people the narrator aspires to be are well-read across the board.
There are a few little grammar issues that I fixed up along the way. Be aware particularly of capitals and tense consistency :)
Otherwise, this story has an extremely sophisticated discovery, and you should be thrilled! If you have any questions or would like to flesh anything else out, do share! :)
Post by: olivercutbill on August 10, 2016, 05:18:13 pm
Thank you for marking -- ended up getting 15 for it in trials.
In regards to the Plato motif, what ways/how would you suggest I best integrate that more clearly?
Thank you
Post by: elysepopplewell on August 10, 2016, 05:59:13 pm
Hey!
Thank you for marking -- ended up getting 15 for it in trials.
In regards to the Plato motif, what ways/how would you suggest I best integrate that more clearly?
Thank you
Amazing! Perhaps I'm not explaining myself well. Can you try explain in colloquial terms to me here, what is the importance of the Plato referencing and why it is important to discovery? :)
I'm not at all suggesting it isn't important, but with your own words we might be able to work it out :)
Post by: hannahboardman98 on August 11, 2016, 03:20:36 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on August 11, 2016, 03:54:34 pm
Hi this is my creative writing piece. Can you please let me know if it is confusing and if the discovery is clear? Also, is the ending impactful enough?
Hi Hannah! As I just wrote on the Module marking page, you need 13 more ATAR Notes posts to get something fully marked. If you have any questions, let me know! :)
Post by: olivercutbill on August 18, 2016, 09:46:39 am
Amazing! Perhaps I'm not explaining myself well. Can you try explain in colloquial terms to me here, what is the importance of the Plato referencing and why it is important to discovery? :)
I'm not at all suggesting it isn't important, but with your own words we might be able to work it out :)
The reference to the republic in my mind at least, didn't have any symbolic value past establishing the context. I'm not completely sure on how I can integrate it more to symbolise the discover and change. Any clear ways I should be doing this?
Post by: birdwing341 on September 21, 2016, 05:15:56 pm
I have written a creative writing piece. Please be honest and brutal, as I don't know how I can improve without this sort of feedback. I struggle with creative writing above everything else in English (and significantly so), so anything on how to improve would be helpful.
Thanks in advance :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 21, 2016, 08:22:38 pm
Hi!
I have written a creative writing piece. Please be honest and brutal, as I don't know how I can improve without this sort of feedback. I struggle with creative writing above everything else in English (and significantly so), so anything on how to improve would be helpful.
Thanks in advance :)
Hey birdwing! Here's my suggestions, in the spoiler below!
Spoiler
Dust filled the air of the library, illuminated by streams of light emanating from the ajar window. Great imagery here! Edward Craig sat at the table, entranced by the aged journals that had piled up around him. Finishing one journal and finding nothing to his liking, he lovingly placed it on the left stack, which became three times as high as the stack of unread journals on the right. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, removing the dust that had begun to settle on his head. I LOOOOOVE THIS INTRO! It is just the right amount of imagery to create a really good seen. I imagine a man, sitting amongst books, with a really gentle atmosphere providing by the dust. It's really balanced. I also like your choice of introducing first and surname at the same time, it just adds a touch of sincerity and wisdom, which matches the books.
Turning his head towards the open window, he stared longingly into the French countryside. The rolling green hills were home to a multitude of vineyards, populating "populating" doesn't seem like the best word here for me. Covering? Littering? Sprinkling? Occupying? I just think "populating" has connotations of business and chaos, like a city. And the scene you're describing here is very tranquil, I think "populating" works against that.the landscape from the library to the horizon. His eyes flicked to the left and to the right, subconsciously noting the wizened bricks of the archaic buildingwho from where he had watched the war he came to study and seen the people whose destinies he had come to find. Try re-word this little snippet here. Perhaps re-read it in the original sense and recognise that the subject matter isn't clear, so "who" doesn't work well. I've tried to edit it but I'm not sure it's reflecting your intention. Just read over it and I think you'll see what I mean :)
* * *
Two weeks earlier, Edward was with his parents and brother at the airport, waiting to be called for his flight. They sat in silence, the absence of conversation acknowledging their singular thought. His mother shattered the delicatefaçade Not sure that this is the perfect word for this spot. atmosphere? tranquility? silence? tension? anxiety? , speaking words that everyone was thinking.
“You know, if you do find his grave…”, her voice broke as she spoke, betraying the intensity of her desire.
“I’m going to research for my book, Mum. But if anything comes up, I’ll let you know”, the comma goes inside the quotation mark :) his words seemed to comfort his family, and the inevitable return to silence marked their thankfulness.
But inwardly he grimaced. I think this reads better as, "Inwardly, he grimaced." Starting a sentence with "but" is grammatically incorrect, which is fine as long as you bend the rules with purpose (eg. You're replicating speech, because people do this in colloquial language). In this instance, I think following the grammatical ruling is just as effective. If only that were true, he thought, knowing the only reason he took the trip was on the hope he could find his grandfather’s grave. But he didn’t tell his family, not because they couldn’t afford to entertain hope and have it dashed, but because he was afraid of failure. "couldn't afford to entertain hope..." MUSIC TO MY EARS!
He carefully turned his face away to prevent his family noticing a small tear. Now was not the time for emotions. So far, your language has been so delicate, which is wonderful because it reflects a delicate situation. It's very carefully maintained, I love it.
* * *
Awakening himself from his gaze, he picked up the next journal and began. As was usual as he read and immersed himself in the lives of men who were forced to fight in a war so unlike any before it, time slowed. In what felt like fifteen minutes, but was closer to two hours, Edward neared the end of the journal. It was the story of Private James Hellenes, a West Australian who was drafted to Passchendaele, fought from July to November 1917; the battle where his grandfather, Corporal Thomas Waters, was tragically killed in action. He paused, wiped the dust off the page and continued to read.
28 September 1917
It is impossible to describe. When I look around me it is like being in a sea, not of water but of mud. There isn’t a plant in sight, only hills of mud, torn to pieces by the shells…We went on an attack last night at Polygon Wood. After the assault there were 18 men left in the company. Privates Tommy Lancaster and Fred Miles are gone, as too is Corporal Thomas Waters. They’ll get a proper burial at least, given we can find the bodies. How does someone get a proper burial, without a body to bury?The CO knows about the losses as well, and will organise the ceremony, hopefully for tomorrow at Zillebeke. That way I can take a break before I go back to the front line…
When you write this in an exam, make sure you leave at least two lines blank before and after this passage, just to emphasise that it is a little excerpt.
The writing trailed off, and Edward stared blankly at the eloquent handwriting, lovingly imprinted into the brittle and battered pages, following the unique curves of those three words. Corporal. Thomas. Waters. His heart rate rose and fell, I'd make this a sentence in its own. Perhaps, "His heart rate rose and fell with each each word in the title." It doesn't have to be this, but just something to give a little more depth to the heart rising and falling. Any heart can beat - but how was this one beating? It might just be really simple, it's just about taking a kind-of-cliche and turning it into something really original. titanic oscillations mirroring the concoction of emotions that had moved him, even made him, persevere until now I'm not sure that this bit makes perfect grammatical sense. Are you suggesting that the emotions made him persevere until now? or are you saying, not only did the emotions move him, but they made him, and they made him persevere?. He was tempted to shout, but thought better of it given the idyllic milieu of the town. Wonderful! Instead he slowly strode around the table, decisively and with poise. As he did so, an inclement storm of dust built up around the table, swirling and churning, uncovering new areas of the ornate floor, beautiful patterns coalescing with one another. A sight of wonder.
Thoughts flew across his mind, merging with memory, the emotional earthquake of success ravaging his mind, interweaving past and present, emboldening. Yes. He had found his grandfather’s grave and would be lauded as a hero by his family, just as Thomas would have been had he survived the war. Moreover, it was his responsibility to deliver the call and he would be able to experience firsthand their joyous responses. Yet he hesitated. Once more the fear of failure welled within him, warring against the certainty of the journal. What if questions drifted across his mind threatening to take victory. Yet some spirit of the old soldiers remained in him and he marched to the phone to make the call.
Edward waited impatiently, as the phone called, fiddling with his nails and breathing quickly. Nervous energy pulsated through his body.
“Hello”, (punctuation inside the quotation mark)spoke a familiar female voice.
“Hi Mum. Are Dad and Harry there? I have something to say to you all”, Edward replied, recognising the sharp intake of air on the other end of the phone and inwardly recoiling. A short pause preceded her reply.
“We’re all here”, she responded, emotion again betraying the thought on her mind. “Did you…Did you…?”
“Yes”, came his words, clearly spoken so they would not be misinterpreted over the phone line. Immediately audible tears of joy could be heard, softly transmitted by the telephone line. Edward smiled to himself, acknowledging the significance of his revelation.
“Thank you”, came back his father’s voice. “We’ll talk to you later”.
A soft click marked the end of the call, and Edward returned to his desk and again began to read the diary. This time, however, there was no burden nor any weight, just freedom. Freedom to relax, freedom to smile and freedom to enjoy the rest of the journals stacked next to him on the right, caked with dust.
* * *
Twelve days later, in the small village of Zillebeke, Edward stood with his family once more. The air was crisp and inviting, awakening them to reality. The grave had been found, and certainty had been achieved. Together they stood in silence, staring at the white cross which had been erected as a memorial to all those who perished in the battle near the village. They laid their wreath, adorned by the wildflowers of the Belgian countryside where Corporal Thomas Waters had perished, and hands on their hearts, paused for a minute of silence. Lest we forget. Love this ending.
Turning his head towards the open window, he stared longingly into the French countryside. The rolling green hills were home to a multitude of vineyards, populating "populating" doesn't seem like the best word here for me. Covering? Littering? Sprinkling? Occupying? I just think "populating" has connotations of business and chaos, like a city. And the scene you're describing here is very tranquil, I think "populating" works against that.the landscape from the library to the horizon. His eyes flicked to the left and to the right, subconsciously noting the wizened bricks of the archaic building
* * *
Two weeks earlier, Edward was with his parents and brother at the airport, waiting to be called for his flight. They sat in silence, the absence of conversation acknowledging their singular thought. His mother shattered the delicate
“You know, if you do find his grave…”, her voice broke as she spoke, betraying the intensity of her desire.
“I’m going to research for my book, Mum. But if anything comes up, I’ll let you know”, the comma goes inside the quotation mark :) his words seemed to comfort his family, and the inevitable return to silence marked their thankfulness.
But inwardly he grimaced. I think this reads better as, "Inwardly, he grimaced." Starting a sentence with "but" is grammatically incorrect, which is fine as long as you bend the rules with purpose (eg. You're replicating speech, because people do this in colloquial language). In this instance, I think following the grammatical ruling is just as effective. If only that were true, he thought, knowing the only reason he took the trip was on the hope he could find his grandfather’s grave. But he didn’t tell his family, not because they couldn’t afford to entertain hope and have it dashed, but because he was afraid of failure. "couldn't afford to entertain hope..." MUSIC TO MY EARS!
He carefully turned his face away to prevent his family noticing a small tear. Now was not the time for emotions. So far, your language has been so delicate, which is wonderful because it reflects a delicate situation. It's very carefully maintained, I love it.
* * *
Awakening himself from his gaze, he picked up the next journal and began. As was usual as he read and immersed himself in the lives of men who were forced to fight in a war so unlike any before it, time slowed. In what felt like fifteen minutes, but was closer to two hours, Edward neared the end of the journal. It was the story of Private James Hellenes, a West Australian who was drafted to Passchendaele, fought from July to November 1917; the battle where his grandfather, Corporal Thomas Waters, was tragically killed in action. He paused, wiped the dust off the page and continued to read.
28 September 1917
It is impossible to describe. When I look around me it is like being in a sea, not of water but of mud. There isn’t a plant in sight, only hills of mud, torn to pieces by the shells…We went on an attack last night at Polygon Wood. After the assault there were 18 men left in the company. Privates Tommy Lancaster and Fred Miles are gone, as too is Corporal Thomas Waters. They’ll get a proper burial at least, given we can find the bodies. How does someone get a proper burial, without a body to bury?The CO knows about the losses as well, and will organise the ceremony, hopefully for tomorrow at Zillebeke. That way I can take a break before I go back to the front line…
When you write this in an exam, make sure you leave at least two lines blank before and after this passage, just to emphasise that it is a little excerpt.
The writing trailed off, and Edward stared blankly at the eloquent handwriting, lovingly imprinted into the brittle and battered pages, following the unique curves of those three words. Corporal. Thomas. Waters. His heart rate rose and fell, I'd make this a sentence in its own. Perhaps, "His heart rate rose and fell with each each word in the title." It doesn't have to be this, but just something to give a little more depth to the heart rising and falling. Any heart can beat - but how was this one beating? It might just be really simple, it's just about taking a kind-of-cliche and turning it into something really original. titanic oscillations mirroring the concoction of emotions that had moved him, even made him, persevere until now I'm not sure that this bit makes perfect grammatical sense. Are you suggesting that the emotions made him persevere until now? or are you saying, not only did the emotions move him, but they made him, and they made him persevere?. He was tempted to shout, but thought better of it given the idyllic milieu of the town. Wonderful! Instead he slowly strode around the table, decisively and with poise. As he did so, an inclement storm of dust built up around the table, swirling and churning, uncovering new areas of the ornate floor, beautiful patterns coalescing with one another. A sight of wonder.
Thoughts flew across his mind, merging with memory, the emotional earthquake of success ravaging his mind, interweaving past and present, emboldening. Yes. He had found his grandfather’s grave and would be lauded as a hero by his family, just as Thomas would have been had he survived the war. Moreover, it was his responsibility to deliver the call and he would be able to experience firsthand their joyous responses. Yet he hesitated. Once more the fear of failure welled within him, warring against the certainty of the journal. What if questions drifted across his mind threatening to take victory. Yet some spirit of the old soldiers remained in him and he marched to the phone to make the call.
Edward waited impatiently, as the phone called, fiddling with his nails and breathing quickly. Nervous energy pulsated through his body.
“Hello”, (punctuation inside the quotation mark)spoke a familiar female voice.
“Hi Mum. Are Dad and Harry there? I have something to say to you all”, Edward replied, recognising the sharp intake of air on the other end of the phone and inwardly recoiling. A short pause preceded her reply.
“We’re all here”, she responded, emotion again betraying the thought on her mind. “Did you…Did you…?”
“Yes”, came his words, clearly spoken so they would not be misinterpreted over the phone line. Immediately audible tears of joy could be heard, softly transmitted by the telephone line. Edward smiled to himself, acknowledging the significance of his revelation.
“Thank you”, came back his father’s voice. “We’ll talk to you later”.
A soft click marked the end of the call, and Edward returned to his desk and again began to read the diary. This time, however, there was no burden nor any weight, just freedom. Freedom to relax, freedom to smile and freedom to enjoy the rest of the journals stacked next to him on the right, caked with dust.
* * *
Twelve days later, in the small village of Zillebeke, Edward stood with his family once more. The air was crisp and inviting, awakening them to reality. The grave had been found, and certainty had been achieved. Together they stood in silence, staring at the white cross which had been erected as a memorial to all those who perished in the battle near the village. They laid their wreath, adorned by the wildflowers of the Belgian countryside where Corporal Thomas Waters had perished, and hands on their hearts, paused for a minute of silence. Lest we forget. Love this ending.
Ok, so, I expected this to be needing a lot of help because you doubt your creative writing skills. Never again, birdwing! This is wonderful. In terms of language, you've captured the essence and atmosphere of this area in France wonderfully. Your language is as delicate as the surroundings you've described.
In terms of discovery, we clearly see a physical discovery. Also, an emotional discovery, in some ways, a spiritual discovery. We see that it was in some ways planned, in some ways unplanned, and it was intensely meaningful. There are more areas of the rubric you've covered, but this is just what sticks out to me most. You've done a wonderful job here. I would give this a Band 6, I promise! My only suggestion to think about your work overall, is to consider how you would go about incorporating a stimulus in a creative, often figurative, way. You haven't got a running metaphor or motif at this point, so it's a good idea to consider how you would handle a variety of different stimulus types in your work, which currently doesn't have that motif dimension (but perhaps that is the best way to incorporate the stimulus, without disrupting your plot).
Also, make sure that your commas are inside the quotation marks :) All the best! Let me know if you'd like to clarify anything :)
Post by: birdwing341 on September 21, 2016, 09:07:42 pm
His eyes flicked to the left and to the right, subconsciously noticing the wizened bricks of the archaic building from which many had watched the war he came to study and seen the people whose destinies he had come to find.
And with regards to the 'couldn't afford to entertain failure', which of these do you prefer (given that it doesn't change the story much).
1. But he didn’t tell his family, not because they couldn’t afford to entertain hope and have it dashed, but because he was afraid of failure.
2. But he didn’t tell his family, partly because they couldn’t afford to entertain hope and have it dashed, but more so because he was afraid of failure.
Does this make more sense?
His heart beat rose and fell with each word; titanic oscillations which mirrored the concoction of emotions that had moved him at the beginning of his search and made him persevere until now.
I REALLY value this feedback so much, so thank you very much for helping me to improve this creative. Hopefully I can push it to a 14/15 :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 21, 2016, 09:54:23 pm
Thanks very much Ellyse :) Just to follow up, after the first paragraph, does this sentence make more sense?
His eyes flicked to the left and to the right, subconsciously noticing the wizened bricks of the archaic building from which many had watched the war he came to study and seen the people whose destinies he had come to find.
And with regards to the 'couldn't afford to entertain failure', which of these do you prefer (given that it doesn't change the story much).
1. But he didn’t tell his family, not because they couldn’t afford to entertain hope and have it dashed, but because he was afraid of failure.
2. But he didn’t tell his family, partly because they couldn’t afford to entertain hope and have it dashed, but more so because he was afraid of failure.
Does this make more sense?
His heart beat rose and fell with each word; titanic oscillations which mirrored the concoction of emotions that had moved him at the beginning of his search and made him persevere until now.
I REALLY value this feedback so much, so thank you very much for helping me to improve this creative. Hopefully I can push it to a 14/15 :)
Awesome! All of this sounds better! As for the entertain sentence, I think the second works best! My only other critique is that the word "concoction" sounds a bit rough and random for the delicate nature of the content. Perhaps, scramble, chaos, fusion.
You're doing so well! If you get feedback from your teacher, I'd be very interested to know what they have to critique! It'll help improve my own editing skills, but it's also cool to see a second opinion!
Post by: birdwing341 on September 22, 2016, 09:12:45 pm
Awesome! All of this sounds better! As for the entertain sentence, I think the second works best! My only other critique is that the word "concoction" sounds a bit rough and random for the delicate nature of the content. Perhaps, scramble, chaos, fusion.
You're doing so well! If you get feedback from your teacher, I'd be very interested to know what they have to critique! It'll help improve my own editing skills, but it's also cool to see a second opinion!
Sorry, another quicky from me. I gave the story to my friend (who received 15 in trials), and he pointed out the common use of adverbs, which he says 'tell not show'. Is there any way to effectively remove them without upsetting the 'balance' of the piece. Is there even a need?
Thanks
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 24, 2016, 09:47:20 am
Sorry, another quicky from me. I gave the story to my friend (who received 15 in trials), and he pointed out the common use of adverbs, which he says 'tell not show'. Is there any way to effectively remove them without upsetting the 'balance' of the piece. Is there even a need?
Thanks
It's definitely a valid criticism, but I have to say it isn't something that bothered me at all in my reading. Usually it is one of the first things I look for, and I did this time as well, but it just wasn't high on my radar. Perhaps this is because the imagery is so rich, that the "showing" of actions can take a more savoury approach to balance out the tastes. I also don't think that you actually used a lot of adverbs, when in fact they are quite a useful little device. Here's an example:
"He stared longingly into the French countryside."
This does the job: the noun is identified as looking at some beautiful countryside (as it has already been described by rolling green hills), and then "longingly" adds a nice little touch to the piece. It would be too boring without "longingly," in my opinion. Perhaps you could add to the end of the sentence, "with a desire that filled his body." But, in the end, I think this sentence works wonderfully as is.
Showing and not telling is definitely important - but it doesn't have to be the case every time. Breaking things up and mixing between exact language, descriptive imagery, and showing, makes a great piece. In my opinion, you have that.
But, it has potential to be a good exercise for you to go through the sentences with adverbs and perhaps just changing two. That way, you're forcing yourself to review your work critically and engage with a potential extension of your work!
Post by: Deng on September 26, 2016, 11:37:19 pm
In its most simplest form my creative goes like this
Mum has alzheimer
Goes down memory lane ( 3 time skips ) ( career disputes/run away from home)
Back to present, mum hands letter where it shows renewed perspectives on her job / renewed perspective
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 27, 2016, 08:17:24 pm
Not necessarily marking also not sure where else to ask but i was wondering for my creative if i had it revolving around flashbacks throughout would it work. I'm semi worried that it would come off as a "and then i woke up" kind of story :/
In its most simplest form my creative goes like this
Mum has alzheimer
Goes down memory lane ( 3 time skips ) ( career disputes/run away from home)
Back to present, mum hands letter where it shows renewed perspectives on her job / renewed perspective
I think that it really comes down to your ending. If the ending is great, wholesome, and really ties it in together - it works. I think if that ending bit is quite short, you place a lot of weight on the flashbacks and their execution. So, I definitely think it can work without looking like a cop out. But you want that last bit to make it all really seem worthwhile!
It had been too long since she travelled to her former home, finding all aspects of the environment in pristine beauty, just as she left them. Trees danced in rhythm with the cool breeze, the whistle of the wind singing as the day grew old. The elderly canine lay stagnant on the veranda, absorbing the long rays of the glowing sun just as a sponge to water. Glorious aromas of her grandmother’s flower patch rise in unison with the buzzing bees sharing the beauty of the lavender’s they bloomed from.
Hi there! Welcome to the forums. To receive an essay or creative piece marked, you need to have 15 ATAR Notes posts. So, 14 more! You can ask questions, answer questions, or join in the conversation on the cohort's discussion thread. Please let me know if you need help finding anything! Always here to help :)
Post by: jnicko989 on September 27, 2016, 08:51:08 pm
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.
* * *
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. 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 breathing calms me 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?
Note: The italics are a flashback, which I will completely indent during the exam just to give it a barrier from the rest of the work.
Regards, Jeremiah.
Post by: mackenziejotoole on September 28, 2016, 08:55:34 pm
i jut need help filling out my creative i have the backbone to the story, the zoo is meant to be a mystery till the end. i just don't want to put in to fill in up. as you can tell english isn't the strongest subject of mine, so any comments are greatly appreciated. also sorry for any spelling mistakes as i said I'm really bad.
Thanks
The repeated knocks on my body awoke me from my day dream. The cars nagging at me to move along, as we competed for a prime position at the pedestrian lights. I plodded along the street, my feet heavy against the stone cold pavement.
Like a sardine I squished into the elevator, the monotonous music a soundtrack to my mediocre life. I contemplated the thought that being a lone wasn’t the trouble but on can be lonely in a midst of a crowd and this was a very crowed elevator. We sprawled out of the elevator into a cavernous room, were the cubical sprawl out like dominos before the fall. The sounds of the wildness were replaced by the repetitive clicking of typist, filling paper, scanners droning and the fax machines jamming. I had grown old of this repetition, as my zombie doppelgänger re-emerged. This place was once secure blanket, now is suffocating me and the itch is now my longing for a changed. I slowly drifted off into space
The pungent aroma of decomposing straw and manure hit me like a wall. The scurrying footsteps in front of me beckoned me to follow. The birds announced my arrival with ever increasing urgency. Their eyes scrutinizing me. my nervousness turned into paranoia with the semiautomatic rifle sounds of the birds pierces the cold air. An itch grew inside of me.
THUMP!!
My hands scarped the rough concert. Blood oozed from my hands like thick molasses. My eyes trailed around as the crowd closed in on me like sinister hyenas. I propped myself up against the damp brock wall. My stocking shredded like torn sinews from prey. confused. I searched hopelessly for a familiar face. Until out of the corner of my eye something caught my attention. Sat on a high branch. A being bathing in a halo of red met my eye. Enhanced. I stumbled over. The being extends its muscular arm, its fingers outstretched. Our fingers touched like a Leonardo de Vinci master piece. I stood in awe.
“How do I escape?” I beseeched.
The dark eyes reflexed the abyss that was my soul. Empty. Cold. life less.
The slamming of the ram of paper brought me back. I looked over the ever-growing mountain was sky high. I felt hypoxic. That was it I knew what had to be done. It was time to break free. Confidently, I marched from the building I knew were I had to go.
The warm light the the sandstone pillars, an entrance into paradise. The kids scurrying around. The birds wished with glee. I was liberated. As I followed the path. I knew this was my destiny. There in the corner of my eye. Sat the long limed being. His eyes filled with knowing. The Orang-utan outreached his arm and carefully locked the feed from min. a sense of worth arose from within. I was home. I belonged in the zoo.
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 28, 2016, 09:37:25 pm
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:
Hey there! I'll get to your creative tomorrow morning! Sorry for the delay :)
Post by: MarkThor on September 29, 2016, 09:32:26 am
Spoiler
The Path Ahead
My leg buckles as I step on another uneven cobblestone jutting out of the narrow lane. The young Nepalese girl pauses while I regain my footing. We have been walking for sometime through the twisty, narrow alleyways, which run between the rows of low-ceiling slums that characterise outer Kathmandu. A heavy winter smog has settled over the city. The dense, dull white clouds block out the moonlight and make it difficult to know where I am heading. This doesn’t worry me. I am accustomed to not knowing where I am heading. Even though my gap year is concluding in a month, I still feel the same way, just as cold as ever.
The sound of silence echoes through the sprawling maze of garbage littered pathways as both of our feet fall on the rough, uneven streets. My feet are heavy and clumsy on the broken cobblestone; occasionally treading in pooled water that sends icy sparks shooting up my leg. The girl, on the contrary, has clearly walked these dark streets countless times already during her youth, stepping lightly and gracefully.
“Why you wear so much?” The question is direct. To the point. Much like her.
“I always feel cold.” The words are a stark reminder that I still feel as isolated as ever. The cold, the loneliness, being there at the dawn of my dismal memories. Something I try to hide from behind my many layers. It has always been hard for me to connect with people, ever since I started talking. Every aspect of my speaking is fine, but as much as I try I can’t escape the weasel high-pitch sound of my voice. I planned this gap-year to finally try and connect with someone; to go beyond the shackles of my voice and finally feel some warmth in the world.
The memory of her soothing, soft voice “I show something.” as she first came out of the clouds of mist snaps my head out of the reverie. My eyes follow her as she continues to gracefully walk the pathways. What am I doing following this girl? Why am I in Kathamandu? How can this possibly help anything?
“I don’t think I want to continue on.” My words are sharp. Shrill. I slip on another slightly uneven cobblestone, the glasses flying forward off my face. I don’t hear anything. She’s probably left me. There is now only a dark haze, and that familiar feeling of my throat constricting. My hands search frantically to find the reassuring metal of my glasses. They are the only things that give me any idea of where I am heading.
The outline of her hand moves towards mine. I feel the smooth metal slide back through my fingertips. I stand up, not having put my glasses back on. With her slim, slightly rough hand guiding my wrist, she starts to lead me forward.
“Stop! I’ll fall.”
“No. Just trust.”
My eyes start to adjust, the streets are slowly becoming more inclined and less uneven. I now feel like we are no longer walking in the streets. She finally stops. My feet are on smooth ground, and my eyes can just make out the brighter moonlight. She turns and carefully places the glasses back onto my head. “Sometimes you must trust.”
We are in the mountains surrounding the city, on a small high plateau, that feels much more open than the narrow streets below. The moon is much brighter than before, and it shines on the colourful distinctive high-rises that burst through the smog lying on Kathmandu. The colour seems richer than before; there are deep reds, brown oranges, pale whites and the occasional splash of light blue and green buildings among them.
My lips are slightly parted; “It’s beautiful.” I do not notice the squealing of my voice. I look towards the Nepalese girl and the edges of my mouth strain to give her a rare sight of my moon-white teeth. The bright moonlight reflects of her teeth too. Even though we are high up in the mountains, I drop my outermost layer of clothing onto the smoother ground.
My leg buckles as I step on another uneven cobblestone jutting out of the narrow lane. The young Nepalese girl pauses while I regain my footing. We have been walking for sometime through the twisty, narrow alleyways, which run between the rows of low-ceiling slums that characterise outer Kathmandu. A heavy winter smog has settled over the city. The dense, dull white clouds block out the moonlight and make it difficult to know where I am heading. This doesn’t worry me. I am accustomed to not knowing where I am heading. Even though my gap year is concluding in a month, I still feel the same way, just as cold as ever.
The sound of silence echoes through the sprawling maze of garbage littered pathways as both of our feet fall on the rough, uneven streets. My feet are heavy and clumsy on the broken cobblestone; occasionally treading in pooled water that sends icy sparks shooting up my leg. The girl, on the contrary, has clearly walked these dark streets countless times already during her youth, stepping lightly and gracefully.
“Why you wear so much?” The question is direct. To the point. Much like her.
“I always feel cold.” The words are a stark reminder that I still feel as isolated as ever. The cold, the loneliness, being there at the dawn of my dismal memories. Something I try to hide from behind my many layers. It has always been hard for me to connect with people, ever since I started talking. Every aspect of my speaking is fine, but as much as I try I can’t escape the weasel high-pitch sound of my voice. I planned this gap-year to finally try and connect with someone; to go beyond the shackles of my voice and finally feel some warmth in the world.
The memory of her soothing, soft voice “I show something.” as she first came out of the clouds of mist snaps my head out of the reverie. My eyes follow her as she continues to gracefully walk the pathways. What am I doing following this girl? Why am I in Kathamandu? How can this possibly help anything?
“I don’t think I want to continue on.” My words are sharp. Shrill. I slip on another slightly uneven cobblestone, the glasses flying forward off my face. I don’t hear anything. She’s probably left me. There is now only a dark haze, and that familiar feeling of my throat constricting. My hands search frantically to find the reassuring metal of my glasses. They are the only things that give me any idea of where I am heading.
The outline of her hand moves towards mine. I feel the smooth metal slide back through my fingertips. I stand up, not having put my glasses back on. With her slim, slightly rough hand guiding my wrist, she starts to lead me forward.
“Stop! I’ll fall.”
“No. Just trust.”
My eyes start to adjust, the streets are slowly becoming more inclined and less uneven. I now feel like we are no longer walking in the streets. She finally stops. My feet are on smooth ground, and my eyes can just make out the brighter moonlight. She turns and carefully places the glasses back onto my head. “Sometimes you must trust.”
We are in the mountains surrounding the city, on a small high plateau, that feels much more open than the narrow streets below. The moon is much brighter than before, and it shines on the colourful distinctive high-rises that burst through the smog lying on Kathmandu. The colour seems richer than before; there are deep reds, brown oranges, pale whites and the occasional splash of light blue and green buildings among them.
My lips are slightly parted; “It’s beautiful.” I do not notice the squealing of my voice. I look towards the Nepalese girl and the edges of my mouth strain to give her a rare sight of my moon-white teeth. The bright moonlight reflects of her teeth too. Even though we are high up in the mountains, I drop my outermost layer of clothing onto the smoother ground.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 29, 2016, 10:19:02 am
Hi Elyse could you please mark my creative & any feedback at all would be greatly appreciated :).SpoilerThe Path Ahead
My leg buckles as I step on another uneven cobblestone jutting out of the narrow lane. The young Nepalese girl pauses while I regain my footing. We have been walking for sometime through the twisty, narrow alleyways, which run between the rows of low-ceiling slums that characterise outer Kathmandu. A heavy winter smog has settled over the city. The dense, dull white clouds block out the moonlight and make it difficult to know where I am heading. This doesn’t worry me. I am accustomed to not knowing where I am heading. Even though my gap year is concluding in a month, I still feel the same way, just as cold as ever.
The sound of silence echoes through the sprawling maze of garbage littered pathways as both of our feet fall on the rough, uneven streets. My feet are heavy and clumsy on the broken cobblestone; occasionally treading in pooled water that sends icy sparks shooting up my leg. The girl, on the contrary, has clearly walked these dark streets countless times already during her youth, stepping lightly and gracefully.
“Why you wear so much?” The question is direct. To the point. Much like her.
“I always feel cold.” The words are a stark reminder that I still feel as isolated as ever. The cold, the loneliness, being there at the dawn of my dismal memories. Something I try to hide from behind my many layers. It has always been hard for me to connect with people, ever since I started talking. Every aspect of my speaking is fine, but as much as I try I can’t escape the weasel high-pitch sound of my voice. I planned this gap-year to finally try and connect with someone; to go beyond the shackles of my voice and finally feel some warmth in the world.
The memory of her soothing, soft voice “I show something.” as she first came out of the clouds of mist snaps my head out of the reverie. My eyes follow her as she continues to gracefully walk the pathways. What am I doing following this girl? Why am I in Kathamandu? How can this possibly help anything?
“I don’t think I want to continue on.” My words are sharp. Shrill. I slip on another slightly uneven cobblestone, the glasses flying forward off my face. I don’t hear anything. She’s probably left me. There is now only a dark haze, and that familiar feeling of my throat constricting. My hands search frantically to find the reassuring metal of my glasses. They are the only things that give me any idea of where I am heading.
The outline of her hand moves towards mine. I feel the smooth metal slide back through my fingertips. I stand up, not having put my glasses back on. With her slim, slightly rough hand guiding my wrist, she starts to lead me forward.
“Stop! I’ll fall.”
“No. Just trust.”
My eyes start to adjust, the streets are slowly becoming more inclined and less uneven. I now feel like we are no longer walking in the streets. She finally stops. My feet are on smooth ground, and my eyes can just make out the brighter moonlight. She turns and carefully places the glasses back onto my head. “Sometimes you must trust.”
We are in the mountains surrounding the city, on a small high plateau, that feels much more open than the narrow streets below. The moon is much brighter than before, and it shines on the colourful distinctive high-rises that burst through the smog lying on Kathmandu. The colour seems richer than before; there are deep reds, brown oranges, pale whites and the occasional splash of light blue and green buildings among them.
My lips are slightly parted; “It’s beautiful.” I do not notice the squealing of my voice. I look towards the Nepalese girl and the edges of my mouth strain to give her a rare sight of my moon-white teeth. The bright moonlight reflects of her teeth too. Even though we are high up in the mountains, I drop my outermost layer of clothing onto the smoother ground.
Hey Mark! My math says that you need to hit 35 posts to qualify for this piece to be marked (so, another 10 posts) :) :)
Post by: Moematar on September 29, 2016, 02:24:58 pm
The Bitter Taste of Life
“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”- Peter 4:8
“Large cap with soy milk thanks.”
It has been almost two years since my epiphany and I have been ordering the same coffee. It feels like I have been ordering it forever. I have never dared to order anything else on this menu. I don’t even really know why I order it anymore. Maybe this is the day I try something different.
“Order number four large cap.”
“Yes, thank-you.”
The café improves but the coffee doesn’t. The waiter that served me was full of flair, he was like a sunrise, elegant and full of promise… something I would’ve given my left arm for when I was his age. I slowly wandered away to the nearest table as if I had gravel in my shoes, and slouched on the seat. My body was aching from work the previous day. The soy milks bitter after taste took me back two years,
“How did I ever get used to this?”
“Why did I do this to myself?”
I stared into the dark brown coffee visualising my life before this mess before this hot brown liquid ever made its way into my system. I guess my life was not exactly perfect. The arguments with my wife were increasing, day after day, arguing with her was like duelling with a hand grenade. She gradually grew colder when we embraced, she became less responsive, her silence became intoxicating. Of course, my life wasn’t perfect before this. The memories of being on the dating site struck me. I was open to anyone and anything. I often pondered as to whether I was looking in the wrong place, I wanted to sail on the ocean of love but I just wasted away terrified of how others would interpret this love.
*Ding*
The café doorbell had me focused again.
“come on focus, I need to bring myself back to life.”
I forced myself to take a couple more sips of the coffee *gulp* *gulp*. I couldn’t resist but think of my ex-wife once more. The insecurity had stemmed into my wife, who had regularly been checking my browser history and ‘secretly’ going through my messages. I was overcome with grief thinking I had ruined everything, I was terrified of facing my wife, I had a tingling sensation in my stomach and I became uneasy as I was unaware on how to deal with it.
“Just do it, time to go home.”
I opened up the front door to see my wife sitting in front of the TV, expressionless, her eyes were like those of a statue. I charged upstairs as if I was it was my birthday. As I raced upstairs the piercing voice of the priest on our wedding day echoed in the back of my mind, reciting the vows ‘let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.’ I stopped for a moment full of sorrow and grief. My heart swelled up with a sea of tears as I reminisced our wedding day. I couldn’t keep my self-caught up in the past much longer, I decided to get back on the dating site to see what was install for me as curiosity had suddenly become a big part of my life. The sun stretched its golden arms across the city, the daggers of its heat pierced through the cafe window, and they bring me back.
“How is it that the sun can shine so brightly and yet still have room for rain at the same time?”
I slowly pick up the coffee, my hand somewhat trembling I take a sip of the foamy bitter fluid. My unsteady hand results in me unevenly sipping my coffee and the foam of the coffee impressively forms a pencil thin moustache beneath my nose.
Things took a turn for the worse. My wife ended up leaving me. My wife of fifteen years, girlfriend for six before that. Back in school it as quite unusual for a guy like me to have a girl like her. I fell for her like leaves in the autumn. I loved her more than anything, twenty-one years later I feel nothing towards her. The emptiness of not having her around quickly grew onto me. I found couple matches on the dating site but I was scared to proceed further.
I needed to embrace who I really was, not be afraid of what others might say.
I was almost done with this dreadful coffee.
“Maybe It’s time to order something different. I’ve been coming here for two years and not once have I ordered something other than the coffee.”
“Red velvet cake for two please.”
*Ding*
The café doorbell rang; I looked around as I was lost in a sea of faces I couldn’t spot the one that looked familiar. My face glowed like a full moon, feeling a great sense of relief as my date had finally arrived. We embraced each other with hugs and kisses on the cheek as if we had known each other for years. The waiter and the people at the café took note of us doing this.
“Red velvet for the two gentlemen here you go.”
The server seemed agitated and uncomfortable around us. The cakes were surprisingly small. I took one bite of the cake and felt like spitting it back out. The dry cake fused with the thick cream put me off. I was furious at the service however the mellow voice of my warm-hearted, sympathetic date settled me.
“Pay the bill and let’s leave.”
I quickly jumped out of my seat and asked for the bill. The waiter aggressively handed me my change with a note from the manager stating:
“People like you are unnatural and disgusting. you are no longer welcome here. – kind regards.”
The place was not what I expected. I rushed out of the café with my partner. Unable to be anywhere near the restaurant any longer I lunged to the side of the road I look everywhere to find a cab I quickly glance up to the sky as if it were a cry out for help but couldn’t look much longer as the light of the sun was blinding. I eventually find a cab to take me and my date home.
“I guess I should’ve expected such challenges, but I will not give up.”
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 29, 2016, 02:53:27 pm
Hey i was hoping i could get some feedback on my creative writing piece and also ways to improve it and how i can make it easier to adapt in the exam? thankyou
Hey Moematar! Welcome to the forums!! ;D
Thanks for posting your creative, but unfortunately you need 15 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay/creative you'd like marked! This is to ensure that the markers have time to give proper feedback to active members of the forums; one line feedback doesn't help anyone ;) hang around the forums for a bit, ask questions and maybe answer them, and you'll build up the post count really quick! ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 29, 2016, 02:57:39 pm
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?
* * *
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!
Post by: jnicko989 on September 29, 2016, 03:16:55 pm
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?
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 29, 2016, 03:56:43 pm
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.
Post by: hollybarnett on September 29, 2016, 04:26:21 pm
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.
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 29, 2016, 05:03:45 pm
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 :)
Post by: BPunjabi on September 30, 2016, 04:12:19 pm
Thanks,
BPunjabi
Post by: ssarahj on September 30, 2016, 05:40:35 pm
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 8). 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! :)
Post by: Nightwing17 on October 02, 2016, 05:17:26 pm
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.
Post by: willy-boy on October 02, 2016, 06:18:02 pm
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 :D
Post by: mansi on October 02, 2016, 09:03:44 pm
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!
Post by: Deng on October 03, 2016, 06:58:16 pm
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.
Post by: angiezhang9 on October 03, 2016, 09:29:49 pm
Post by: bethjomay on October 03, 2016, 11:15:17 pm
Post by: Emerald99 on October 03, 2016, 11:37:58 pm
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.
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 04, 2016, 02:30:15 pm
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 :)
Post by: jakesilove on October 04, 2016, 02:33:09 pm
Anyone going to take a gander at this response?
Please give us some time, and Elyse will respond to you soon. We have all been working hard to provide free lectures to HSC students in the past week, and thus have not been on the forums as much as usual. We hope that you will be patient with us, so that we can get to marking your response.
Post by: lha on October 05, 2016, 07:40:00 am
P.S. I would appreciate it if no one copied ny creative (not saying that its good enough to copy btw), thank youu
The ectopic rhythm of the heartbeats pounding through my chest can be heard all the way from earth.
Preparing myself, I move cautiously towards the rack by the door. I pull down the helmet at the top, feeling the rough material strewn across the neckline with my fingers. Placing the helmet over my head was always slightly claustrophobic, as if I was choosing to limit my life force to a pipe filled with a finite amount of oxygen on my back. I twist the helmet side to side, searching for the click which told me it was fastened. A moment of suffocation follows, before a gush of air fills the sphere around my eyes. I choke for a second, unaccustomed to the large quantity of air, before calming myself with deep breaths.
Initiating the anxious process, I pull the main lever and begin to input the codes; red, blue, green. I reach for each button in turn, missing at first, before steadying my hand and continuing. Finally, I place my shaking fingers on the tactically tightened latch, and cautiously start to turn it. A nerve-wracking creak betrays a small sigh of oxygen breaching the seal between mankind and outer space.
Tightly shutting my eyes, I anticipate the worst outcome. I gasp for air, not having realised that I was holding my breath. Leaning onto an uncovered button, the ship releases a mechanical noise as numerous steel steps dispense in front of me like a flower’s blossoming petals.
Slowly.
Purposefully.
My languid legs lead the original pathway. I am the first person.
Fearful to experience the untouched surface we have landed on.
The rough terrain meets my weary eyes. Ancient, dirt covered gorges, deep enough to avoid exploration, edges steep as Mount Everest, radiate a vibrant colour matching the neighbouring sun. Lining their banks, oceans of sharp jagged edged rocks tell stories of elongated years of endurance on this planet of isolation through their layers of sediment. They glisten with the orange, toxic gas that marks the earth of this planet - beautiful obstacles for my time-limited mission.
As I walk, the white Kevlar fabric encasing my swollen feet sprinkles with the flame coloured soil, irreversibly staining them. The craggy highland towers on the horizon, swimming in the white blanket of fog that covers the rest of the planet. Its peaks are jagged towards the top, covered with obtuse shapes that glisten in the sunless light. Below, steep, dusty slopes cascade towards the serrated earth.
The sly mist hugs my ankles with every stride I take towards it. It wraps me in its cold embrace, sweeping me along to the edge of the planet where I could fall off and swim among the stars.
In the peripheral of my eye, I see it. The ingeniously built piece of metal rolls towards me using the thinly sliced rubber circles attached gently to the metallic undergarments of the machine. Its head composed of a high definition camera along with the extended clamps secured to its front giving it a stereotypically childish appearance.
“The rob…rob…robot”
The anxious voice coming from my protective apparel interrupts my prolonged gaze and reminds me of my mission: delivering the vehicle to the mountains with their opaque flag of mist.
My feet suddenly feel the toughness of the minerals covering the ground. I look down and am met with an explanation. I have arrived. My field of vision is too minuscule to absorb the enormous alp standing in front of me and yet I push forward.
I trek with measured steps, up the slope. Left. Right. Left. Right. The steady rocks perfectly aligned for my grip over the crumbling dirt.
Looking down behind me, the distant fog still blocks the view, yet the ground is visible. My exhaustion is clinging to my back. The endless training I endured feels non-beneficial as my contracted muscles threaten to tear my cracked skin with every small step I take.
I take my dilated eyes off the treacherous ground and look up to see the cloudy obstruction to my sight vanishing. My feet begin to fumble, and suddenly, a close-up view of the crusty floor meets my eyes. I stay down - a chance to examine the foreign land. My pupils turn slowly, careful to not miss a speck of treasure.
A rusty circular object flashes in the peripheral of my vision.
Moving closer, its dented edges and scratch-filled skin become visible. The black, rippled plastic coats majority of the device, with silver buttons joined to the top, and specks of aged, glimmering gold within the edges. As if a fossil, the ground sheathes it, outlining the letters “f.l.a.s.h.” on one of the main buttons and “on/off” on the other. I turn my head slightly to see on the side in big, slanted font: “Nikon 1935”.
Its decayed state doesn’t stop my confused expression from reflecting in the blemished, glass-plated mirror attached to the outer front of the contraption.
What seems to be a golden-plated emblem on the right hand corner shines, as if brand new, with four letters engraved on it: MARS.
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 05, 2016, 09:30:49 pm
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 :)
Hey! Thank you for your patience, so sorry it took this long to get to you :)
The comments are in bold in the spoiler below :)
Spoiler
Home
“Everybody up”. Punctuation goes inside the quotation mark :)The whispered soundmight may* 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. Love this so far!
“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”. Punctuation inside quotation marks :)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. I see potential for some really strong imagery here. Perhaps, "retook his position by the edge of the boat, as though he were a carved woman of timber on the bow - talking about the figurehead of the boat? Perhaps something like that to kind of make it seem isolated, but important.
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. Is this supposed to be a quote? This is the first time you've used inclusive first person outside of speech?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. It's particularly evident in your writing that you use commas to break up a sentence into a specific voice. It works well, but here it is extremely evident and less seamless. Consider changing up the structure a little bit. Maybe even just one long, compound sentence would do the job, or a few truncated. But right now, you've got a repeat structure of a comma separating clauses.
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. Just not sure about the consistency of your narrator here - we've gone from third person, to first person for one sentence. Perhaps, "Strange, he couldn't feel any wind." A baby began to cry.
Suddenly, the night lit up. I think "suddenly" is a wasted opportunity to describe a burst of action, it's an easy way out of describing a sudden alteration in environment. Consider another way of introducing the urgency of this scene rather than "suddenly." Aamir was blinded, the commas are becoming very noticeable here without much purpose. "Aamir was blinded but kept his footing..." works just as well without the stop of the pause. 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. "More children began to cry out. The deep wails of women met their cries in the sky." Something like this heightens the imagery. 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 overthe side. over the stern? port? Try use some boat jargon here :)
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… This paragraph is another example of your comma-use. I'll talk more about this at the end.
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. I want to know about the orange clothes, is it a neat ironed pile? Or a crumpled mess in the corner?It had a strong, artificial smell about it. I don't think "artificial" takes me anywhere here - artificial as in fake? or as in disinfected? or plastic? 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”. Punctuation inside quotations marks - and probably a line of its own :)
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. New line for new text.“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. New line“Australia”.
“Everybody up”. Punctuation goes inside the quotation mark :)The whispered sound
“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”. Punctuation inside quotation marks :)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. I see potential for some really strong imagery here. Perhaps, "retook his position by the edge of the boat, as though he were a carved woman of timber on the bow - talking about the figurehead of the boat? Perhaps something like that to kind of make it seem isolated, but important.
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. Is this supposed to be a quote? This is the first time you've used inclusive first person outside of speech?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. It's particularly evident in your writing that you use commas to break up a sentence into a specific voice. It works well, but here it is extremely evident and less seamless. Consider changing up the structure a little bit. Maybe even just one long, compound sentence would do the job, or a few truncated. But right now, you've got a repeat structure of a comma separating clauses.
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. Just not sure about the consistency of your narrator here - we've gone from third person, to first person for one sentence. Perhaps, "Strange, he couldn't feel any wind." A baby began to cry.
Suddenly, the night lit up. I think "suddenly" is a wasted opportunity to describe a burst of action, it's an easy way out of describing a sudden alteration in environment. Consider another way of introducing the urgency of this scene rather than "suddenly." Aamir was blinded, the commas are becoming very noticeable here without much purpose. "Aamir was blinded but kept his footing..." works just as well without the stop of the pause. 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. "More children began to cry out. The deep wails of women met their cries in the sky." Something like this heightens the imagery. 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
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… This paragraph is another example of your comma-use. I'll talk more about this at the end.
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. I want to know about the orange clothes, is it a neat ironed pile? Or a crumpled mess in the corner?It had a strong, artificial smell about it. I don't think "artificial" takes me anywhere here - artificial as in fake? or as in disinfected? or plastic? 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”. Punctuation inside quotations marks - and probably a line of its own :)
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. New line for new text.“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. New line“Australia”.
Okay, great work! I'm going to critique the stylistic features before I talk about discovery.
Narration consistency: There's a flick between first and third person. I think there are two ways to fix this. Either, put the first person narration on a line of its own so that it is clear we are being moved into a different narration, into the mind of the protagonist. Or, change all the first person sentences to third person omniscient narrator.
Commas: You'll find that you use the same sentence structure a lot: a clause, then a comma, and then a clause again. At times this builds suspense. At other times, it seems monotonous and bothering to read. You haven't used many long-form sentences. You like to keep it as two short pieces joined. That's fair - but I think that you can use it skilfully to gain suspense, whereas currently it appears repetitive and predictable at times.
In terms of discovery - spiritual, emotional, physical, it's all there. I think that the climax could be improved in order to really heighten the intensity of the great ship, and lead to a more pensive conclusion. So, I'd be instilling fear with the boat, really emphasising that it was the largest boat he had ever seen. At first I thought it was pirates, so I'd make some reference about the skin being light of the passengers (border patrol), or the accent of the foreign language. Something like that to indicate that this is a serious authority.
The only thing leaving me a little bit puzzled is: Is the protagonist in jail with the child? Or is the child just kept in a different cell and they meet at lunch? Has the child been processed and the protagonist is still in detention? That's the only thing holding me back from a "wow!" discovery moment :)
Please let me know if you have any questions! :) You should be really stoked with this!
Quotes: With dialogue, the punctuation goes inside the quotation marks and you need a new line for a new speaker.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 06, 2016, 12:28:40 am
So with the lectures just gone we are a tad behind on our marking (the three markers did about 20 lectures between us)!! We aim to get caught up as soon as possible, so thank you to everyone for your patience! :)
Based on my checks; the following users have met post count and will have their creative marked ASAP:
- Deng
- angiezhang9
- Emerald99
The following users have not met post count:
- BPunjabi (Your essay in the AoS Essay thread is cool, but you need to get to 45 for this one :))
- Nightwing17 and mansi, both of you will need 15 posts for your first piece marked :)
Everyone else in this thread (I think) has either been marked or knows that they need more posts to get marked. If you think I've missed your Creative, let me know!! Otherwise, we'll get you caught up ASAP!
As a further message, your HSC English Exam is one week away! We anticipate our marking boards are going to get very busy, especially this one (Creatives are annoying, I get it ;) ), and so if you want to guarantee that your Creative gets marked by the time your exam is done, you need to get it up sooner rather than later. We'll do our best to move through as quickly as we can, but we can only do so much. Act early to avoid disappointment!! :) :) :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 06, 2016, 09:16:14 am
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
Thank you so much for your patience Deng! :)
Spoiler
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,I'd do an exclamation mark here rather than a comma. 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. I love "fashioning"
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 need some punctuation in here :) shocked by my surroundings.
“Next up, Kiama Rainforest, we will be going on a 10 kilometre hike to explore and discover one of natures’ nature's* best natural products.fullstop”
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 unknownfullstop
“ 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
I think what would be something to add to the engagement and I suppose, a little snippet of humour, would be to make a contrast between the person in the library and the person who just found out that they are going to the rainforest. Maybe create the image of a feeble, fawnly, "geeky" stereotype, amongst this wild forest. Obviously you don't have to make this deep contrast, but something to this effect would be good just to create that slightly more comical nature to the piece.
Before long we were all jostling in line, hooked up in safety gear and provided a flashlight to explore the beauty of the rainforest. I'd be using the first person narration to your advantage here by bringing up the feelings they are experiencing, I don't know that you're making the most of the first person. Give some really emotional or comical insight here. 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. "Pitch dark" is a cliche, try move away from this and insert something more original to draw the attention of the marker to your writing ability!
As I continued to run sporadically to kick off the leech, I realised I had been separated from the group. I've been wondering about the other people in the group. I think if you make a contrast between you and them slightly earlier, then there'll be a stronger connection with this protagonist, purely through contrast. Are they all in cargo pants and you're in suspenders? Are they all wearing hiking boots and you're wearing converse? Something like this.
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 flicking* 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 think "Give up" is used one too many times in this sentence. Try slice it up :) I couldn’t withstand any more physical exertion, my stomach rumbled, Instead of a stomach rumbling, perhaps a stomach promising to expel at any moment, or a stomach failing to withstand the anxiety. A stomach rumbling is a cliche, but a stomach promising is personification. 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.
“This is a library,I'd do an exclamation mark here rather than a comma. 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. I love "fashioning"
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 need some punctuation in here :) shocked by my surroundings.
“Next up, Kiama Rainforest, we will be going on a 10 kilometre hike to explore and discover one of natures’ nature's* best natural products.fullstop”
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 unknownfullstop
“ 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
I think what would be something to add to the engagement and I suppose, a little snippet of humour, would be to make a contrast between the person in the library and the person who just found out that they are going to the rainforest. Maybe create the image of a feeble, fawnly, "geeky" stereotype, amongst this wild forest. Obviously you don't have to make this deep contrast, but something to this effect would be good just to create that slightly more comical nature to the piece.
Before long we were all jostling in line, hooked up in safety gear and provided a flashlight to explore the beauty of the rainforest. I'd be using the first person narration to your advantage here by bringing up the feelings they are experiencing, I don't know that you're making the most of the first person. Give some really emotional or comical insight here. 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. "Pitch dark" is a cliche, try move away from this and insert something more original to draw the attention of the marker to your writing ability!
As I continued to run sporadically to kick off the leech, I realised I had been separated from the group. I've been wondering about the other people in the group. I think if you make a contrast between you and them slightly earlier, then there'll be a stronger connection with this protagonist, purely through contrast. Are they all in cargo pants and you're in suspenders? Are they all wearing hiking boots and you're wearing converse? Something like this.
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 flicking* 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 think "Give up" is used one too many times in this sentence. Try slice it up :) I couldn’t withstand any more physical exertion, my stomach rumbled, Instead of a stomach rumbling, perhaps a stomach promising to expel at any moment, or a stomach failing to withstand the anxiety. A stomach rumbling is a cliche, but a stomach promising is personification. 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.
About the ending: I see what you mean by its abruptness. I think part of it comes with the bear. Are there bears in Kiama? I don't think so (could be wrong!) so this kind of put me off. Even for someone who doesn't get out much like the protagonist, the books they read would indicate that there aren't bears in Kiama. I think the problem is that there was a very quick transition from panicked, to be completely ready to fight a bear, and then being let down when there was no bear. I also am not convinced that this person has the physical prowess that the last paragraph suggests. This entire time I've seen them as weak, which is what creates the comical nature of them in the forest. So, it's ok to keep them weak, and instead have them suggest that they are ready to showcase years of tactical response, or something like that. Something that privileges their mind power over their physical power.
The only thing letting you down in terms of structure is your use of the first person narration. We're not getting enough valuable insight yet! I've mentioned a specific time above where it would be important. The first person has the gift of being able to express emotions, so be sure to use it. Create a voice for the character because I don't really have that until he or she defies all odds in the last part there. And I think that the last part could be enhanced if we had a really strong built up voice the entire way. Perhaps the voice could be humble, or anxious, or very reliant on routine. So many things you could look at to create a character that contrasts against the rainforest.
Overall, this is great and you've only got to tweak very minor things in order to get big results. Focus on the ending, but that will fall into place as you create a stronger voice throughout :)
I need to say, I love the use of the book and the character! Very well thought out :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 06, 2016, 09:35:57 am
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 :)
Hi Angie! I really really appreciate your patience :)
My comments are in bold throughout the spoiler:
Spoiler
Dandelion wishes Why do I like this title so much?????!!!
I had no idea of past or future. Something about this sentence isn't right...should it be "about" instead of "of"...I'm not sure, but consider rewording. I had no concept of? I have no direction about? Something like this. Each day was spiced with ordinary desperation. I love the contrast between spiced and ordinary - that's great. To see one more sunrise, to stay warm through one more night, to survive for now, was all I cared about.
Emerging from my cocoon of damp cardboard and linen, my stiff bones cracked Bones cracking to me sounds like a bone breaking. It could just be me, but joints cracking might be better? Or joints popping? and my head throbbed with agonising familiarity. I reached for my bottle and upended the dregs of Skol from last night, from every night. Swallowing felt like sandpaper slowly scraping down the back of my throat but my mind was numb once again. I stretched out my arms and sighed, preparing for another endless day of exhaustive endurance.
Almost automatically, I adjusted my fraying beanie over my coarse and rope-like hair, trudged over to my usual bench, kicking the prickly balls that fell from the trees and scattered across the dilapidated park I called home. Nameless, faceless grey-suited men passed-me-by with faces downcast as if concentrating on the cracks of the path. I enjoy this!
I knew them. Each of them. I knew their days, their offices, their homes. I had been in? to? them before...
I had also been a father once. I packed lunches, read bedtime stories, gave piggy packs and cooked party pies for dinner. My daughter was my world until one day, I replaced her with the bottle I held between my blistered fingers. The fingers I once embraced her with. I'm just not sure about "one day" - it makes it seem as though alcoholism is a one day switch instead of a slippery slope. I'd be more inclined to adjust "one day" to something that implies a process.
***
Amidst the wall of grey, my eyes were drawn to a mother and daughter, feeding the pigeons that had gathered in a frenzy. The joyous squeals of the little girl as the birds surrounded her filled the silent park. I was mesmerised bytheir the happiness that was so distant in my memory. If you say "their" happiness you are saying that the happiness of the girls and the birds are in your memory, when I think you actually mean that happiness was a memory.
***
As I continued staring at the resurrection of life in the deteriorating park, I rediscovered a glimmer of joy that had been drowned out by the sea of alcohol that washed over me. I suddenly remembered the soft and gentle grip as my daughter pulled me along to a field of wild daisies. New line for new dialogue. “Let’s go Daddy!” she chirped, staring at me with the innocent, brown eyes, "innocent brown eyes" is a cliche and I know you can do better because you've already showcased your wonderful writing ability. Take on originality - perhaps swap innocent for dreamy, optimistic, naive, shiny... the colour of her mother’s rich chocolate pudding. My heart warmed and I closed my hand tighter around hers. I promised myself that I would never let her go. If only a promise could not be so easily broken…
‘Hello,’ a voice so sweet and cheerful that it brought me back to reality. A sound so loving and foreign to me.
‘Oh… hi.’ I returned with an awkward, forgotten smile.
She reached down and gently picked a dandelion growing in the cracks near the park bench. Her curly pigtails bouncing up and down as her chubby fingers handed the delicate flower to me. New line for new dialogue‘Make a wish!” she whispered. “My mummy told me that if you blow on it, your wish will come true.” She stared at me with excitement as I smirked at her naïve ignorance.
“Let’s go Lillian”, the mother grabbed her daughter’s arm and pulled her away, staring down at me with utter disgust. The icy chill of her glare shattered my heart, the one her daughter had warmed. As they left the park and departed from my world forever, I stared down at the woolly plant that had gone limp from my intense grip. I looked around at the decaying world my life had transformed into. The silence screamed in my ear. The little girl looked back one last time with the wide, curious eyes my daughter once had. “Goodbye!” she shouted, skipping away with glee. Once again, I was standing by myself, a mere weed in a thriving forest. Once again, I was without a family, without a home, without anyone to even make eye contact with. But this time I realised that I was alone, strangled by the arms of isolation and depression.
For the first time, my eyes began welling up with tears. Tears of sadness, tears of loss, tears of frustration. But soon these became streams of anger and ambition. I rose from the rusted bench and began to follow the path of the suited men. My legs began travelling faster and faster until I began running.
The wind blew through my hair, the icy chill numbed my lips. I inhaled the piercing aroma of coffee as I exhaled the stale alcohol that consumed my mind. I ran to the rhythm of the car horns and weaved through the maze of people. By the time I arrived, my legs had lost their feeling.
I leaned my exhausted body against the smooth, polished fence. The cool metal felt refreshing between my fingertips as I left a small stain of sweat on the immaculate silver paint, just as I had done fifteen years ago. I wiped it with my sleeve to make sure I did not make the same mistake. I finally managed to lift my head and peered through the window of the house that was so familiar, yet so distant. My own eyes met with the chocolate-brown eyes that were not so innocent anymore. They were strong and independent, full of determination and resilience. But they couldn’t mask the hurt and confusion, the scar that I had left.
My cracked lips widened as I stared at my past and my newfound future. I slowly reached for the battered dandelion that I had kept in my pocket and took a deep breath. I watched the magical white seeds dance and twirl with the sun’s rays further and further away. I made a wish - a wish to never let her go.
I had no idea of past or future. Something about this sentence isn't right...should it be "about" instead of "of"...I'm not sure, but consider rewording. I had no concept of? I have no direction about? Something like this. Each day was spiced with ordinary desperation. I love the contrast between spiced and ordinary - that's great. To see one more sunrise, to stay warm through one more night, to survive for now, was all I cared about.
Emerging from my cocoon of damp cardboard and linen, my stiff bones cracked Bones cracking to me sounds like a bone breaking. It could just be me, but joints cracking might be better? Or joints popping? and my head throbbed with agonising familiarity. I reached for my bottle and upended the dregs of Skol from last night, from every night. Swallowing felt like sandpaper slowly scraping down the back of my throat but my mind was numb once again. I stretched out my arms and sighed, preparing for another endless day of exhaustive endurance.
Almost automatically, I adjusted my fraying beanie over my coarse and rope-like hair, trudged over to my usual bench, kicking the prickly balls that fell from the trees and scattered across the dilapidated park I called home. Nameless, faceless grey-suited men passed-me-by with faces downcast as if concentrating on the cracks of the path. I enjoy this!
I knew them. Each of them. I knew their days, their offices, their homes. I had been in? to? them before...
I had also been a father once. I packed lunches, read bedtime stories, gave piggy packs and cooked party pies for dinner. My daughter was my world until one day, I replaced her with the bottle I held between my blistered fingers. The fingers I once embraced her with. I'm just not sure about "one day" - it makes it seem as though alcoholism is a one day switch instead of a slippery slope. I'd be more inclined to adjust "one day" to something that implies a process.
***
Amidst the wall of grey, my eyes were drawn to a mother and daughter, feeding the pigeons that had gathered in a frenzy. The joyous squeals of the little girl as the birds surrounded her filled the silent park. I was mesmerised by
***
As I continued staring at the resurrection of life in the deteriorating park, I rediscovered a glimmer of joy that had been drowned out by the sea of alcohol that washed over me. I suddenly remembered the soft and gentle grip as my daughter pulled me along to a field of wild daisies. New line for new dialogue. “Let’s go Daddy!” she chirped, staring at me with the innocent, brown eyes, "innocent brown eyes" is a cliche and I know you can do better because you've already showcased your wonderful writing ability. Take on originality - perhaps swap innocent for dreamy, optimistic, naive, shiny... the colour of her mother’s rich chocolate pudding. My heart warmed and I closed my hand tighter around hers. I promised myself that I would never let her go. If only a promise could not be so easily broken…
‘Hello,’ a voice so sweet and cheerful that it brought me back to reality. A sound so loving and foreign to me.
‘Oh… hi.’ I returned with an awkward, forgotten smile.
She reached down and gently picked a dandelion growing in the cracks near the park bench. Her curly pigtails bouncing up and down as her chubby fingers handed the delicate flower to me. New line for new dialogue‘Make a wish!” she whispered. “My mummy told me that if you blow on it, your wish will come true.” She stared at me with excitement as I smirked at her naïve ignorance.
“Let’s go Lillian”, the mother grabbed her daughter’s arm and pulled her away, staring down at me with utter disgust. The icy chill of her glare shattered my heart, the one her daughter had warmed. As they left the park and departed from my world forever, I stared down at the woolly plant that had gone limp from my intense grip. I looked around at the decaying world my life had transformed into. The silence screamed in my ear. The little girl looked back one last time with the wide, curious eyes my daughter once had. “Goodbye!” she shouted, skipping away with glee. Once again, I was standing by myself, a mere weed in a thriving forest. Once again, I was without a family, without a home, without anyone to even make eye contact with. But this time I realised that I was alone, strangled by the arms of isolation and depression.
For the first time, my eyes began welling up with tears. Tears of sadness, tears of loss, tears of frustration. But soon these became streams of anger and ambition. I rose from the rusted bench and began to follow the path of the suited men. My legs began travelling faster and faster until I began running.
The wind blew through my hair, the icy chill numbed my lips. I inhaled the piercing aroma of coffee as I exhaled the stale alcohol that consumed my mind. I ran to the rhythm of the car horns and weaved through the maze of people. By the time I arrived, my legs had lost their feeling.
I leaned my exhausted body against the smooth, polished fence. The cool metal felt refreshing between my fingertips as I left a small stain of sweat on the immaculate silver paint, just as I had done fifteen years ago. I wiped it with my sleeve to make sure I did not make the same mistake. I finally managed to lift my head and peered through the window of the house that was so familiar, yet so distant. My own eyes met with the chocolate-brown eyes that were not so innocent anymore. They were strong and independent, full of determination and resilience. But they couldn’t mask the hurt and confusion, the scar that I had left.
My cracked lips widened as I stared at my past and my newfound future. I slowly reached for the battered dandelion that I had kept in my pocket and took a deep breath. I watched the magical white seeds dance and twirl with the sun’s rays further and further away. I made a wish - a wish to never let her go.
Your story is very difficult to critique because you've done a lot of great things here. The delicacy of which you've dealt with alcoholism is really wonderful and very authentic. My only critique about that is, I want to see a little more of the physical effects of his alcoholism throughout. Perhaps even if it was just that his head throbbed, or his throat was aching for more, whatever it is. In the beginning you do it really well, but making a connection between that state and the young girl would be most powerful. Or, at the end, if we could make a connection between reaching for dandelion's instead of reaching for alcohol, that could be very very powerful as well.
the discovery is spiritual, emotional, physical, and in some ways intellectual and creative. So you've definitely ticked a lot of boxes here which is wonderful to see.
Just be careful with your control of dialogue. Have a quick google for the correct conventions of dialogue and how we should be organising dialogue in a story (new line new speaker, punctuation inside of quotation marks, using quotation marks and not apostrophes, etc). This'll just ensure the integrity of your work is stellar!
I don't at all think the ending is too sudden, but like I said, that stronger comparison between the alcohol and the dandelion could leave a "wow" moment! On that same vein, you definitely explore the impacts of discovery and will do that even better with a slight tweaking of the ending! :) Happy to have you post back a finalising paragraph if you wanted feedback on the adjustment if you choose to do so! Good luck :) You should be proud of this one!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 06, 2016, 11:40:36 am
Hi! I was wondering if you could help me make my creative more flexible and more in lign with the discovery rubric? My discovery occurs at then end of my story and i'm worried its not good enough, it kind of sounds like a belonging piece and in the exam I think if they ask me to talk about the impact of my discovery i wont have enough time and its going to be rushed. I also lost marks in my trial because my structure was clumsy? Do you think I should get rid of the subheadings ? Thanks in advance :)
Thanks for your patience Emerald :) The comments are in bold in the spoiler below! :)
Spoiler
Dear Amy, 11th November, 1918
It was when winter gave its final exhausted sigh, I heard the news I have past tense: had been longing to hear ever since I was shoved mercilessly into Dante’s inferno. ‘Hostilities cease at 1100 today.’ The Godly news that could have rivalled any divinely? prophetic prophetic just means to predict the future, if you are talking about being a rival to Godly news, make sure divine is in there :)message at the moment was met with roaring silence. Violence and bloodshed had made out like a bandit, swindling every one of happiness. Of course, a shadow of joy ghosted in everyone’s heart, the glint in the eye showed that …… just three dots creates an elipsis :)perhaps it was hard to realise that nobody sought another’s life, that the beautiful moonlight did not mean horror and death poured from the sky. Even the rats that plagued the trenches seemed taken by the news, skirting around our feet like excited children, gnawing at our fatigued boots with renewed fervour. Or perhaps they knew that their rotting banquet would soon be leaving- leaving them starving just as innocence had done to them. Routines continued according to syllabus, and each of us asked ourselves ‘Now how soon can I get home?’ Home. A place that seems like a far off land from a distant dream. I pray that one day I can reach it and you.
Yours, Alfred
Survivor
Ugghh! Oblivious to the collective thunder of students smacking their hands over their ears, the elderly microphone continued to moan indignantly. As the courtyard erupted in a symphony of soft serpentine hisses, the skeletal fingers clung on with the strength of superman, determined to indoctrinate. Like poisoned honey the words oozed ominously out of the principals mouth. Perched as proud as an American eagle I like this eagle part! she continued, her annual spiel of the honour the soldiers had performed for their country.
Winters vengeance was not over. Giving a final cry for redemption, icy gale force winds swum through the courtyard, weaving in and out between the children causing their scowls to deepen. Jack Frost had out stayed his welcome this year. “We shall not forget the soldiers, who served our great country, who sacrificed themselves for their loved ones and nation. The valour displayed by these soldiers shall always be commemorated, their resilience applauded and their comradeship always admired….” I'm thinking that your quotes should be on their own line. Technically, it doesn't follow the typical rules of dialogue which require a new line, but I do think that this is just a little understating and the quotes deserve some more prevalence.
Mother Nature’s mood swings had not dimmed as yet another roared through the silence, drowning the rest of Ms Deathbridge’s speech out. Nevertheless, the majority mouthed along to the inaudible expressions, the talking fossil preached; having long memorised the words to the identical commemoration she gave out annually…routine continued according to syllabus. Eyes glazed. Sockets nailed straight ahead. “………You too, could hope to aspire to represent our nation in times of war just as these brave young men have done before you. For there is nothing greater than sacrificing yourself for the greater good of your country ….” I'm realising at this point that I'm just not entirely sure where we are at. I understand the critique that the work can be disjointed. I'm wondering if you should be writing a letter or a diary entry. And perhaps write the date, location, and potentially weather. Like this:
Date:
Location:
Weather:
And just fill each of those out at the start of each entry to create clarity. Because I'm having trouble placing the environments, this is my first critique. I get used to the first place, and then we are giving a speech and I'm not following. So, your writing style thus far is impressive, but the storyline is convoluted.
Honour
Crack. Crack. Crack. Caught in a rip, with only the angry sound of gnashing teeth being emitted from the sharks around me, I continued the fireworks display between my knuckles and fingers. As Ms Deathbridge’s voice lulled me back to shore, I couldn’t help but think my mind was still out at sea. Crack. The wind had calmed down but ghosted around; whispering occasionally like a needy toddler making their presence known. Crack crack crack. I wonder what they’re serving at the canteen this arvo. Crack Crack ........ thump. Stumbling in my place, I attempted to regain my footing. “Shut up Yilmaz! You’re going to get us all into trouble!” whined Susan, before abruptly facing the front.
Sighing I licked my parched lips as a muted breeze passed by, tasting as foreign and as cold as the words she bled. My heart sped up however, at the mention of Gallipoli. Thud. Thud. Thud. As she spoke of the defeat, I couldn’t help, guiltily feel triumph. Pride surged through me at the victory, my Turkish ancestry sewn into my essence pounded furiously in my veins. However, the glory was short-lived as I took in the downcast gazes of some of the others around me. Ashamed of my homage to my heritage, I scrambled to connect with the Australian view of defeat. The rip had snagged me again. No way out. “…In a couple of seconds ladies and gentlemen we shall have the minute of silence.” Panic arrested my heart, handcuffs at the ready, Oooh love this! but as soon as it wound up it eased as a life saver was thrown at me “……remembering those who gave their lives for us and the…..futility of it all….. give them the respect that they deserve.”
The words from our new history teacher washed over like a healing balm, filling in the crevices of my mind and conscience helping me to remember the heart of this day. As the clock ticked to 1100, I steeled myself to remember those who gave their lives in WW1 and in any following war:
both Turkish and
Australian soldiers
as without either I wouldn’t be here today.
Allegiance.
1100 hours.
The bell pierced the courtyard and a cloak of silence descended.
…………….brave, brave soldiers …….poor poor men………..
Thank you…………………
Your service to this nation is greatly appreciated…………
Never again, should anyone have to face the horror of war……. I'm not sure about the purpose of the full stops?
As the minute of silence came to a close, like a muted light at the end of a dark tunnel came Deathbridges voice “The allegiance of these soldiers to their nation, cause and comrades resonates throughout the years, as survivors of war they deserve our respect and the highest honour.”
Lest we forget.
The actual writing and content of this is great, and I'm following a discovery. However, the way the paragraphs are structured prevents me from LOVING this piece, and keeps what has potential to be a band 6 discovery creative, sitting in the band 4 range. Only because, it isn't cohesive right now, which unticks a lot of band 6 boxes. I think each paragraph, or each entry, should follow a really clear structure. That kind of consistency allows you to move between environments and moods well without leaving the marker behind! An ellipsis is three full stops. Any more than that and I'm confused as to the purpose. So keep it short in that regard :)
What is GREAT about this is your language! The way that you deal with metaphors, similes, etc. I love that! Handcuffs on a heart, for example. Brilliant! It is essentially these aspects of the work that lift it. Once these are no longer capped in their capacity by the structure of the story, these will really set fire and lift you to band 6 standard I think!
Let me know what you think about organising the entries into organised segments :) It's a tricky thing to adjust, but done right, it will yield great results!
Post by: BPunjabi on October 06, 2016, 11:43:06 am
Hi everyone!
So with the lectures just gone we are a tad behind on our marking (the three markers did about 20 lectures between us)!! We aim to get caught up as soon as possible, so thank you to everyone for your patience! :)
Based on my checks; the following users have met post count and will have their creative marked ASAP:
- Deng
- angiezhang9
- Emerald99
The following users have not met post count:
- BPunjabi (Your essay in the AoS Essay thread is cool, but you need to get to 45 for this one :))
- Nightwing17 and mansi, both of you will need 15 posts for your first piece marked :)
Everyone else in this thread (I think) has either been marked or knows that they need more posts to get marked. If you think I've missed your Creative, let me know!! Otherwise, we'll get you caught up ASAP!
As a further message, your HSC English Exam is one week away! We anticipate our marking boards are going to get very busy, especially this one (Creatives are annoying, I get it ;) ), and so if you want to guarantee that your Creative gets marked by the time your exam is done, you need to get it up sooner rather than later. We'll do our best to move through as quickly as we can, but we can only do so much. Act early to avoid disappointment!! :) :) :)
Ahahah no worries ill try and get it up!!! :D :D :D
Post by: Emerald99 on October 06, 2016, 05:04:49 pm
Post by: atar27 on October 06, 2016, 10:34:03 pm
The road before her stretched on for what seemed like eternity. The sun’s fiery embrace breathed down her neck and as the thought of another step made her shudder. She looks up, and is blinded by a white behemoth of cosmic energy. Carol reached for Lucy’s hands and feels the sweat amongst her palms and between her fingers. She turns her head around and catches a glimpse of her sisters blank white terrified face before she added a small smile to comfort her. She turns her face further behind her as she reliased, her eye lids begin to stretch further in shock. She holds her sisters hands tighter and screams,
‘RUN LUCY RUN HURRY!’.
They tumble down a hill feeling the rocks and tree barks drilling through their bodies, but careless about the pain that endures within them physically and mentally they quickly gain their balance and sprint through the trees and finding a small cave, Carol pulls her sister inside the cave hearing no sign of footsteps following them. Lucy cuddles her sister and lays softly on her crossed legs to sleep, Carol passes her the deer figurine. On the verge of closing her eyes she spots a shadow moving her eyes instantly towards the outside of the cave. Her drowsy eyes pull her away leaning her head against the wall. Suddenly she feels a tap on her shoulder, she slowly looks up as her neck muscles start to ache. She gradually reaches to a tall slim figure, his large eyes looking right through her. Carol immediately clutches to Lucy feeling her body temperature rising feeling the heat bouncing of her body. ‘The Russian solider is the man who was chasing us all a long, but why didn’t he shoot us already?’ agonising thoughts invaded her. Her muscles tense, he might be tricking her, he might be holding the gun towards her.
‘Who are you and what do you want?!’
“I am a jew…”
“A Jew!’
Carol interrupts breathlessly, she looks up, inspecting him from top to bottom. He is wearing the striped pyjamas that mamma always used to tell us they would wear when they were thrown into the concentration camps. They deserve to be punished for what they have done to Germany. ‘Don’t you dare come near my sister and I, mamma is right, she has always been right about you jews’.
She starts packing her bag, gently placing the deer back into her bag. He slowly sits down as he fixes his eyes on her.
’My name is Arron’.
He shows the care of a jewish person worried about her wellbeing and their danger for being in the midst of the bush alone.
******
Thinking back in time had her eyebrows scrunched together, a familiar feeling in the deepest parts of her stomach arose. Anger and doubt ran through her veins, leaving nothing but trails of fire spreading destructively throughout her body. She thinks the unthinkable and decides to tell Arron in attempt to calm the ever persistent thoughts in her mind.
‘My father’, she said,
‘Before our mother passed away she gave us the deer to be added to her collection back at home when we arrive at Omi’s house in Hamburg and my dad left us to commit his life to Hitler as General Anthony’.
A little voice constantly remaindered her of the question that had no answer, why did papa leave his two daughters for Hitler?.
‘Hitler’ he gently said,
‘Sent the jews to concentration camps because he believed that the jews generated the collapse of the German economy, but in reality we were just building our lives’.
Carol’s butterflies settled down as she lifted her eyes and looked at the sadness that filled his eyes. A few weeks later, they finally arrive at the Hamburg train station a sense of relief to finally go home. Lucy smiles back at her sister holding her sisters hands tightly and skipping along. Her thoughts, were interrupted by a sudden movement from behind and her tear strained eyes darted towards the looming figures that grew larger as the footsteps grew louder. Her whole body twists around. Her eyes grew larger and her mouth dropped to the ground as she reached her hands and screamed on the top of her lungs, ‘NOOOOOOOOOOOO’. German soldiers forced her away as she hears the shot gun going off, she slows down and her heart beats a million times per second. ‘Welcome aboard, the train will be leaving in one minute’.
Lucy pulls Carol inside the train. Carol looks outside the window with the last thought of brutality towards the jews, they don’t deserve to be treated this way. From Arran’s word Carol finds that every pillar of her previous life was built upon a foundation of lies and propaganda. Her inner core temperature boils, burning her from every part of her body. With the last breath they finally reach Omi’s house. Carol runs to her mums bedroom and places the deer on the dresser, next to a collection of figurines. She wakes up the next morning and finds Lucy and grandma cheerfully dancing to music in the kitchen. Carol storms off, finding it difficult to adjust to her old lifestyle. During dinner, they are all sitting at the dinning table when Carol impulsively grabs a piece of bread and stuffs it in her mouth. Carol runs back into her room smashing the figurine’s including the deer, suggesting a new future reputing with the past.
Thank You for checking it, it will be much appreciated :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 06, 2016, 10:37:06 pm
Thanks elyse:) So how exactly do I fix the structure and make it cohesive? Should I get rid of the letter at the beginning or maybe have the guy read the letter throughout the story?
I think the best way is to turn it all into diary entries or letters - what do you think? I think this will add consistency and structure. Rather than the titles (which confused me a bit) I think a date and location in the entry to each new section could be exactly what you need. Would you be prepared to adjust to letters/diary entries?
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 06, 2016, 11:45:21 pm
I put my creative writing in the aos essay forum by accident by jamon said he merged the posts, so do i have to repost it here or not?
Like I said in the forum over there, nope! And Elyse knows about you, you'll have feedback soon ;D
Post by: BPunjabi on October 06, 2016, 11:49:39 pm
Like I said in the forum over there, nope! And Elyse knows about you, you'll have feedback soon ;D
Jamon, Remember how you said I need 45 posts for the next essay, I finally got it. But I have changed my mind, can you please not mark my creative but my module B which I will upload in like an hour, whenever you get the time.
Thanks
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 07, 2016, 12:17:39 am
Jamon, Remember how you said I need 45 posts for the next essay, I finally got it. But I have changed my mind, can you please not mark my creative but my module B which I will upload in like an hour, whenever you get the time.
Thanks
Sure! I've deleted your Creative from this thread :)
Post by: lha on October 07, 2016, 06:53:40 am
Like I said in the forum over there, nope! And Elyse knows about you, you'll have feedback soon ;D
Oh sorry thank you!
Post by: angiezhang9 on October 07, 2016, 09:27:40 am
Hi Angie! I really really appreciate your patience :)
My comments are in bold throughout the spoiler:SpoilerDandelion wishes Why do I like this title so much?????!!!
I had no idea of past or future. Something about this sentence isn't right...should it be "about" instead of "of"...I'm not sure, but consider rewording. I had no concept of? I have no direction about? Something like this. Each day was spiced with ordinary desperation. I love the contrast between spiced and ordinary - that's great. To see one more sunrise, to stay warm through one more night, to survive for now, was all I cared about.
Emerging from my cocoon of damp cardboard and linen, my stiff bones cracked Bones cracking to me sounds like a bone breaking. It could just be me, but joints cracking might be better? Or joints popping? and my head throbbed with agonising familiarity. I reached for my bottle and upended the dregs of Skol from last night, from every night. Swallowing felt like sandpaper slowly scraping down the back of my throat but my mind was numb once again. I stretched out my arms and sighed, preparing for another endless day of exhaustive endurance.
Almost automatically, I adjusted my fraying beanie over my coarse and rope-like hair, trudged over to my usual bench, kicking the prickly balls that fell from the trees and scattered across the dilapidated park I called home. Nameless, faceless grey-suited men passed-me-by with faces downcast as if concentrating on the cracks of the path. I enjoy this!
I knew them. Each of them. I knew their days, their offices, their homes. I had been in? to? them before...
I had also been a father once. I packed lunches, read bedtime stories, gave piggy packs and cooked party pies for dinner. My daughter was my world until one day, I replaced her with the bottle I held between my blistered fingers. The fingers I once embraced her with. I'm just not sure about "one day" - it makes it seem as though alcoholism is a one day switch instead of a slippery slope. I'd be more inclined to adjust "one day" to something that implies a process.
***
Amidst the wall of grey, my eyes were drawn to a mother and daughter, feeding the pigeons that had gathered in a frenzy. The joyous squeals of the little girl as the birds surrounded her filled the silent park. I was mesmerised bytheirthe happiness that was so distant in my memory. If you say "their" happiness you are saying that the happiness of the girls and the birds are in your memory, when I think you actually mean that happiness was a memory.
***
As I continued staring at the resurrection of life in the deteriorating park, I rediscovered a glimmer of joy that had been drowned out by the sea of alcohol that washed over me. I suddenly remembered the soft and gentle grip as my daughter pulled me along to a field of wild daisies. New line for new dialogue. “Let’s go Daddy!” she chirped, staring at me with the innocent, brown eyes, "innocent brown eyes" is a cliche and I know you can do better because you've already showcased your wonderful writing ability. Take on originality - perhaps swap innocent for dreamy, optimistic, naive, shiny... the colour of her mother’s rich chocolate pudding. My heart warmed and I closed my hand tighter around hers. I promised myself that I would never let her go. If only a promise could not be so easily broken…
‘Hello,’ a voice so sweet and cheerful that it brought me back to reality. A sound so loving and foreign to me.
‘Oh… hi.’ I returned with an awkward, forgotten smile.
She reached down and gently picked a dandelion growing in the cracks near the park bench. Her curly pigtails bouncing up and down as her chubby fingers handed the delicate flower to me. New line for new dialogue‘Make a wish!” she whispered. “My mummy told me that if you blow on it, your wish will come true.” She stared at me with excitement as I smirked at her naïve ignorance.
“Let’s go Lillian”, the mother grabbed her daughter’s arm and pulled her away, staring down at me with utter disgust. The icy chill of her glare shattered my heart, the one her daughter had warmed. As they left the park and departed from my world forever, I stared down at the woolly plant that had gone limp from my intense grip. I looked around at the decaying world my life had transformed into. The silence screamed in my ear. The little girl looked back one last time with the wide, curious eyes my daughter once had. “Goodbye!” she shouted, skipping away with glee. Once again, I was standing by myself, a mere weed in a thriving forest. Once again, I was without a family, without a home, without anyone to even make eye contact with. But this time I realised that I was alone, strangled by the arms of isolation and depression.
For the first time, my eyes began welling up with tears. Tears of sadness, tears of loss, tears of frustration. But soon these became streams of anger and ambition. I rose from the rusted bench and began to follow the path of the suited men. My legs began travelling faster and faster until I began running.
The wind blew through my hair, the icy chill numbed my lips. I inhaled the piercing aroma of coffee as I exhaled the stale alcohol that consumed my mind. I ran to the rhythm of the car horns and weaved through the maze of people. By the time I arrived, my legs had lost their feeling.
I leaned my exhausted body against the smooth, polished fence. The cool metal felt refreshing between my fingertips as I left a small stain of sweat on the immaculate silver paint, just as I had done fifteen years ago. I wiped it with my sleeve to make sure I did not make the same mistake. I finally managed to lift my head and peered through the window of the house that was so familiar, yet so distant. My own eyes met with the chocolate-brown eyes that were not so innocent anymore. They were strong and independent, full of determination and resilience. But they couldn’t mask the hurt and confusion, the scar that I had left.
My cracked lips widened as I stared at my past and my newfound future. I slowly reached for the battered dandelion that I had kept in my pocket and took a deep breath. I watched the magical white seeds dance and twirl with the sun’s rays further and further away. I made a wish - a wish to never let her go.
Your story is very difficult to critique because you've done a lot of great things here. The delicacy of which you've dealt with alcoholism is really wonderful and very authentic. My only critique about that is, I want to see a little more of the physical effects of his alcoholism throughout. Perhaps even if it was just that his head throbbed, or his throat was aching for more, whatever it is. In the beginning you do it really well, but making a connection between that state and the young girl would be most powerful. Or, at the end, if we could make a connection between reaching for dandelion's instead of reaching for alcohol, that could be very very powerful as well.
the discovery is spiritual, emotional, physical, and in some ways intellectual and creative. So you've definitely ticked a lot of boxes here which is wonderful to see.
Just be careful with your control of dialogue. Have a quick google for the correct conventions of dialogue and how we should be organising dialogue in a story (new line new speaker, punctuation inside of quotation marks, using quotation marks and not apostrophes, etc). This'll just ensure the integrity of your work is stellar!
I don't at all think the ending is too sudden, but like I said, that stronger comparison between the alcohol and the dandelion could leave a "wow" moment! On that same vein, you definitely explore the impacts of discovery and will do that even better with a slight tweaking of the ending! :) Happy to have you post back a finalising paragraph if you wanted feedback on the adjustment if you choose to do so! Good luck :) You should be proud of this one!
Thanks so much for taking the time to look at this for me! Your feedback and suggestions are incredible. I have added a bit to the ending as you suggested. I also added a line to describe how the daughter has grown up and become independent. Is there a better example of describing this than what I have done? This is my edited ending:
I leaned my exhausted body against the smooth, polished fence. The cool metal felt refreshing between my fingertips as I left a small stain of sweat on the immaculate silver paint, just as I had done twenty years ago. I wiped it with my sleeve to make sure I did not make the same mistake. I finally managed to lift my head and peered through the window of the house that was so familiar, yet so distant.
A lady was cradling her baby, placing a tender kiss on his forehead. She turned around and my eyes met with her beautiful, dark eyes that were not so innocent anymore. They were strong and independent, full of determination and resilience. But they couldn’t mask the hurt and confusion, the scar that I had left.
My cracked lips widened as I stared at my past and my newfound future. My aching legs bent down and I carefully reached for the delicate, emerging dandelion instead of the harsh, glass bottle. I took a deep breath and watched the magical white seeds dance and twirl with the sun’s rays further and further away. I made a wish - a wish to never let her go.
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 07, 2016, 10:56:28 am
This was the creative writing I wrote for my trials (partly memorised) in 40 mins, exam conds. I would appreciate some feedback, as well as some feedback on the feedback ;D (down below)
Disclaimer: apologies for any mistakes but I typed this with autocorrect on :o ???
Just as a general FYI, this fills approximately 4 pages or close to it.
Thanks a heap for doing this! 6 days until Paper 1 everyone!!
Edit 1 Also could you give it a mark out of 15, purely so I can judge (yes, judge 😈) your marking and relative critique to ones already given to me.
I am also aware I need more paragraphing. Could you possibly point this out throughout? Thanks
Edit 2: Also do i need a title?
Sorry for the increasing demands just more and more things are coming to me :)
Spoiler
AoS creative writing- Trial HSC
At the bottom of the box lay an old dog eared photo album from a life much more happier and complete than this one. All he wanted to do was know what it was like to be happy again, but he did not know how best to go about it, who to ask first. As he flicked through the pages, crinkled through the assistance of so many tears, the photographs came alive. There he was back up on the old, wooden stage in primary school confidently reciting his leadership speech. The image flips and suddenly he is on the glossy stage of secondary school, stoked that he has topped the class in English. Another photo goes past and he is in the music ensemble, laughing and playing his guitar. It always amazed him how he used to find such trivial things such as kicking a ball or egging his least favourite teacher's car not only fun and entertaining but also daring and enthralling. He can't help but wonder if that version of him would be proud of what he'd become. It was like he had a split personality, happy and bubbly at first, then a few pages later dark, brooding and evasive. He had to stop for a minute when he saw a photo of himself unhappy, because there were too many ice shards in his ice-cream. He wanted to scream at himself "Don't you realise that this is so trivial, so minute, and does not matter at all?" A separate sleeve at the end of the album showed achievements and commendations for a boy he was sure was not him; he would never have been able to do something so valiant and brave, or caring and compassionate.
As he was putting the document back in the sleeve he heard movement and slammed the album so fast his finger instantly turned about as blue as he felt. A moment of indecision as the intruder comes down the narrow, creaky, wooden stairs. No one ever comes down here. Not anymore. He was just about to flee when he heard a familiar voice that put him instantly at ease. He whirled around and saw it was none other than his mother's spirit. She whispered something in his ear that made him remember why he had loved her so much; able to keep calm and carry on through these tough times. He had the "keep calm and carry on" posters taped to the back of his door until he could no longer successfully meet the requirements they posed. Already his mother's spirit was receding, and he questions whether or not it was real or if he had just imagined it. His bruised finger provided enough evidence for him that it was real. It was in that exact moment that he had a strong urge to visit the park where his dad and him had played with each other. He used to ride on his shoulders and believe he was on top of the world; that he could could do anything he set his mind to. He opened the door for the first time in many years, the door hesitant to budge from lack of use and stepped outside.
Outside, the sun was blinding like a hundred flashlights burning his retinas. Outside was a bustling metropolis he was not used to. Outside, people were stressed and in such a hurry to get to some place unbeknown to him, which always puzzled him.
He finally reached the park where he had spent most of his childhood. It was fairly unchanged; the same green grass covered the space like a blanket and it was unoccupied. As he sits down, a warm breeze wraps around him like a tight hug and he comes to the realisation that he can no longer live locked up his whole life, in his self created jail cell. He needs to be outside in the elements. It is only out here where he can truly heed his mother's advice to keep calm and carry on, and for the first time in ages, he feels as though he can do anything he sets his mind to.
[NOTE: The part in italics does not flow well and I am looking to change that, just not sure how.]
At the bottom of the box lay an old dog eared photo album from a life much more happier and complete than this one. All he wanted to do was know what it was like to be happy again, but he did not know how best to go about it, who to ask first. As he flicked through the pages, crinkled through the assistance of so many tears, the photographs came alive. There he was back up on the old, wooden stage in primary school confidently reciting his leadership speech. The image flips and suddenly he is on the glossy stage of secondary school, stoked that he has topped the class in English. Another photo goes past and he is in the music ensemble, laughing and playing his guitar. It always amazed him how he used to find such trivial things such as kicking a ball or egging his least favourite teacher's car not only fun and entertaining but also daring and enthralling. He can't help but wonder if that version of him would be proud of what he'd become. It was like he had a split personality, happy and bubbly at first, then a few pages later dark, brooding and evasive. He had to stop for a minute when he saw a photo of himself unhappy, because there were too many ice shards in his ice-cream. He wanted to scream at himself "Don't you realise that this is so trivial, so minute, and does not matter at all?" A separate sleeve at the end of the album showed achievements and commendations for a boy he was sure was not him; he would never have been able to do something so valiant and brave, or caring and compassionate.
As he was putting the document back in the sleeve he heard movement and slammed the album so fast his finger instantly turned about as blue as he felt. A moment of indecision as the intruder comes down the narrow, creaky, wooden stairs. No one ever comes down here. Not anymore. He was just about to flee when he heard a familiar voice that put him instantly at ease. He whirled around and saw it was none other than his mother's spirit. She whispered something in his ear that made him remember why he had loved her so much; able to keep calm and carry on through these tough times. He had the "keep calm and carry on" posters taped to the back of his door until he could no longer successfully meet the requirements they posed. Already his mother's spirit was receding, and he questions whether or not it was real or if he had just imagined it. His bruised finger provided enough evidence for him that it was real. It was in that exact moment that he had a strong urge to visit the park where his dad and him had played with each other. He used to ride on his shoulders and believe he was on top of the world; that he could could do anything he set his mind to. He opened the door for the first time in many years, the door hesitant to budge from lack of use and stepped outside.
Outside, the sun was blinding like a hundred flashlights burning his retinas. Outside was a bustling metropolis he was not used to. Outside, people were stressed and in such a hurry to get to some place unbeknown to him, which always puzzled him.
He finally reached the park where he had spent most of his childhood. It was fairly unchanged; the same green grass covered the space like a blanket and it was unoccupied. As he sits down, a warm breeze wraps around him like a tight hug and he comes to the realisation that he can no longer live locked up his whole life, in his self created jail cell. He needs to be outside in the elements. It is only out here where he can truly heed his mother's advice to keep calm and carry on, and for the first time in ages, he feels as though he can do anything he sets his mind to.
[NOTE: The part in italics does not flow well and I am looking to change that, just not sure how.]
- Good work!
- Think about strengthening the part he has the urge to go to the park?
- Maybe bring in dad earlier?
- Provide more context.
Post by: Emerald99 on October 07, 2016, 11:33:25 am
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 07, 2016, 11:48:43 am
Hi this is my creative that i wrote for both mid years and trials! i got a much better mark in trials but i am wondering how i can fix it and whether i should write another creative in case or stick with this one:
Hey ATAR! You'll need to get to 20 posts to get feedback on this creative, based on earlier feedback ;D
Hey all!
This was the creative writing I wrote for my trials (partly memorised) in 40 mins, exam conds. I would appreciate some feedback, as well as some feedback on the feedback ;D (down below)
Oh sorry mate, you'll need more posts, it's actually a 500 posts per essay rule for HSC Moderators named studybuddy ;)
Lol, we'll get you feedback ASAP ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 07, 2016, 12:37:08 pm
Thanks so much for taking the time to look at this for me! Your feedback and suggestions are incredible. I have added a bit to the ending as you suggested. I also added a line to describe how the daughter has grown up and become independent. Is there a better example of describing this than what I have done? This is my edited ending:
I leaned my exhausted body against the smooth, polished fence. The cool metal felt refreshing between my fingertips as I left a small stain of sweat on the immaculate silver paint, just as I had done twenty years ago. I wiped it with my sleeve to make sure I did not make the same mistake. I finally managed to lift my head and peered through the window of the house that was so familiar, yet so distant.
A lady was cradling her baby, placing a tender kiss on his forehead. She turned around and my eyes met with her beautiful, dark eyes that were not so innocent anymore. They were strong and independent, full of determination and resilience. But they couldn’t mask the hurt and confusion, the scar that I had left.
My cracked lips widened as I stared at my past and my newfound future. My aching legs bent down and I carefully reached for the delicate, emerging dandelion instead of the harsh, glass bottle. I took a deep breath and watched the magical white seeds dance and twirl with the sun’s rays further and further away. I made a wish - a wish to never let her go.
This ending is wonderful - Especially the last few sentences. It really rounds it off wonderfully. The comparison between the dandelion and the bottle is great. You've done yourself proud!
Post by: answerspls on October 07, 2016, 01:39:05 pm
Spoiler
The path
The path, a mystical passage way through the deepest of the forests. Where the darkness walks and owls howl, where even the brave fear, and the fearless cry. Ever since the trees have been blooming around The Path, everyone who dared enter has never walked out. Ever. Do they live or do they die? Do they become ghosts or do they pass into afterlife? Every year, 4th of April, four human beings are chosen by the company to crawl into the gate that leads into the path. They are known as the ‘Ghostly four’.
“Gather around everyone, today might be the day where the gods are woken and the dead are dead” the announcements read as the crowd gathers around the gate in fear. “The four brave, fearless and the strongest will be announced shortly”. Guns, garlic, pepper spray and every weapon invented was loaded onto the truck. “Hilton Bagwell, Anna Bow, Fred Lish and lucky last…” the death list was interrupted by an unwelcome pause, “lucky last isss Rose Seff.” Tears filled the atmosphere, and the wailing could have been heard by the ghosts of the Ghostly fours. The four teens prepared to walk into the lion’s den, hoping they were the lions and not the prey.
“Are you all ready?”
The torch highlighted Hiltons face freaking everyone out.
“Keep your ears open and your eyes on”
“ON, seriously you think this is funny. I’m pissing my pants here. I already miss my parents and brother and even that chick with the weird face.” Squealed Anna.
“You should would be at the front, you squeal will scare away all the ghosts”
The two quiet peeps Rose and Fred wailed from the shadows of the sun.
After four gruesome hours of crawling over skeletons of trees and hiding from the wailing winds the Ghostly four arrived at a two way path. “One may pass, the other may die, one may fly and the other may cry.” was carved onto a tree post between the roads. “I begs passing” cried all but Fred. “That makes no sense” replied Fred staring into the wilderness of nowhere. To increase their chances of survival, if any the ghostly four became the ghostly two. Anna followed Hilton on the left while Fred followed Rose along the right path.
“Why the hell did you come with me then” yelled Hilton into the weeping eyes of Anna. “We all miss our families, shit happens OK”. The heartbroken girl was startled by a shadow in the darkness causing her to jump on Hilton. Both rolled down what felt like a steep hill. Bruised and bleeding the two stumbled onto their other half of the ghostly four. Fred and Rose lay with a spotlight hanging over them as they tried to unlock the cage. A note instructed Hilton and Anna to kill the birds in the cage to ensure their own safety and be able to continue their journey freely. The darkness had sparked a light in between the four saving the lives of two innocents.
Helping the birds escape, the friends now quickly raced as far from the thought of being captured. As Fred and Rose lead the way leaving Hilton and Anna out of breath. The distance allowed the capture of Hilton and Anna. “Who is this, why are you doing this” Rose’s panicked voice shouted through peaceful quietness. In tears the Fred and Rose tumbled onto a waterfall. A plane awaited them nearby. The ghostly two faced a decision, whether to leave their brother and sister in the forest or return to find and rescue them. Without thinking the two piloted the plane scouring the through the tree tops looking for two ants on the ground.
BOOM!! A fireball was blown into the sky right above the waterfall. “They are trying to kill us Fred” the panicky queen was back at it again. “I think Hilton and Anna just saved us again, or we would have been dead”.
“You mean dead again”
“Yep, now we definitely can’t leave them.”
Through the long branches another fireball was unleashed. The ghostly four reunited as the wheels skidded to halt. Without any concerns, they flew back over the waterfall through the dark smoke clouds. After 40 short mile a small runway requested the ghostly four landed on it. A haunted grave welcomed them as a male figure walked out the small house in the corner.
“Congratulations, you have passed the test” the old man answered the unasked questions. “A test designed to build friendships and care about each other. To show the world what path should be taken in order to survive. We must all be in this together and help each other out.”
“The cage, the plane was to see if we left them there.” Fred cleared the atmosphere. “Leave them in the cage and we all die, take the plane and we would have blown up.”
The path, a mystical passage way through the deepest of the forests. Where the darkness walks and owls howl, where even the brave fear, and the fearless cry. Ever since the trees have been blooming around The Path, everyone who dared enter has never walked out. Ever. Do they live or do they die? Do they become ghosts or do they pass into afterlife? Every year, 4th of April, four human beings are chosen by the company to crawl into the gate that leads into the path. They are known as the ‘Ghostly four’.
“Gather around everyone, today might be the day where the gods are woken and the dead are dead” the announcements read as the crowd gathers around the gate in fear. “The four brave, fearless and the strongest will be announced shortly”. Guns, garlic, pepper spray and every weapon invented was loaded onto the truck. “Hilton Bagwell, Anna Bow, Fred Lish and lucky last…” the death list was interrupted by an unwelcome pause, “lucky last isss Rose Seff.” Tears filled the atmosphere, and the wailing could have been heard by the ghosts of the Ghostly fours. The four teens prepared to walk into the lion’s den, hoping they were the lions and not the prey.
“Are you all ready?”
The torch highlighted Hiltons face freaking everyone out.
“Keep your ears open and your eyes on”
“ON, seriously you think this is funny. I’m pissing my pants here. I already miss my parents and brother and even that chick with the weird face.” Squealed Anna.
“You should would be at the front, you squeal will scare away all the ghosts”
The two quiet peeps Rose and Fred wailed from the shadows of the sun.
After four gruesome hours of crawling over skeletons of trees and hiding from the wailing winds the Ghostly four arrived at a two way path. “One may pass, the other may die, one may fly and the other may cry.” was carved onto a tree post between the roads. “I begs passing” cried all but Fred. “That makes no sense” replied Fred staring into the wilderness of nowhere. To increase their chances of survival, if any the ghostly four became the ghostly two. Anna followed Hilton on the left while Fred followed Rose along the right path.
“Why the hell did you come with me then” yelled Hilton into the weeping eyes of Anna. “We all miss our families, shit happens OK”. The heartbroken girl was startled by a shadow in the darkness causing her to jump on Hilton. Both rolled down what felt like a steep hill. Bruised and bleeding the two stumbled onto their other half of the ghostly four. Fred and Rose lay with a spotlight hanging over them as they tried to unlock the cage. A note instructed Hilton and Anna to kill the birds in the cage to ensure their own safety and be able to continue their journey freely. The darkness had sparked a light in between the four saving the lives of two innocents.
Helping the birds escape, the friends now quickly raced as far from the thought of being captured. As Fred and Rose lead the way leaving Hilton and Anna out of breath. The distance allowed the capture of Hilton and Anna. “Who is this, why are you doing this” Rose’s panicked voice shouted through peaceful quietness. In tears the Fred and Rose tumbled onto a waterfall. A plane awaited them nearby. The ghostly two faced a decision, whether to leave their brother and sister in the forest or return to find and rescue them. Without thinking the two piloted the plane scouring the through the tree tops looking for two ants on the ground.
BOOM!! A fireball was blown into the sky right above the waterfall. “They are trying to kill us Fred” the panicky queen was back at it again. “I think Hilton and Anna just saved us again, or we would have been dead”.
“You mean dead again”
“Yep, now we definitely can’t leave them.”
Through the long branches another fireball was unleashed. The ghostly four reunited as the wheels skidded to halt. Without any concerns, they flew back over the waterfall through the dark smoke clouds. After 40 short mile a small runway requested the ghostly four landed on it. A haunted grave welcomed them as a male figure walked out the small house in the corner.
“Congratulations, you have passed the test” the old man answered the unasked questions. “A test designed to build friendships and care about each other. To show the world what path should be taken in order to survive. We must all be in this together and help each other out.”
“The cage, the plane was to see if we left them there.” Fred cleared the atmosphere. “Leave them in the cage and we all die, take the plane and we would have blown up.”
Mod Edit: Added spoiler ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 07, 2016, 01:41:32 pm
Hey, does this relate enough to discovery.SpoilerThe path
The path, a mystical passage way through the deepest of the forests. Where the darkness walks and owls howl, where even the brave fear, and the fearless cry. Ever since the trees have been blooming around The Path, everyone who dared enter has never walked out. Ever. Do they live or do they die? Do they become ghosts or do they pass into afterlife? Every year, 4th of April, four human beings are chosen by the company to crawl into the gate that leads into the path. They are known as the ‘Ghostly four’.
“Gather around everyone, today might be the day where the gods are woken and the dead are dead” the announcements read as the crowd gathers around the gate in fear. “The four brave, fearless and the strongest will be announced shortly”. Guns, garlic, pepper spray and every weapon invented was loaded onto the truck. “Hilton Bagwell, Anna Bow, Fred Lish and lucky last…” the death list was interrupted by an unwelcome pause, “lucky last isss Rose Seff.” Tears filled the atmosphere, and the wailing could have been heard by the ghosts of the Ghostly fours. The four teens prepared to walk into the lion’s den, hoping they were the lions and not the prey.
“Are you all ready?”
The torch highlighted Hiltons face freaking everyone out.
“Keep your ears open and your eyes on”
“ON, seriously you think this is funny. I’m pissing my pants here. I already miss my parents and brother and even that chick with the weird face.” Squealed Anna.
“You should would be at the front, you squeal will scare away all the ghosts”
The two quiet peeps Rose and Fred wailed from the shadows of the sun.
After four gruesome hours of crawling over skeletons of trees and hiding from the wailing winds the Ghostly four arrived at a two way path. “One may pass, the other may die, one may fly and the other may cry.” was carved onto a tree post between the roads. “I begs passing” cried all but Fred. “That makes no sense” replied Fred staring into the wilderness of nowhere. To increase their chances of survival, if any the ghostly four became the ghostly two. Anna followed Hilton on the left while Fred followed Rose along the right path.
“Why the hell did you come with me then” yelled Hilton into the weeping eyes of Anna. “We all miss our families, shit happens OK”. The heartbroken girl was startled by a shadow in the darkness causing her to jump on Hilton. Both rolled down what felt like a steep hill. Bruised and bleeding the two stumbled onto their other half of the ghostly four. Fred and Rose lay with a spotlight hanging over them as they tried to unlock the cage. A note instructed Hilton and Anna to kill the birds in the cage to ensure their own safety and be able to continue their journey freely. The darkness had sparked a light in between the four saving the lives of two innocents.
Helping the birds escape, the friends now quickly raced as far from the thought of being captured. As Fred and Rose lead the way leaving Hilton and Anna out of breath. The distance allowed the capture of Hilton and Anna. “Who is this, why are you doing this” Rose’s panicked voice shouted through peaceful quietness. In tears the Fred and Rose tumbled onto a waterfall. A plane awaited them nearby. The ghostly two faced a decision, whether to leave their brother and sister in the forest or return to find and rescue them. Without thinking the two piloted the plane scouring the through the tree tops looking for two ants on the ground.
BOOM!! A fireball was blown into the sky right above the waterfall. “They are trying to kill us Fred” the panicky queen was back at it again. “I think Hilton and Anna just saved us again, or we would have been dead”.
“You mean dead again”
“Yep, now we definitely can’t leave them.”
Through the long branches another fireball was unleashed. The ghostly four reunited as the wheels skidded to halt. Without any concerns, they flew back over the waterfall through the dark smoke clouds. After 40 short mile a small runway requested the ghostly four landed on it. A haunted grave welcomed them as a male figure walked out the small house in the corner.
“Congratulations, you have passed the test” the old man answered the unasked questions. “A test designed to build friendships and care about each other. To show the world what path should be taken in order to survive. We must all be in this together and help each other out.”
“The cage, the plane was to see if we left them there.” Fred cleared the atmosphere. “Leave them in the cage and we all die, take the plane and we would have blown up.”
Hey answerpls! Welcome to the forums!! ;D
Thanks for posting your creative, but unfortunately you need 15 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay/creative you'd like marked! This is to ensure that the markers have time to give proper feedback to active members of the forums; one line feedback doesn't help anyone ;) hang around the forums for a bit, ask questions and maybe answer them, and you'll build up the post count really quick! ;D
Post by: Blissfulmelodii on October 07, 2016, 02:05:48 pm
So I wrote this for my first assessment task and used it for my trials. Each time the marking teacher has marked my discovery creative writing piece differently and has given me different opinions on it hence i am very confused at the moment (i.e. one of them called it charming and gave me full marks while the other gave me a B and said it didn't focus enough on discovery). Initially I thought doing something simple would be best to fit the word count however I'm now worried that my story is too simple and I should just write another... I would greatly appreciate if i could get some feedback on how to improve this story or whether I should just throw it away and use a different one.
Spoiler
CREATIVE PIECE
Every new school year that comes around you get a fresh batch of new faces, a fresh batch of uncontaminated and naïve minds but sometimes you get lucky. One person comes along who flips your world upside down, that reminds you why it is you do what you do.
As I walked into the room all went still. I took my seat and observed the scene before me. Natural light filtered in through the open windows all along the right side of the room, the drip, drip, drip of the tap at the back filled the empty silence, the sink stacked high with unwashed pallets and brushes and the students’ expectant gazes fell on me, instinctively wondering what this course had in store for them.
It’s always refreshing to see a group of young people enthused by art, who are completely ready to dedicate their entire lives to it. I’ve always thought of art as a means to provide opportunities for self-expression, bringing the inner world into the outer world of concrete reality, however those that do well are the ones who able to gain inspiration from their own experiences and their own inner conflict. Something these students would have to quickly learn.
As the period came to an end I quickly informed the class of their next task before they were all out the door.
xxx
As the sun set, the sky was nothing more than shades of purple and orange, there was an eerie feel in the air as a slight breeze whipped back and forth through the branches of the trees along the pathway on which I was walking. All was silent as the last of the students left campus to return to their rooms, or wherever it is they go after dark.
“So this is where you go to hide away from the world?”
“No, it’s where I go to escape into the world.”
I looked over her shoulder and peered at the sketchbook sitting snugly on her lap, her hands shook as she tightly gripped the pencil. The page was smudged with disconnected lines and scratches of words that I couldn’t quick read, the frustration clear from her posture and by her sudden sigh of defeat.
“You know, I only handed that task out today? You have two weeks to complete it.”
“I know, um I just wanted to try and get a start before I completely lose all my motivation-“ She laughed humourlessly “clearly it isn’t going well, I guess I never realised how much I relied on my sight.”
I nodded empathetically and took a seat beside her.
“The great thing about art is that it can come in many different forms, it isn’t about copying what’s already there but more being able to interpret and recreate what already exists, to give something which we all know a new meaning. So you can’t see. Find another way to interpret the world… here, give me your hand.”
Hesitantly she lifted her hand up; I placed mine over the top of hers and slowly lowered it to the ground, quietly instructing her to utilise her other senses to create an image in her mind.
I lifted my hand and placed it beside hers, following the path that she was tracing. My fingers slid across the damp ground and as it did I could feel every blade of grass slide through my fingers and each individual grain of dirt attaching itself to my hand as it continued on. I felt the hairs on my arm lift slightly as a cool breeze swept passed in that moment carrying with it fallen leaves, the smell of damp earth and a sweet tinge of some unidentifiable flower. The sound of the rustling of the branches and the distinct lack of bird calls made the late hour quite obvious. I heard my steady breathe mix in with hers as I continued to take in my surroundings. The more that I began to physically notice, the more of an image I could start to visualise, which I also hope Clarity was able to do.
A short moment passed and I opened my eyes to see Clarity digging through her backpack beside her, sketchpad and pencil long forgotten. Curiously I waited as she finally found what she was searching for; she pulled out a small block of clay from her bag and began to manipulate the substance still keeping her eyes firmly shut. I watched mesmerised by the precise movements of her hands as if they had a life of their own, as I got up quietly to leave her be I momentarily looked back to see a small smile on her face and was reminded why it is I do what I do.
Every new school year that comes around you get a fresh batch of new faces, a fresh batch of uncontaminated and naïve minds but sometimes you get lucky. One person comes along who flips your world upside down, that reminds you why it is you do what you do.
As I walked into the room all went still. I took my seat and observed the scene before me. Natural light filtered in through the open windows all along the right side of the room, the drip, drip, drip of the tap at the back filled the empty silence, the sink stacked high with unwashed pallets and brushes and the students’ expectant gazes fell on me, instinctively wondering what this course had in store for them.
It’s always refreshing to see a group of young people enthused by art, who are completely ready to dedicate their entire lives to it. I’ve always thought of art as a means to provide opportunities for self-expression, bringing the inner world into the outer world of concrete reality, however those that do well are the ones who able to gain inspiration from their own experiences and their own inner conflict. Something these students would have to quickly learn.
As the period came to an end I quickly informed the class of their next task before they were all out the door.
xxx
As the sun set, the sky was nothing more than shades of purple and orange, there was an eerie feel in the air as a slight breeze whipped back and forth through the branches of the trees along the pathway on which I was walking. All was silent as the last of the students left campus to return to their rooms, or wherever it is they go after dark.
“So this is where you go to hide away from the world?”
“No, it’s where I go to escape into the world.”
I looked over her shoulder and peered at the sketchbook sitting snugly on her lap, her hands shook as she tightly gripped the pencil. The page was smudged with disconnected lines and scratches of words that I couldn’t quick read, the frustration clear from her posture and by her sudden sigh of defeat.
“You know, I only handed that task out today? You have two weeks to complete it.”
“I know, um I just wanted to try and get a start before I completely lose all my motivation-“ She laughed humourlessly “clearly it isn’t going well, I guess I never realised how much I relied on my sight.”
I nodded empathetically and took a seat beside her.
“The great thing about art is that it can come in many different forms, it isn’t about copying what’s already there but more being able to interpret and recreate what already exists, to give something which we all know a new meaning. So you can’t see. Find another way to interpret the world… here, give me your hand.”
Hesitantly she lifted her hand up; I placed mine over the top of hers and slowly lowered it to the ground, quietly instructing her to utilise her other senses to create an image in her mind.
I lifted my hand and placed it beside hers, following the path that she was tracing. My fingers slid across the damp ground and as it did I could feel every blade of grass slide through my fingers and each individual grain of dirt attaching itself to my hand as it continued on. I felt the hairs on my arm lift slightly as a cool breeze swept passed in that moment carrying with it fallen leaves, the smell of damp earth and a sweet tinge of some unidentifiable flower. The sound of the rustling of the branches and the distinct lack of bird calls made the late hour quite obvious. I heard my steady breathe mix in with hers as I continued to take in my surroundings. The more that I began to physically notice, the more of an image I could start to visualise, which I also hope Clarity was able to do.
A short moment passed and I opened my eyes to see Clarity digging through her backpack beside her, sketchpad and pencil long forgotten. Curiously I waited as she finally found what she was searching for; she pulled out a small block of clay from her bag and began to manipulate the substance still keeping her eyes firmly shut. I watched mesmerised by the precise movements of her hands as if they had a life of their own, as I got up quietly to leave her be I momentarily looked back to see a small smile on her face and was reminded why it is I do what I do.
Mod Edit: Added Spoiler :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 07, 2016, 02:10:09 pm
hey :)
So I wrote this for my first assessment task and used it for my trials. Each time the marking teacher has marked my discovery creative writing piece differently and has given me different opinions on it hence i am very confused at the moment (i.e. one of them called it charming and gave me full marks while the other gave me a B and said it didn't focus enough on discovery). Initially I thought doing something simple would be best to fit the word count however I'm now worried that my story is too simple and I should just write another... I would greatly appreciate if i could get some feedback on how to improve this story or whether I should just throw it away and use a different one.
Hey blissful! Thanks for posting your creative, but unfortunately you need 15 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay/creative you'd like marked! This is to ensure that the markers have time to give proper feedback to active members of the forums; one line feedback doesn't help anyone ;) hang around the forums for a bit, ask questions and maybe answer them, and you'll build up the post count really quick! ;D
On the mark discrepancy though, that's pretty common for Creatives. It is very interpretive, and marks can range by 2-3. You should consider your actual mark as somewhere in the middle, most probably :) remember, your Creative pieces are double marked, so no stress!! I personally think working with this will work best this close to the exam, if it is already high B (at minimum), definitely no worries getting to an A :)
Let us know when you reach post count!! ;D
Post by: sarah.murphy on October 07, 2016, 03:28:13 pm
But, i haven't looked at my creative in sometime, and i need improvements on it, but just don't know where to start... can someone please help me out?
Thank you in advance
Spoiler
Creative Writing (Discovery)
Peace rings all around the house, its 10pm and finally I can head to my room without being asked to do anything. The floorboards moan as I move to my room. Finally shutting the door and I am done for the day. With a weight on my neck I am horrified by half chewed food on my shirt that my baby brothers spat at me.
Don’t be mistaken, I love them to bits but at times they can be quite a handful, especially when she isn’t around, which is happening even more so when she is in love.
Things got a bit hazy after my dad left. But after a while we could see again and that’s when mum’s eyes were opened to Trevor.
The two love birds have shared a couple of valentines together, with many more to come. Trevor looks the same every day, in a plain light grey suit and white shirt with a tie to match. Every morning he puts on a clean and ironed shirt. One by one he buttons it up and then wraps his tie around his neck and folds it many ways until its tightly around his neck and hanging down his shirt. Each morning I look at him with high aspirations for my dreams. He has opened me to so many paths these last two years, he has showed me the wrongs and rights, but I can always feel this pit in the bottom of my stomach as I know my dad should be doing all of this.
My last memory of dad was his empty, lifeless face that I could see from the back window as mum drove off with a broken family. He wasn’t a family man. One time I asked him to kick a ball outside with me, I know he didn’t want to but I still asked, but it was the reply that killed me inside; I would but you know I would kick further and better and I don’t want to see you hurt. My insides were shattered. It was like my heart was frozen and smashed all over the ground into a thousand of pieces, and I had to try and mend it without cutting my fingers on the sharp edges. All of this because I just wanted some father son time.
A smash interrupts my thoughts; it has come from Mum and Trevor’s room. With my heart starting to pound at an irregular beat I sprint down the hallway, the floorboards are quiet. Mum’s head is squeezed within a dent of the mirror; the glass edges are sharp and are piercing through mum’s head, her hair is no barrier. Almost pulling the bathroom door off its hinges, mum always tells me not to do that, I get some white towels to help the everlasting gush of blood coming from her head. Trevor is just standing; his face looks familiar to my memory of dad’s face, lifeless and incoherent. My stomach starts churning as I take a quick analysis of what is happened, it feels like a crime scene I have seen on tv. This had to be Trevor, but how. He was so good, he did everything right for our family, he was there, physically and emotionally for our broken family.
With both eyes staring into the soul of Trevor, I get my phone and dial triple 0. It’s a new experience, I’ve never done this before. Flooding the receiver with everything I know from the last five minutes, she tells me that someone is on their way and to just wait.
In the meantime of ‘waiting’ I go and check on my brothers, I had completely forgotten about them. Screeching the door open, they are both still sound asleep, with beautiful happy images of their dreams in the head; I wish I was them.
I open and the door and run outside to the flashing red and blue lights and loud sirens. The lights of my neighbours have also come on. The police officers rush inside and it takes them 2 seconds to see Trevor. They all make awkward eye contact at each other, am I the only person in the room looking at the lady with her head through the mirror. The police call in a ‘312’ and put Trevor in handcuffs. One officer comes over to me and asks if he can use the kitchen to take substance test on Trevor and to let me know that there is someone coming for my mum. I let him know that I have two baby brothers who are finally sound asleep in the other room and ask what I should do with them. He instructs to pack a bag for them and call someone to pick us all up.
As I am fumbling things into a bag in the dark black room of my brothers, trying not to wake them by dropping anything, I realise that I’m going to call my dad to get us away from here. Leaving the dark and back into the scene of the accident I call dad, he is
thrilled to hear from me, but that quickly shifts as I start to relive what has just happened. He said he is on his way and will see me shortly.
I take this opportunity to go into the kitchen and see what’s happening to Trevor. He is having to breathe into a tube and count to ten, but he stops when I walk into the room, everyone looks directly at me. At once I have 8 peering eyes looking into my eyes and into my soul of distress and complete darkness. An officer takes me out of misery and into the tv room to have a chat. He lets me know that Trevor has had a past of domestic violence and mum’s condition is the minimal. My head starts turning again, domestic violence, domestic violence, but why. Trevor was good on the outside, he did everything right, but why this. I am once again distracted by my thoughts to the paramedics coming in, another police officer escorts them to my mum. The friendly officer sitting next to me lets me know that I don’t have to worry about Trevor as he is going to jail for some time and then into a mental rehab facility.
As my dad storms through the front door he meets me and the officer, I need him. I wrap my hands tight around his waist, I miss him and I start crying into his body. With every tear is a relief let off my shoulders.
We both go and get my brothers, dad picks them up with soft hands, trying not to wake them, I give him mum’s car keys from the wall and he walks them to the car and into their car seats. I am following his every step behind him; he walks straight to mum’s car. I lose track and detour to the kitchen. Trevor is looking into my heart; he is trying to find something with his lifeless eyes. He has nothing. I am all that is left and I’m leaving. With a refocused sight I keep walking to the car. Climbing in, one foot then the next, I take a breath of relief as dad drives off away from the house I once felt confident in.
Peace rings all around the house, its 10pm and finally I can head to my room without being asked to do anything. The floorboards moan as I move to my room. Finally shutting the door and I am done for the day. With a weight on my neck I am horrified by half chewed food on my shirt that my baby brothers spat at me.
Don’t be mistaken, I love them to bits but at times they can be quite a handful, especially when she isn’t around, which is happening even more so when she is in love.
Things got a bit hazy after my dad left. But after a while we could see again and that’s when mum’s eyes were opened to Trevor.
The two love birds have shared a couple of valentines together, with many more to come. Trevor looks the same every day, in a plain light grey suit and white shirt with a tie to match. Every morning he puts on a clean and ironed shirt. One by one he buttons it up and then wraps his tie around his neck and folds it many ways until its tightly around his neck and hanging down his shirt. Each morning I look at him with high aspirations for my dreams. He has opened me to so many paths these last two years, he has showed me the wrongs and rights, but I can always feel this pit in the bottom of my stomach as I know my dad should be doing all of this.
My last memory of dad was his empty, lifeless face that I could see from the back window as mum drove off with a broken family. He wasn’t a family man. One time I asked him to kick a ball outside with me, I know he didn’t want to but I still asked, but it was the reply that killed me inside; I would but you know I would kick further and better and I don’t want to see you hurt. My insides were shattered. It was like my heart was frozen and smashed all over the ground into a thousand of pieces, and I had to try and mend it without cutting my fingers on the sharp edges. All of this because I just wanted some father son time.
A smash interrupts my thoughts; it has come from Mum and Trevor’s room. With my heart starting to pound at an irregular beat I sprint down the hallway, the floorboards are quiet. Mum’s head is squeezed within a dent of the mirror; the glass edges are sharp and are piercing through mum’s head, her hair is no barrier. Almost pulling the bathroom door off its hinges, mum always tells me not to do that, I get some white towels to help the everlasting gush of blood coming from her head. Trevor is just standing; his face looks familiar to my memory of dad’s face, lifeless and incoherent. My stomach starts churning as I take a quick analysis of what is happened, it feels like a crime scene I have seen on tv. This had to be Trevor, but how. He was so good, he did everything right for our family, he was there, physically and emotionally for our broken family.
With both eyes staring into the soul of Trevor, I get my phone and dial triple 0. It’s a new experience, I’ve never done this before. Flooding the receiver with everything I know from the last five minutes, she tells me that someone is on their way and to just wait.
In the meantime of ‘waiting’ I go and check on my brothers, I had completely forgotten about them. Screeching the door open, they are both still sound asleep, with beautiful happy images of their dreams in the head; I wish I was them.
I open and the door and run outside to the flashing red and blue lights and loud sirens. The lights of my neighbours have also come on. The police officers rush inside and it takes them 2 seconds to see Trevor. They all make awkward eye contact at each other, am I the only person in the room looking at the lady with her head through the mirror. The police call in a ‘312’ and put Trevor in handcuffs. One officer comes over to me and asks if he can use the kitchen to take substance test on Trevor and to let me know that there is someone coming for my mum. I let him know that I have two baby brothers who are finally sound asleep in the other room and ask what I should do with them. He instructs to pack a bag for them and call someone to pick us all up.
As I am fumbling things into a bag in the dark black room of my brothers, trying not to wake them by dropping anything, I realise that I’m going to call my dad to get us away from here. Leaving the dark and back into the scene of the accident I call dad, he is
thrilled to hear from me, but that quickly shifts as I start to relive what has just happened. He said he is on his way and will see me shortly.
I take this opportunity to go into the kitchen and see what’s happening to Trevor. He is having to breathe into a tube and count to ten, but he stops when I walk into the room, everyone looks directly at me. At once I have 8 peering eyes looking into my eyes and into my soul of distress and complete darkness. An officer takes me out of misery and into the tv room to have a chat. He lets me know that Trevor has had a past of domestic violence and mum’s condition is the minimal. My head starts turning again, domestic violence, domestic violence, but why. Trevor was good on the outside, he did everything right, but why this. I am once again distracted by my thoughts to the paramedics coming in, another police officer escorts them to my mum. The friendly officer sitting next to me lets me know that I don’t have to worry about Trevor as he is going to jail for some time and then into a mental rehab facility.
As my dad storms through the front door he meets me and the officer, I need him. I wrap my hands tight around his waist, I miss him and I start crying into his body. With every tear is a relief let off my shoulders.
We both go and get my brothers, dad picks them up with soft hands, trying not to wake them, I give him mum’s car keys from the wall and he walks them to the car and into their car seats. I am following his every step behind him; he walks straight to mum’s car. I lose track and detour to the kitchen. Trevor is looking into my heart; he is trying to find something with his lifeless eyes. He has nothing. I am all that is left and I’m leaving. With a refocused sight I keep walking to the car. Climbing in, one foot then the next, I take a breath of relief as dad drives off away from the house I once felt confident in.
Mod Edit: Added spoiler :)
Post by: tahmina on October 07, 2016, 03:53:03 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 07, 2016, 03:59:45 pm
can someone please look at my creative, not sure if the discovery component is strong!
Hey Tahmina! My records show that you need to hit 60 posts to qualify for this creative to be marked!! :) let us know when you get there (I've deleted the copy of this you posted in the essay marking thread) ;D
Post by: Lottie99 on October 07, 2016, 04:03:55 pm
Any chance that I could get some feedback and a hypothetical mark on this creative writing?
Mainly just around whether the discovery is clear enough and whether it could be adapted.
Post by: tahmina on October 07, 2016, 06:21:00 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 07, 2016, 09:03:53 pm
hey jam on, i reached 60 :))
Your post count only says 57 on the left there! :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 07, 2016, 09:05:14 pm
Hi, sorry i didn't realise there was an AOS creative writing marking page.
But, i haven't looked at my creative in sometime, and i need improvements on it, but just don't know where to start... can someone please help me out?
Thank you in advance
Hey Sarah! Thanks for posting your creative, but unfortunately you need 15 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay/creative you'd like marked! This is to ensure that the markers have time to give proper feedback to active members of the forums; one line feedback doesn't help anyone ;) hang around the forums for a bit, ask questions and maybe answer them, and you'll build up the post count really quick! ;D
Post by: sarah.murphy on October 07, 2016, 09:09:16 pm
Hey Sarah! Thanks for posting your creative, but unfortunately you need 15 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay/creative you'd like marked! This is to ensure that the markers have time to give proper feedback to active members of the forums; one line feedback doesn't help anyone ;) hang around the forums for a bit, ask questions and maybe answer them, and you'll build up the post count really quick! ;D
Hey Sarah! Thanks for posting your creative, but unfortunately you need 15 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay/creative you'd like marked! This is to ensure that the markers have time to give proper feedback to active members of the forums; one line feedback doesn't help anyone ;) hang around the forums for a bit, ask questions and maybe answer them, and you'll build up the post count really quick! ;DOh, i had no idea. Thanks for letting me know, i will do so now :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 07, 2016, 10:52:04 pm
Note: We will be very harsh on our posting rules over the coming days. Posting in old threads, multi-posting, shit-posting and spamming (etc) to access essay marking won't work. Immediate 48 hour posting bans will be applied in all circumstances :)
Post by: onepunchboy on October 07, 2016, 11:13:17 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 07, 2016, 11:28:21 pm
Could you please mark my creative writing piece and give me feedback on it? Would this story be suitable to tackle a wide variety of stimuli? I was told by a friend that my structure is pretty rigid so it will be hard to adapt this story to a variety of different discovery stimuli. If it is rigid, is there anything that I could fix to make it more open to adaptation? Thankyou very much!
Hey hey! Under the current post requirements, you'll need to have 45 posts on the forums to get this marked. Hang around the site for a bit over the weekend! I bet you'll get there real quick! ;D
Post by: Neutron on October 07, 2016, 11:51:12 pm
Neutron
Post by: massive on October 08, 2016, 02:53:14 am
Thanks!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 08, 2016, 03:22:02 am
Guys if a creative writing question asks you to write an imaginative piece on the process of discovery, you can't write about a story that is sudden and unexpected, can you? Also how do even show the process of discovery in a story?
Thanks!
You could show an unexpected event that triggers a process of Discovery! That works well, you can pretty much make any sort of scenario work so long as you frame it right :)
There is no one way to 'show' the process of Discovery, it would simply be a matter of a Creative which highlights aspects of a Discovery, perhaps its aftereffects? Take a peek at some of the responses above for some ideas on this :)
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 08, 2016, 11:06:52 am
Oh sorry mate, you'll need more posts, it's actually a 500 posts per essay rule for HSC Moderators named studybuddy ;)
Lol, we'll get you feedback ASAP ;D
Hahaha ;D Im sure elyse would have more valuable feedback for me anyway ;)
Actually I'm kidding Jamon, you are the absolute bees knees and you abuse your priviledges and power of a nat mod!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 01:47:33 pm
Oh sorry thank you!
HEY THERE! Sorry this took a few days. Things have been a bit crazy!
The feedback is in the spoiler here:
Spoiler
The ectopic rhythm of the heartbeats pounding through my chest can be heard all the way from earth.
Preparing myself, I move cautiously towards the rack by the door. I pull down the helmet at the top, feeling the rough material strewn across the neckline with my fingers. Placing the helmet over my head was always slightly claustrophobic, as if I was choosing to limit my life force to a pipe filled with a finite amount of oxygen on my back. Although I see what you're doing here - writing "as if I was choosing..." and I kind of think - that is what you are literally choosing? So perhaps just rewrite this so that perhaps the protagonist actually acknowledges the perhaps irony of limiting himself to a helmet, despite extending himself beyond Earth? I twist the helmet side to side, searching for the click which told me it was fastened. I'd go for somethign more like, "waiting for the fastening click." I think it just tidies it up a little bit :) A moment of suffocation follows, before a gush of air fills the sphere around my eyes. I choke for a second, unaccustomed to the large quantity of air, before calming myself with deep breaths. nice!
Initiating the anxious process, I pull the main lever and begin to input the codes; red, blue, green. I reach for each button in turn, missing at first, before steadying my hand and continuing. Finally, I place my shaking fingers on the tactically tightened latch, and cautiously start to turn it. A nerve-wracking creak betrays a small sigh of oxygen breaching the seal between mankind and outer space.
Tightly shutting my eyes, I anticipate the worst outcome. I gasp for air, not having realised that I was holding my breath. Leaning onto an uncovered button, the ship releases a mechanical noise as numerous steel steps dispense in front of me like a flower’s blossoming petals.
Slowly.
Purposefully.
My languid legs lead the original pathway. I am the first person.
Fearful to experience the untouched surface we have landed on.
The rough terrain meets my weary eyes. Ancient, dirt covered gorges, deep enough to avoid exploration, edges steep as Mount Everest, radiate a vibrant colour matching the neighbouring sun. Lining their banks, oceans of sharp jagged edged rocks tell stories of elongated years of endurance on this planet of isolation through their layers of sediment. They glisten with the orange, toxic gas that marks the earth of this planet - beautiful obstacles for my time-limited mission.
As I walk, the white Kevlar fabric encasing my swollen feet sprinkles with the flame coloured soil, irreversibly staining them. The craggy highland towers on the horizon, swimming in the white blanket of fog that covers the rest of the planet. Its peaks are jagged towards the top, covered with obtuse shapes that glisten in the sunless light. Below, steep, dusty slopes cascade towards the serrated earth.
The sly mist hugs my ankles with every stride I take towards it. It wraps me in its cold embrace, sweeping me along to the edge of the planet where I could fall off and swim among the stars.
In the peripheral of my eye, I see it. The ingeniously built piece of metal rolls towards me using the thinly sliced rubber circles attached gently to the metallic undergarments of the machine. Its head composed of a high definition camera along with the extended clamps secured to its front giving it a stereotypically childish appearance.
“The rob…rob…robot”
The anxious voice coming from my protective apparel interrupts my prolonged gaze and reminds me of my mission: delivering the vehicle to the mountains with their opaque flag of mist. I'm wondering if they would actually be identifying the robot in shaky terms if it were a real astronaut. I'm only being critical of your work because there's very else little to comment on because it's all flowing nicely! But, I think if the astronaut were alone, they wouldn't be identifying the obvious like that to themselves. I'd be more inclined to just put it out of dialogue, because you're in the first person narration anyway :)
My feet suddenly feel the toughness of the minerals covering the ground. I look down and am met with an explanation. I have arrived. My field of vision is too minuscule to absorb the enormous alp standing in front of me and yet I push forward.
I trek with measured steps, up the slope. Left. Right. Left. Right. The steady rocks perfectly aligned for my grip over the crumbling dirt.
Looking down behind me, the distant fog still blocks the view, yet the ground is visible. My exhaustion is clinging to my back. The endless training I endured feels non-beneficial as my contracted muscles threaten to tear my cracked skin with every small step I take.
I take my dilated eyes off the treacherous ground and look up to see the cloudy obstruction to my sight vanishing. My feet begin to fumble, and suddenly, a close-up view of the crusty floor meets my eyes. I stay down - a chance to examine the foreign land. My pupils turn slowly, careful to not miss a speck of treasure.
A rusty circular object flashes in the peripheral of my vision.
Moving closer, its dented edges and scratch-filled skin become visible. The black, rippled plastic coats majority of the device, with silver buttons joined to the top, and specks of aged, glimmering gold within the edges. As if a fossil, the ground sheathes it, outlining the letters “f.l.a.s.h.” on one of the main buttons and “on/off” on the other. I turn my head slightly to see on the side in big, slanted font: “Nikon 1935”.
Its decayed state doesn’t stop my confused expression from reflecting in the blemished, glass-plated mirror attached to the outer front of the contraption.
What seems to be a golden-plated emblem on the right hand corner shines, as if brand new, with four letters engraved on it: MARS.
Preparing myself, I move cautiously towards the rack by the door. I pull down the helmet at the top, feeling the rough material strewn across the neckline with my fingers. Placing the helmet over my head was always slightly claustrophobic, as if I was choosing to limit my life force to a pipe filled with a finite amount of oxygen on my back. Although I see what you're doing here - writing "as if I was choosing..." and I kind of think - that is what you are literally choosing? So perhaps just rewrite this so that perhaps the protagonist actually acknowledges the perhaps irony of limiting himself to a helmet, despite extending himself beyond Earth? I twist the helmet side to side, searching for the click which told me it was fastened. I'd go for somethign more like, "waiting for the fastening click." I think it just tidies it up a little bit :) A moment of suffocation follows, before a gush of air fills the sphere around my eyes. I choke for a second, unaccustomed to the large quantity of air, before calming myself with deep breaths. nice!
Initiating the anxious process, I pull the main lever and begin to input the codes; red, blue, green. I reach for each button in turn, missing at first, before steadying my hand and continuing. Finally, I place my shaking fingers on the tactically tightened latch, and cautiously start to turn it. A nerve-wracking creak betrays a small sigh of oxygen breaching the seal between mankind and outer space.
Tightly shutting my eyes, I anticipate the worst outcome. I gasp for air, not having realised that I was holding my breath. Leaning onto an uncovered button, the ship releases a mechanical noise as numerous steel steps dispense in front of me like a flower’s blossoming petals.
Slowly.
Purposefully.
My languid legs lead the original pathway. I am the first person.
Fearful to experience the untouched surface we have landed on.
The rough terrain meets my weary eyes. Ancient, dirt covered gorges, deep enough to avoid exploration, edges steep as Mount Everest, radiate a vibrant colour matching the neighbouring sun. Lining their banks, oceans of sharp jagged edged rocks tell stories of elongated years of endurance on this planet of isolation through their layers of sediment. They glisten with the orange, toxic gas that marks the earth of this planet - beautiful obstacles for my time-limited mission.
As I walk, the white Kevlar fabric encasing my swollen feet sprinkles with the flame coloured soil, irreversibly staining them. The craggy highland towers on the horizon, swimming in the white blanket of fog that covers the rest of the planet. Its peaks are jagged towards the top, covered with obtuse shapes that glisten in the sunless light. Below, steep, dusty slopes cascade towards the serrated earth.
The sly mist hugs my ankles with every stride I take towards it. It wraps me in its cold embrace, sweeping me along to the edge of the planet where I could fall off and swim among the stars.
In the peripheral of my eye, I see it. The ingeniously built piece of metal rolls towards me using the thinly sliced rubber circles attached gently to the metallic undergarments of the machine. Its head composed of a high definition camera along with the extended clamps secured to its front giving it a stereotypically childish appearance.
“The rob…rob…robot”
The anxious voice coming from my protective apparel interrupts my prolonged gaze and reminds me of my mission: delivering the vehicle to the mountains with their opaque flag of mist. I'm wondering if they would actually be identifying the robot in shaky terms if it were a real astronaut. I'm only being critical of your work because there's very else little to comment on because it's all flowing nicely! But, I think if the astronaut were alone, they wouldn't be identifying the obvious like that to themselves. I'd be more inclined to just put it out of dialogue, because you're in the first person narration anyway :)
My feet suddenly feel the toughness of the minerals covering the ground. I look down and am met with an explanation. I have arrived. My field of vision is too minuscule to absorb the enormous alp standing in front of me and yet I push forward.
I trek with measured steps, up the slope. Left. Right. Left. Right. The steady rocks perfectly aligned for my grip over the crumbling dirt.
Looking down behind me, the distant fog still blocks the view, yet the ground is visible. My exhaustion is clinging to my back. The endless training I endured feels non-beneficial as my contracted muscles threaten to tear my cracked skin with every small step I take.
I take my dilated eyes off the treacherous ground and look up to see the cloudy obstruction to my sight vanishing. My feet begin to fumble, and suddenly, a close-up view of the crusty floor meets my eyes. I stay down - a chance to examine the foreign land. My pupils turn slowly, careful to not miss a speck of treasure.
A rusty circular object flashes in the peripheral of my vision.
Moving closer, its dented edges and scratch-filled skin become visible. The black, rippled plastic coats majority of the device, with silver buttons joined to the top, and specks of aged, glimmering gold within the edges. As if a fossil, the ground sheathes it, outlining the letters “f.l.a.s.h.” on one of the main buttons and “on/off” on the other. I turn my head slightly to see on the side in big, slanted font: “Nikon 1935”.
Its decayed state doesn’t stop my confused expression from reflecting in the blemished, glass-plated mirror attached to the outer front of the contraption.
What seems to be a golden-plated emblem on the right hand corner shines, as if brand new, with four letters engraved on it: MARS.
I think a physical discovery is there, absolutely and clearly. And the story is written really well in that I can follow it without being distracted or confused. Where it lacks is complexity. Because it has one linear story structure, it doesn't give much room to explore other notions of discovery without some serious adjustment, and it does leave the storyline missing that "engaging" section. I am engaged because it is well written and fluid to read, but I'm not engaged because of the simplicity. Perhaps what you need is a metaphor or motive. By embedding a motif or metaphor early on, you thread some complexity throughout. Alternatively, giving the character a PURPOSE will give the story more direction. Are they doing it for their daughter? For huamnkind? For USA? To finalise their years of research? Whatever it may be, you need to jump at the opportunity to make a small change like adding a motive at the beginning and end, just to add that extra level of personality so that your character is more identifiable to a marker. I hope this makes sense, let me know if you have questions :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 02:13:56 pm
Hey all!
This was the creative writing I wrote for my trials (partly memorised) in 40 mins, exam conds. I would appreciate some feedback, as well as some feedback on the feedback ;D (down below)
Disclaimer: apologies for any mistakes but I typed this with autocorrect on :o ???
Just as a general FYI, this fills approximately 4 pages or close to it.
Thanks a heap for doing this! 6 days until Paper 1 everyone!!
Edit 1 Also could you give it a mark out of 15, purely so I can judge (yes, judge 😈) your marking and relative critique to ones already given to me.
I am also aware I need more paragraphing. Could you possibly point this out throughout? Thanks
Edit 2: Also do i need a title?
Sorry for the increasing demands just more and more things are coming to me :)
Feedback:
- Good work!
- Think about strengthening the part he has the urge to go to the park?
- Maybe bring in dad earlier?
- Provide more context.
Heya! You've noted a part in italics, but the italics haven't copied over to the thread here - so I can't comment on it because I can't see it! No you don't need a title - it has never been a criticism or praise from the marking centre. And I usually feel uncomfortable giving a mark out of 15 because I'm not an official marker, I'm just a reader of the mark, so I give feedback based on the audience's experience :) I'll give it a crack, though! But don't take my mark as anything definitive.
Spoiler
At the bottom of the box lay an old dog eared photo album from a life much more happier and complete than this one. All he wanted to do was know what it was like to be happy again, but he did not know how best to go about it, who to ask first. As he flicked through the pages, crinkled through the assistance I'm just not sure this is the right word? Tears assisted him? of so many tears, the photographs came alive. There he was back up on the old, wooden stage in primary school confidently reciting his leadership speech. The image flips and suddenly he is on the glossy stage of secondary school, stoked that he has topped the class in English. Another photo goes past and he is in the music ensemble, laughing and playing his guitar. It always amazed him how he used to find such trivial things such as kicking a ball or egging his least favourite teacher's car not only fun and entertaining but also daring and enthralling. I'd put a new paragraph here :)He can't help but wonder if that version of him would be proud of what he'd become. It was like he had a split personality, happy and bubbly at first, then a few pages later dark, brooding and evasive. I like the "a few pages later" - it emphasises the importance of the photo album. He had to stop for a minute when he saw a photo of himself unhappy, because there were too many ice shards in his ice-cream. He wanted to scream at himself "Don't you realise that this is so trivial, so minute, and does not matter at all?" This is a bit random - it increases the understanding of some kind of bipolar-like experience, but it doesn't detail it enough to create an emotion from the reader I think. If you haven't experienced something like this yourself, I'd do some quick googling to get some accounts of people who have suffered something similar, just so that you can add an extra sentence or two on top of the ice cream sentence and really flesh out the battle in two minds, in the same head. I think that's a really important entry point for a marker to relate to the work. A separate sleeve at the end of the album showed achievements and commendations for a boy he was sure was not him; he would never have been able to do something so valiant and brave, or caring and compassionate.
As he was putting the document back in the sleeve he heard movement and slammed the album so fast his finger instantly turned about as blue as he felt. Do you mean blue as in down/sad or blue as in angry? I think it's too ambiguous. There's the expression "I'm feeling blue" and there's also the expression "I'm so angry I could argue this until I'm blue in the face" which is why I'm not sure how you want it to be interpreted. A moment of indecision as the intruder comes down the narrow, creaky, wooden stairs. No one ever comes down here. Not anymore. He was just about to flee when he heard a familiar voice that put him instantly at ease. New paragraph.He whirled around and saw not sure about this word - saw indicates that he visually spotted the spirit. I think that this creates the idea that the protagonist is a medium, rather than just someone experiencing a very touching time. Feeling the spirit is more relatable than seeing it. If you want to make it so that he saw the spirit, then I'd be putting that questioning about whether or not he saw it or if his mind just painted her in front of him soon, but not yet. it was none other than his mother's spirit. She whispered something in his ear that made him remember why he had loved her so much; able to keep calm and carry on through these tough times. He had the "keep calm and carry on" posters taped to the back of his door until he could no longer successfully meet the requirements they posed. Already his mother's spirit was receding, and he questions whether or not it was real or if he had just imagined it. His bruised finger provided enough evidence for him that it was real. It was in that exact moment that he had a strong urge to visit the park where his dad and him had played with each other. He used to ride on his shoulders and believe he was on top of the world; that he could could do anything he set his mind to. He opened the door for the first time in many years, the door hesitant to budge from lack of use this is just a little too clinical. and stepped outside. He opened the door for the first time in many years. It scraped the frame it has hugged for years, and dust platooned form the tight seal. << This indicates the same thing, but it shows and doesn't tell.
Outside, the sun was blinding like a hundred flashlights burning his retinas. Outside was a bustling metropolis he was not used to. Outside, people were stressed and in such a hurry to get to some place unbeknown to him, which always puzzled him.
He finally reached the park where he had spent most of his childhood. Perhaps flesh out this battle a bit more? What did he go through physically and mentally to get to the park? We've got the trio of "outside" sentences above, but I think here you could talk about the times you wanted to turn around, the times you wanted to just run to the park to get it over with, etc. Just something little, but I think we just make a bit of a jump and its a missed opportunity to engage the marker. It was fairly unchanged; the same green grass covered the space like a blanket and it was unoccupied. As he sits down, a warm breeze wraps around him like a tight hug loooove this and he comes to the realisation that he can no longer live locked up his whole life, in his self created jail cell. I'd be more inclined to take the imagery away from a jail cell because that connotes punishment, and instead, talk about it like a swaddle. Something that's protective and tight. Because to him, the house is that safe place, not a punishment. But now, outside, he is realising that he can also feel safe and protected outside. The presence of his mother is what provides the safety and support. /b]He needs to be outside in the elements. It is only out here where he can truly heed his mother's advice to keep calm and carry on, and for the first time inages, probably a bit too colloquial - perhaps "for the first time since the..." and choose however you want to phrase it. he feels as though he can do anything he sets his mind to. The change in tense here is really nice.
[NOTE: The part in italics does not flow well and I am looking to change that, just not sure how.]
As he was putting the document back in the sleeve he heard movement and slammed the album so fast his finger instantly turned about as blue as he felt. Do you mean blue as in down/sad or blue as in angry? I think it's too ambiguous. There's the expression "I'm feeling blue" and there's also the expression "I'm so angry I could argue this until I'm blue in the face" which is why I'm not sure how you want it to be interpreted. A moment of indecision as the intruder comes down the narrow, creaky, wooden stairs. No one ever comes down here. Not anymore. He was just about to flee when he heard a familiar voice that put him instantly at ease. New paragraph.He whirled around and
Outside, the sun was blinding like a hundred flashlights burning his retinas. Outside was a bustling metropolis he was not used to. Outside, people were stressed and in such a hurry to get to some place unbeknown to him, which always puzzled him.
He finally reached the park where he had spent most of his childhood. Perhaps flesh out this battle a bit more? What did he go through physically and mentally to get to the park? We've got the trio of "outside" sentences above, but I think here you could talk about the times you wanted to turn around, the times you wanted to just run to the park to get it over with, etc. Just something little, but I think we just make a bit of a jump and its a missed opportunity to engage the marker. It was fairly unchanged; the same green grass covered the space like a blanket and it was unoccupied. As he sits down, a warm breeze wraps around him like a tight hug loooove this and he comes to the realisation that he can no longer live locked up his whole life, in his self created jail cell. I'd be more inclined to take the imagery away from a jail cell because that connotes punishment, and instead, talk about it like a swaddle. Something that's protective and tight. Because to him, the house is that safe place, not a punishment. But now, outside, he is realising that he can also feel safe and protected outside. The presence of his mother is what provides the safety and support. /b]He needs to be outside in the elements. It is only out here where he can truly heed his mother's advice to keep calm and carry on, and for the first time in
[NOTE: The part in italics does not flow well and I am looking to change that, just not sure how.]
Contextually - I'm wondering how this person got such a complex about their mum's protection and presence. But, the story works without it. It could be a potential opportunity to raise ethos for the character by providing the trauma that caused this, but you could also fall into the trap of being a cliche trauma. So if you do pursue this, you'd need to be careful. But, it is something that you can add for very little effort and potentially great results. I don't feel the need to know about the dad - I think it's not relevant. I don't assume people have ever lived with both parents, so it wasn't a big question mark where I was wondering about the dad.
Otherwise, I think this is great. My only suggestions are throughout where I've suggested ways to enhance the plot with a few extra sentences. I'd put this as a band 5 because the story line is original, the discovery is meaningful, transformative, physical, spiritual, emotional, intellectual, etc. But, I think it is missing a few opportunities to lift the ethos of the protagonist, and also a tiny tiny bit more complexity in the character's life.
Hope this helps! :) Good luck!
Post by: lha on October 08, 2016, 02:37:18 pm
HEY THERE! Sorry this took a few days. Things have been a bit crazy!
The feedback is in the spoiler here:SpoilerThe ectopic rhythm of the heartbeats pounding through my chest can be heard all the way from earth.
Preparing myself, I move cautiously towards the rack by the door. I pull down the helmet at the top, feeling the rough material strewn across the neckline with my fingers. Placing the helmet over my head was always slightly claustrophobic, as if I was choosing to limit my life force to a pipe filled with a finite amount of oxygen on my back. Although I see what you're doing here - writing "as if I was choosing..." and I kind of think - that is what you are literally choosing? So perhaps just rewrite this so that perhaps the protagonist actually acknowledges the perhaps irony of limiting himself to a helmet, despite extending himself beyond Earth? I twist the helmet side to side, searching for the click which told me it was fastened. I'd go for somethign more like, "waiting for the fastening click." I think it just tidies it up a little bit :) A moment of suffocation follows, before a gush of air fills the sphere around my eyes. I choke for a second, unaccustomed to the large quantity of air, before calming myself with deep breaths. nice!
Initiating the anxious process, I pull the main lever and begin to input the codes; red, blue, green. I reach for each button in turn, missing at first, before steadying my hand and continuing. Finally, I place my shaking fingers on the tactically tightened latch, and cautiously start to turn it. A nerve-wracking creak betrays a small sigh of oxygen breaching the seal between mankind and outer space.
Tightly shutting my eyes, I anticipate the worst outcome. I gasp for air, not having realised that I was holding my breath. Leaning onto an uncovered button, the ship releases a mechanical noise as numerous steel steps dispense in front of me like a flower’s blossoming petals.
Slowly.
Purposefully.
My languid legs lead the original pathway. I am the first person.
Fearful to experience the untouched surface we have landed on.
The rough terrain meets my weary eyes. Ancient, dirt covered gorges, deep enough to avoid exploration, edges steep as Mount Everest, radiate a vibrant colour matching the neighbouring sun. Lining their banks, oceans of sharp jagged edged rocks tell stories of elongated years of endurance on this planet of isolation through their layers of sediment. They glisten with the orange, toxic gas that marks the earth of this planet - beautiful obstacles for my time-limited mission.
As I walk, the white Kevlar fabric encasing my swollen feet sprinkles with the flame coloured soil, irreversibly staining them. The craggy highland towers on the horizon, swimming in the white blanket of fog that covers the rest of the planet. Its peaks are jagged towards the top, covered with obtuse shapes that glisten in the sunless light. Below, steep, dusty slopes cascade towards the serrated earth.
The sly mist hugs my ankles with every stride I take towards it. It wraps me in its cold embrace, sweeping me along to the edge of the planet where I could fall off and swim among the stars.
In the peripheral of my eye, I see it. The ingeniously built piece of metal rolls towards me using the thinly sliced rubber circles attached gently to the metallic undergarments of the machine. Its head composed of a high definition camera along with the extended clamps secured to its front giving it a stereotypically childish appearance.
“The rob…rob…robot”
The anxious voice coming from my protective apparel interrupts my prolonged gaze and reminds me of my mission: delivering the vehicle to the mountains with their opaque flag of mist. I'm wondering if they would actually be identifying the robot in shaky terms if it were a real astronaut. I'm only being critical of your work because there's very else little to comment on because it's all flowing nicely! But, I think if the astronaut were alone, they wouldn't be identifying the obvious like that to themselves. I'd be more inclined to just put it out of dialogue, because you're in the first person narration anyway :)
My feet suddenly feel the toughness of the minerals covering the ground. I look down and am met with an explanation. I have arrived. My field of vision is too minuscule to absorb the enormous alp standing in front of me and yet I push forward.
I trek with measured steps, up the slope. Left. Right. Left. Right. The steady rocks perfectly aligned for my grip over the crumbling dirt.
Looking down behind me, the distant fog still blocks the view, yet the ground is visible. My exhaustion is clinging to my back. The endless training I endured feels non-beneficial as my contracted muscles threaten to tear my cracked skin with every small step I take.
I take my dilated eyes off the treacherous ground and look up to see the cloudy obstruction to my sight vanishing. My feet begin to fumble, and suddenly, a close-up view of the crusty floor meets my eyes. I stay down - a chance to examine the foreign land. My pupils turn slowly, careful to not miss a speck of treasure.
A rusty circular object flashes in the peripheral of my vision.
Moving closer, its dented edges and scratch-filled skin become visible. The black, rippled plastic coats majority of the device, with silver buttons joined to the top, and specks of aged, glimmering gold within the edges. As if a fossil, the ground sheathes it, outlining the letters “f.l.a.s.h.” on one of the main buttons and “on/off” on the other. I turn my head slightly to see on the side in big, slanted font: “Nikon 1935”.
Its decayed state doesn’t stop my confused expression from reflecting in the blemished, glass-plated mirror attached to the outer front of the contraption.
What seems to be a golden-plated emblem on the right hand corner shines, as if brand new, with four letters engraved on it: MARS.
I think a physical discovery is there, absolutely and clearly. And the story is written really well in that I can follow it without being distracted or confused. Where it lacks is complexity. Because it has one linear story structure, it doesn't give much room to explore other notions of discovery without some serious adjustment, and it does leave the storyline missing that "engaging" section. I am engaged because it is well written and fluid to read, but I'm not engaged because of the simplicity. Perhaps what you need is a metaphor or motive. By embedding a motif or metaphor early on, you thread some complexity throughout. Alternatively, giving the character a PURPOSE will give the story more direction. Are they doing it for their daughter? For huamnkind? For USA? To finalise their years of research? Whatever it may be, you need to jump at the opportunity to make a small change like adding a motive at the beginning and end, just to add that extra level of personality so that your character is more identifiable to a marker. I hope this makes sense, let me know if you have questions :)
Do you have any ideas about how i can introduce the characters purpose? Also, can you tell me a range of what mark i might get? Band 5 or 6? Or band 4 and lower?
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 02:50:38 pm
Do you have any ideas about how i can introduce the characters purpose? Also, can you tell me a range of what mark i might get? Band 5 or 6? Or band 4 and lower?
First of all you need to identify what the character's purpose is. You get to make it up! Like I suggested in the original post, it could be deeply personal relating to family. Perhaps it could be about proving people wrong! It could be about doing it for their country, or all in the name of science! I'd start to weave in the purpose early on, put it into their thinking when they are putting on the helmet. Then perhaps a reminder of the motive as they move through the story. Most importantly is that it is rounded off at the end to create that "wow" moment and the extra purpose for discovery! It is also an idea that they could make a personal discovery - where they realise they push their own limits and have extended themselves to places they have never thought they would make it to! So when you say earlier on how this is for mankind, maybe at the end contrast that and say but most importantly, it's for himself, or for his country, or for his colleagues, or his science, etc.
What purpose speaks to you most? Currently, I think it is sitting on a borderline band 5. With the extra purpose, it'll be more engaging for a reader and you'll be in a band 5! I'm not an official HSC marker, of course, I'm better at suggesting things that I am at quantifying an exact mark. But, the purpose will add that little bit more complexity and engagement!
Post by: massive on October 08, 2016, 03:01:10 pm
You could show an unexpected event that triggers a process of Discovery! That works well, you can pretty much make any sort of scenario work so long as you frame it right :)
There is no one way to 'show' the process of Discovery, it would simply be a matter of a Creative which highlights aspects of a Discovery, perhaps its aftereffects? Take a peek at some of the responses above for some ideas on this :)
What does the process of discovery mean? :S
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 03:31:51 pm
Hey there,Hi there! I'll give you an opinion on which band I think it belongs in :)
Any chance that I could get some feedback and a hypothetical mark on this creative writing?
Mainly just around whether the discovery is clear enough and whether it could be adapted.
Spoiler
Ode to Joy Vienna, 18th June 1824
The sun was about to begin her descent, ready to slide down the white-speckled sky. Her arms touched everything, lengthening each shadow. He stood on the wrought iron balcony overlooking the streets of Vienna, hidden in the shadow of the gargoyle that jutted out from the Theatre am Kaerntnertor. Ludwig’s fingers tapped against the warm metal, drawing black dust from it with every motion, and building a crescendo to match the melodies that ran unceasingly through him.
Below the balcony, people trailed across the cobbled square, lines of movement intersecting like steps to a dance. His eyes drifted to a corner where a dog tied to a post pulled and strained on his leash, teeth glinting in the sun as his mouth snapped against the wind. Standing in the shadow, the barks and snarls were lost on Ludwig - but how he yearned for them. You've done an incredible job so far. I'm engaged, the writing is a pleasure to read, and I'm excited to know where we are going next.
The dog’s face contorted and it pulled back, ready to pounce, launching an attack on all those who came near. The rhythm. That was clear to Ludwig. It was sporadic, snarls that followed no pattern, but his own re-creation of it lacked pitch and timbre. He tried to match the movements to his memories of what the sounds had been. Ludwig imagined those noises, rumbling growls that shook the dog’s body as his own face contorted, trying to mimic the guttural sounds that were now so blatantly hidden from him. Uhhhh, incredible.
In his head all sounds were pure, no clashing voices. But the sounds lacked grit, lacked coarseness and the surprise of the unexpected. The world around him was silent. All Ludwig ever heard were those perfect sounds that he created and tried to desperately communicate on to leafs of paper. It had been twenty years. Twenty years since Ludwig had last performed, and twelve since he last heard.
Shut tight behind Ludwig were gilded wooden doors. Behind them, an empty concert hall, and soon it would fill.
…
As the concert began, Ludwig stood before the musicians, arms weaving, waving, pulling on invisible, inaudible strings. Those that witnessed it would later tell of the times he rose, shrinking at other times to the ground, and moving as if he himself wanted to play all the instruments and sing for the whole chorus. His body moved, consumed by the music. The air was filled with static and although he could not hear the instruments around him, their vibrations and harmonies resounded within him with the utmost clarity.
For a while he joined their dance; conductor, musicians and instruments one. Swelling, rising, and falling as the chorus heightened - Freude, schoener Goetterfunken- Oh joy, beautiful spark of the Gods. Beautiful. I love the swelling, rising and falling.
The piece finished, he had turned the last page and the remnants of the melody faded away. Ludwig stood with his shoulders pushed back and his head raised. He saw the exhaustion in the faces of the musicians, spent from their dance. The air became still. Expectant. Vulnerable.
He felt his legs shaking. For a brief, eternal instant nothing made sense. Then he realised it was the floor shaking his legs. The floor was vibrating, rumbling.
Behind Ludwig the thousands rose to their feet in celebration. The theatre shook as feet drummed on the wooden floors. He turned to face the audience. Ludwig watched as handkerchiefs were thrown in the air, hats were raised and arms waved as the audience, tears in their eyes, desperately tried to make their joy known to the deaf composer who stood desolate before them.
…
The party began late and as the room upstairs became crowded with people, Ludwig stepped out of the crowd behind him and onto the balcony. It was still warm; the sun dipping below the horizon, reaching past the houses and theatres with roofs gilding them with her last light. Reaching out towards the metal frame, Ludwig braced himself against it. The last of the sun lit his face, as he looked towards it, the horizon dusty in the evening light.
When he closed his eyes he now saw those white cloths flying and the masses of people, frantic in their excitement. Ludwig turned away from the sun, letting it fall onto his back, leaning against the metal frame of the balcony. Inside those gilded wooden doors that now stood open, people danced. How they moved easily between each other, fluid arms wrapped around shoulders.
The rhythm between the people inside was almost tangible. Their movements hinted at the sounds and music that surrounded them. In each corner there was a hand keeping time or a slight pause in movement each time a crescendo peaked.
On that simple threshold between the dance of the people, inside in the golden light and the now darkening open balcony, Ludwig stood floundering in silence. He reached to the metal bar behind him, tightly clinging to it with one hand as he began to keep time, light taps that mimicked the movements and music on the other side of that door. He kept time easily, not watching the faces but the movements and patterns of the people.
He had found joy but no way to bridge his world of silence to theirs of joy. He had found divine unity, yet never been so utterly alone. The composer turned away from the crowd of people and their golden light and waited until the last light of the day slipped away with the setting of the sun.
The sun was about to begin her descent, ready to slide down the white-speckled sky. Her arms touched everything, lengthening each shadow. He stood on the wrought iron balcony overlooking the streets of Vienna, hidden in the shadow of the gargoyle that jutted out from the Theatre am Kaerntnertor. Ludwig’s fingers tapped against the warm metal, drawing black dust from it with every motion, and building a crescendo to match the melodies that ran unceasingly through him.
Below the balcony, people trailed across the cobbled square, lines of movement intersecting like steps to a dance. His eyes drifted to a corner where a dog tied to a post pulled and strained on his leash, teeth glinting in the sun as his mouth snapped against the wind. Standing in the shadow, the barks and snarls were lost on Ludwig - but how he yearned for them. You've done an incredible job so far. I'm engaged, the writing is a pleasure to read, and I'm excited to know where we are going next.
The dog’s face contorted and it pulled back, ready to pounce, launching an attack on all those who came near. The rhythm. That was clear to Ludwig. It was sporadic, snarls that followed no pattern, but his own re-creation of it lacked pitch and timbre. He tried to match the movements to his memories of what the sounds had been. Ludwig imagined those noises, rumbling growls that shook the dog’s body as his own face contorted, trying to mimic the guttural sounds that were now so blatantly hidden from him. Uhhhh, incredible.
In his head all sounds were pure, no clashing voices. But the sounds lacked grit, lacked coarseness and the surprise of the unexpected. The world around him was silent. All Ludwig ever heard were those perfect sounds that he created and tried to desperately communicate on to leafs of paper. It had been twenty years. Twenty years since Ludwig had last performed, and twelve since he last heard.
Shut tight behind Ludwig were gilded wooden doors. Behind them, an empty concert hall, and soon it would fill.
…
As the concert began, Ludwig stood before the musicians, arms weaving, waving, pulling on invisible, inaudible strings. Those that witnessed it would later tell of the times he rose, shrinking at other times to the ground, and moving as if he himself wanted to play all the instruments and sing for the whole chorus. His body moved, consumed by the music. The air was filled with static and although he could not hear the instruments around him, their vibrations and harmonies resounded within him with the utmost clarity.
For a while he joined their dance; conductor, musicians and instruments one. Swelling, rising, and falling as the chorus heightened - Freude, schoener Goetterfunken- Oh joy, beautiful spark of the Gods. Beautiful. I love the swelling, rising and falling.
The piece finished, he had turned the last page and the remnants of the melody faded away. Ludwig stood with his shoulders pushed back and his head raised. He saw the exhaustion in the faces of the musicians, spent from their dance. The air became still. Expectant. Vulnerable.
He felt his legs shaking. For a brief, eternal instant nothing made sense. Then he realised it was the floor shaking his legs. The floor was vibrating, rumbling.
Behind Ludwig the thousands rose to their feet in celebration. The theatre shook as feet drummed on the wooden floors. He turned to face the audience. Ludwig watched as handkerchiefs were thrown in the air, hats were raised and arms waved as the audience, tears in their eyes, desperately tried to make their joy known to the deaf composer who stood desolate before them.
…
The party began late and as the room upstairs became crowded with people, Ludwig stepped out of the crowd behind him and onto the balcony. It was still warm; the sun dipping below the horizon, reaching past the houses and theatres with roofs gilding them with her last light. Reaching out towards the metal frame, Ludwig braced himself against it. The last of the sun lit his face, as he looked towards it, the horizon dusty in the evening light.
When he closed his eyes he now saw those white cloths flying and the masses of people, frantic in their excitement. Ludwig turned away from the sun, letting it fall onto his back, leaning against the metal frame of the balcony. Inside those gilded wooden doors that now stood open, people danced. How they moved easily between each other, fluid arms wrapped around shoulders.
The rhythm between the people inside was almost tangible. Their movements hinted at the sounds and music that surrounded them. In each corner there was a hand keeping time or a slight pause in movement each time a crescendo peaked.
On that simple threshold between the dance of the people, inside in the golden light and the now darkening open balcony, Ludwig stood floundering in silence. He reached to the metal bar behind him, tightly clinging to it with one hand as he began to keep time, light taps that mimicked the movements and music on the other side of that door. He kept time easily, not watching the faces but the movements and patterns of the people.
He had found joy but no way to bridge his world of silence to theirs of joy. He had found divine unity, yet never been so utterly alone. The composer turned away from the crowd of people and their golden light and waited until the last light of the day slipped away with the setting of the sun.
I have no criticism. I'm sorry. Not even a little tiny bit. This is just wonderful. I couldn't stop reading, I probably read it faster than I've ever read a creative. It just flowed through so smoothly. I would undoubtedly give this a band 6. The greatest strength of your work is your ability to articulate clearly and aesthetically. Your second greatest asset is the way you've twisted context and content together to create a really authentic experience. You've done an amazing job, and I'm genuinely trying to find something to critique and I can't. Are there any doubts you have about your work? Perhaps I can address them if I know them. But, from a person who has never read your work, I was truly taken on a journey - and that's your aim! The only problem I see is that it is so wonderful, I wonder how you would go with adapting it? If your writing is naturally this wonderful, I presume that this would be fine. If it has taken a long time to get your writing to this standard, perhaps it's time to look at some past stimulus options and work out how you would authentically embed it into your work. You should be so proud and pleased!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 03:34:37 pm
What does the process of discovery mean? :S
the process of discovery can mean whatever you want it to mean! Although, I think that the easiest way of approaching it is considering the lead up to the discovery. What caused it? Who caused it? What environment? Who prompted it? Was it planned? Was it spontaneous? etc. A process is a journey, a series of stages. That's exactly what the process of discovery is :) You can take it further and say that the aftermath of a discovery is also in the process, by discussing how a discovery transforms or changes a person, a place, a perspective, a society, etc :)
"Process" of discovery is probably the broadest way of looking at discovery :)
Post by: nibblez16 on October 08, 2016, 04:00:31 pm
Post by: :3 on October 08, 2016, 04:06:11 pm
Hello. I have posted my creative writing a while ago. When will I get a response? Thank You :)
By today or early morning Monday according to Jamon.
In the meantime, keep studying. ;)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 08, 2016, 04:17:26 pm
Hello. I have posted my creative writing a while ago. When will I get a response? Thank You :)
Hey nibblez! As I spoke to you about over PM, your original creative was deleted. Your reposted one needs 30 posts to qualify for marking in this period, the requirement has increased to match with demand. You're only 6 posts off, if you hang around the site for a bit tonight I bet you'll get there quick! :)
Post by: onepunchboy on October 08, 2016, 04:28:38 pm
Post by: Blissfulmelodii on October 08, 2016, 04:59:23 pm
Hey blissful! Thanks for posting your creative, but unfortunately you need 15 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay/creative you'd like marked! This is to ensure that the markers have time to give proper feedback to active members of the forums; one line feedback doesn't help anyone ;) hang around the forums for a bit, ask questions and maybe answer them, and you'll build up the post count really quick! ;D
On the mark discrepancy though, that's pretty common for Creatives. It is very interpretive, and marks can range by 2-3. You should consider your actual mark as somewhere in the middle, most probably :) remember, your Creative pieces are double marked, so no stress!! I personally think working with this will work best this close to the exam, if it is already high B (at minimum), definitely no worries getting to an A :)
Let us know when you reach post count!! ;D
Hey Jamon,
Firstly thank you for the feedback, the subjective nature of the marking has always frightened me to be honest but i'm glad that it is double marked (something I did not know). Does that also go for the Essays as well or is it just creative that they do that?
Also I've passed the 15 post mark like you said however I saw your earlier post about reaching 30. Does that mean I now have to reach 30 to get my creative checked?
Post by: massive on October 08, 2016, 05:05:46 pm
the process of discovery can mean whatever you want it to mean! Although, I think that the easiest way of approaching it is considering the lead up to the discovery. What caused it? Who caused it? What environment? Who prompted it? Was it planned? Was it spontaneous? etc. A process is a journey, a series of stages. That's exactly what the process of discovery is :) You can take it further and say that the aftermath of a discovery is also in the process, by discussing how a discovery transforms or changes a person, a place, a perspective, a society, etc :)THANKYOU!
"Process" of discovery is probably the broadest way of looking at discovery :)
Post by: nibblez16 on October 08, 2016, 05:31:27 pm
Hey nibblez! As I spoke to you about over PM, your original creative was deleted. Your reposted one needs 30 posts to qualify for marking in this period, the requirement has increased to match with demand. You're only 6 posts off, if you hang around the site for a bit tonight I bet you'll get there quick! :)
Alrighty, no worries! Also if I get 30 posts is that for only one essay being checked or I can give in a few? :)
Post by: asd987 on October 08, 2016, 05:37:26 pm
Post by: tahmina on October 08, 2016, 05:41:33 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 06:13:30 pm
Alright well I feel like I really haven't got much to lose (I was scared to post before cause my school would put it through turn it in and I didn't want it to come up and go through the hassle of explaining etc etc) and I value Jamon's advice so here goes nothing! If you guys have time and can have a read of this, that would be great! :) I understand that it's like 1200 words but tbh my narrative stopped after "To hell with the shareholders, I'm doing this for me" but I tried to extend it a bit more to encompass the impact part of discoveries. I still think I'm not covering enough rubric points though so any feedback would be highly appreciated!
Neutron
Hey :) Taking a look at this one now!
Spoiler
The city’s core hammered to the metronome of pattering rain as the lone skyscraper pulsated within the night sky. Tentatively massaging the nape of his neck, Malcolm’s gaze flickered between the contracts before him, awaiting his endorsement. His fingers echoed a rhythmic tapping on the desk, as his fountain pen hovered above the agreements, lingering over one slightly longer than the other. Love the metronome idea - great!
By signing, both parties consent to constructing residential condominiums to be retailed under the second party’s franchise… totaling in a net profit of sixty million dollars... I don't think the elipsis adds anything here!
The eruption of applause from the enterprise’s shareholders was almost audible as his pen poised above the contract, the ringing approval undeniably expanding his company further. After all, the homeless can look after themselves right? Hesitant, Malcolm withdrew and diverted his gaze to the adjacent contract.
By declaring agreement to the governmental regulations of constructing non-for-profit homeless shelters, the understanding that such housings are public amenities is assumed…
A long-suffering sigh escaped his lips, the potential outrage and plummet in reputation was mirrored by the ferocious thunderstorm outside. The series of enterprise awards glowered at his indecision, imposing an indirect threat by the parasitic stakeholders. Malcolm’s leather chair groaned as he swiveled swivelled* it towards the wall of window, his reflection confronting him. You've created this wonderfully calculated experience, I'm enjoying it!
***
Dazzling Christmas lights illuminate, blinding Malcolm’s bloodshot eyes as he skims the waterlogged footpath, searching for a drier spot to rest with his rucksack of belongings. The laughter captures his attention as he pauses, recognizing recognising* his brother’s house. His heart sinks. Their animated euphoria swamps him, immobilizing immobilising* him as he absorbs the warmth through the window. A few moments of dejection pass, before he trudges onwards, aimless and hopeless. (snubbing the witnessed affection.) I'm not sure about this last bit - not quite sure what it means?
***
A roll of thunder grumbled. The perfect life Malcolm had spent years and years constructing, his comfort, early retirement and stability all possibly sabotaged, not by someone else, but by himself. The homeless will be fine, I would know, he assured. This last bit here could do with some tweaking - I think even just adding "he assured his colleagues" just so that it makes more sense who it is directed at. The first person narration was a little bizarre, until I read it as though it was being said to someone. So just that little tweak will make things a tiny bit more precise.
***
A bellow of thunder erupts. A filth-woven blanket enslaves I think enslaves is too graphic and intense for this sentence. Malcolm’s frail limbs as the downpour offers his first shower in months. Day after day, his tin can pathetically rattles. A stampede of chills lingers and a devouring hunger gnaws, creating a ceaseless void that tortures Malcolm like an unscratchable itch. His passive façade enables the business officials to walk by innocently, their gazes fixated only upon society’s wealth.
“Help…please” he rasps towards the hurricane of suits trampling past him, neither noticing nor caring.
------------
***
The stock market’s turmoil and the controversial media coverage all flashed before Malcolm. Crazed ex-homeless man throws wealth away, I'd put this in quotation marks. they’ll say. Explosions of thunder detonated near the building as a streak of lightning fractured the night sky. The fear of pandemonium drove his pen back onto the first contract.
***
The consuming black river swirls beneath the bridge, emulating the inking darkness surrounding him. His mind urges him to jump, just a little step more, there’s nothing left for you anyway, it says and slowly, he clambers over, one leg at a time. The traffic continues to thunder behind him as he perches on the edge, the wind whistling through his greasy, month-old beard. Closing his eyes, he leans forward. Although I'm enjoying reading this a lot - if you need to cut down on words, then the place to do it is in one of these short little passages like this one. The story can go on without it, although it is better with it. So I'd be trying to put these little snippets into other areas.
***
The storm subdued to a gentle murmur of drizzle as Malcolm rummaged his finger through his pompadour, groaning at the papers before him. He supported thousands of employees and families whose salaries depended on his success. The homeless don’t need his help.
***
A hand clasps on his shoulder, steadying him again.
“Please don’t do this.”
He whips around, swollen eyes gazing into comforting hazel ones. A tentative smile wavers on the youthful girls lips, rubbing his shoulders as her parked hatchback exposes the shadows of the merciless torrents below them.
“Everything will be okay. I know a shelter that will help.” The girl lifts Malcolm back over the bridge, his actions entranced by her soothing words.
“In life, you always have two choices, the easy or the hard way. And you’ll always find that what’s right, is never easy. Sometimes, look at things differently.”
Spinning him around, she directed his gaze to the other side of the bridge, where a full moon and constellation of stars explodes across the horizon, the immense brightness spellbinding him.
***
The crack of dawn unexpectedly erupted across the skyline, radiating streams of light into the office. Malcolm’s reflection watched him, gradually morphing, his facial creases receding as a wild, untamed beard sprouted. The hollowness within his past eyes frightened Malcolm, blinking slowly with an expression devoid of purpose.
After all, the homeless can look after themselves, right? His reflection seemed to echo, amused at Malcolm’s astonishment.
“In life, you always have two choices”
Malcolm rolled up his sleeves, pushing aside the desk’s irrelevant contents.
“The easy or the hard way”
Glancing at each contract one last time, Malcolm grabbed his fountain pen, uncapping the lid.
“And you’ll find that what’s right,”
The ghost of his former self hovered towards Malcolm, staring intently before plunging into his present self, galvanizing his revitalized emotions.
“is never easy”
He’d let himself become just another suit in the city, everything he hated on the streets. It needed to end. Gripping his pen, he scrawled his signature across the homeless contract, authorizing authorising it in an envelope before scrunching the other proposal. Standing, he shoved all his awards off the wall, shattering their glass casing. The true currency of life isn’t measured in money.
“To hell with the shareholders, I’m doing this for me.”
-----------
***
The stark establishment erupted before him. The scaffold was mechanically mounting, the modules slotting in like jigsaws as they each provided an additional layer of complexity and stability. Construction workers scuttled around as though they were laborious honeybees, their fluorescent hardhats functioning as beacons of progress.
“Sir, we’re still at the preliminary stages. It’s not too late to-”
“No. This is the right thing to do.”
The commotion of operational drills, overhead cranes and distant commands swallowed his self-doubt.
***
Young entrepreneur rejects once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to resolve growing population, plummets in net worth.
Incoming economic recession after wasteful and misguided expenditure by our leading enterprise.
Corporate partnerships dismantled over crazed ex-homeless man’s alleged ‘moral awakening’
The above three should be in quotation marks :)
The headlines sprawled across his desk, letters of outrage screaming for his attention. The shelter had only been operating for a week and already housed a thousand occupants. Did that mean nothing to them? The piercing jangle of his handset reverberates around the room, relentless with the stream of fuming shareholders demanding revocation.
“I rehabilitated a thousand people, rescued them off the streets and treated them like humans!” He hollered, ripping the handset’s connector chord.
***
Padding stretched across the entirety of the chamber, sheets of white sprawling across each mattress. The orderly rows were disrupted by the occasional banter of the occupants, laughter and light chatter energizing the room. The vagrants convened within small communal groups, organizing organising* and redistributing their meager belongings as well as amending their physical attributes. A cleanly shaved man with a tainted button-up bustled into one of the groups, excitedly exclaiming and triggering a cheerful uproar. Malcolm watched as they rhythmically chanted, hoisting him on their backs.
“He got it! He got it! He’ll be poor no more! He got it! He got it! He’ll have a meal for sure!” The room echoed, contributing to the clamor.
Spotting Malcolm at the overhang, the crowd cascaded in ebullient applause, with random cries amongst the eruption.
“You sir are the reason why I got my job today!”
“You gave us a second chance when no one else would!”
“Thank you for believing in us!”
Malcolm beamed, tears streaking down his cheek as the gleaming reflection of the community blinded him. Some things money just can’t buy.
By signing, both parties consent to constructing residential condominiums to be retailed under the second party’s franchise… totaling in a net profit of sixty million dollars... I don't think the elipsis adds anything here!
The eruption of applause from the enterprise’s shareholders was almost audible as his pen poised above the contract, the ringing approval undeniably expanding his company further. After all, the homeless can look after themselves right? Hesitant, Malcolm withdrew and diverted his gaze to the adjacent contract.
By declaring agreement to the governmental regulations of constructing non-for-profit homeless shelters, the understanding that such housings are public amenities is assumed…
A long-suffering sigh escaped his lips, the potential outrage and plummet in reputation was mirrored by the ferocious thunderstorm outside. The series of enterprise awards glowered at his indecision, imposing an indirect threat by the parasitic stakeholders. Malcolm’s leather chair groaned as he swiveled swivelled* it towards the wall of window, his reflection confronting him. You've created this wonderfully calculated experience, I'm enjoying it!
***
Dazzling Christmas lights illuminate, blinding Malcolm’s bloodshot eyes as he skims the waterlogged footpath, searching for a drier spot to rest with his rucksack of belongings. The laughter captures his attention as he pauses, recognizing recognising* his brother’s house. His heart sinks. Their animated euphoria swamps him, immobilizing immobilising* him as he absorbs the warmth through the window. A few moments of dejection pass, before he trudges onwards, aimless and hopeless. (snubbing the witnessed affection.) I'm not sure about this last bit - not quite sure what it means?
***
A roll of thunder grumbled. The perfect life Malcolm had spent years and years constructing, his comfort, early retirement and stability all possibly sabotaged, not by someone else, but by himself. The homeless will be fine, I would know, he assured. This last bit here could do with some tweaking - I think even just adding "he assured his colleagues" just so that it makes more sense who it is directed at. The first person narration was a little bizarre, until I read it as though it was being said to someone. So just that little tweak will make things a tiny bit more precise.
***
A bellow of thunder erupts. A filth-woven blanket enslaves I think enslaves is too graphic and intense for this sentence. Malcolm’s frail limbs as the downpour offers his first shower in months. Day after day, his tin can pathetically rattles. A stampede of chills lingers and a devouring hunger gnaws, creating a ceaseless void that tortures Malcolm like an unscratchable itch. His passive façade enables the business officials to walk by innocently, their gazes fixated only upon society’s wealth.
“Help…please” he rasps towards the hurricane of suits trampling past him, neither noticing nor caring.
------------
***
The stock market’s turmoil and the controversial media coverage all flashed before Malcolm. Crazed ex-homeless man throws wealth away, I'd put this in quotation marks. they’ll say. Explosions of thunder detonated near the building as a streak of lightning fractured the night sky. The fear of pandemonium drove his pen back onto the first contract.
***
The consuming black river swirls beneath the bridge, emulating the inking darkness surrounding him. His mind urges him to jump, just a little step more, there’s nothing left for you anyway, it says and slowly, he clambers over, one leg at a time. The traffic continues to thunder behind him as he perches on the edge, the wind whistling through his greasy, month-old beard. Closing his eyes, he leans forward. Although I'm enjoying reading this a lot - if you need to cut down on words, then the place to do it is in one of these short little passages like this one. The story can go on without it, although it is better with it. So I'd be trying to put these little snippets into other areas.
***
The storm subdued to a gentle murmur of drizzle as Malcolm rummaged his finger through his pompadour, groaning at the papers before him. He supported thousands of employees and families whose salaries depended on his success. The homeless don’t need his help.
***
A hand clasps on his shoulder, steadying him again.
“Please don’t do this.”
He whips around, swollen eyes gazing into comforting hazel ones. A tentative smile wavers on the youthful girls lips, rubbing his shoulders as her parked hatchback exposes the shadows of the merciless torrents below them.
“Everything will be okay. I know a shelter that will help.” The girl lifts Malcolm back over the bridge, his actions entranced by her soothing words.
“In life, you always have two choices, the easy or the hard way. And you’ll always find that what’s right, is never easy. Sometimes, look at things differently.”
Spinning him around, she directed his gaze to the other side of the bridge, where a full moon and constellation of stars explodes across the horizon, the immense brightness spellbinding him.
***
The crack of dawn unexpectedly erupted across the skyline, radiating streams of light into the office. Malcolm’s reflection watched him, gradually morphing, his facial creases receding as a wild, untamed beard sprouted. The hollowness within his past eyes frightened Malcolm, blinking slowly with an expression devoid of purpose.
After all, the homeless can look after themselves, right? His reflection seemed to echo, amused at Malcolm’s astonishment.
“In life, you always have two choices”
Malcolm rolled up his sleeves, pushing aside the desk’s irrelevant contents.
“The easy or the hard way”
Glancing at each contract one last time, Malcolm grabbed his fountain pen, uncapping the lid.
“And you’ll find that what’s right,”
The ghost of his former self hovered towards Malcolm, staring intently before plunging into his present self, galvanizing his revitalized emotions.
“is never easy”
He’d let himself become just another suit in the city, everything he hated on the streets. It needed to end. Gripping his pen, he scrawled his signature across the homeless contract, authorizing authorising it in an envelope before scrunching the other proposal. Standing, he shoved all his awards off the wall, shattering their glass casing. The true currency of life isn’t measured in money.
“To hell with the shareholders, I’m doing this for me.”
-----------
***
The stark establishment erupted before him. The scaffold was mechanically mounting, the modules slotting in like jigsaws as they each provided an additional layer of complexity and stability. Construction workers scuttled around as though they were laborious honeybees, their fluorescent hardhats functioning as beacons of progress.
“Sir, we’re still at the preliminary stages. It’s not too late to-”
“No. This is the right thing to do.”
The commotion of operational drills, overhead cranes and distant commands swallowed his self-doubt.
***
Young entrepreneur rejects once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to resolve growing population, plummets in net worth.
Incoming economic recession after wasteful and misguided expenditure by our leading enterprise.
Corporate partnerships dismantled over crazed ex-homeless man’s alleged ‘moral awakening’
The above three should be in quotation marks :)
The headlines sprawled across his desk, letters of outrage screaming for his attention. The shelter had only been operating for a week and already housed a thousand occupants. Did that mean nothing to them? The piercing jangle of his handset reverberates around the room, relentless with the stream of fuming shareholders demanding revocation.
“I rehabilitated a thousand people, rescued them off the streets and treated them like humans!” He hollered, ripping the handset’s connector chord.
***
Padding stretched across the entirety of the chamber, sheets of white sprawling across each mattress. The orderly rows were disrupted by the occasional banter of the occupants, laughter and light chatter energizing the room. The vagrants convened within small communal groups, organizing organising* and redistributing their meager belongings as well as amending their physical attributes. A cleanly shaved man with a tainted button-up bustled into one of the groups, excitedly exclaiming and triggering a cheerful uproar. Malcolm watched as they rhythmically chanted, hoisting him on their backs.
“He got it! He got it! He’ll be poor no more! He got it! He got it! He’ll have a meal for sure!” The room echoed, contributing to the clamor.
Spotting Malcolm at the overhang, the crowd cascaded in ebullient applause, with random cries amongst the eruption.
“You sir are the reason why I got my job today!”
“You gave us a second chance when no one else would!”
“Thank you for believing in us!”
Malcolm beamed, tears streaking down his cheek as the gleaming reflection of the community blinded him. Some things money just can’t buy.
I have a lot of different thoughts about this story. It's complicated yet quite simple, which is interesting. Your actual writing is sophisticated and clear yet never verbose. That's great. As you pointed out, the story can end earlier than it does. I think it could actually end at several different points. I like having the effect of discovery there, the ramifications. But, I don't think it is the most important thing. I think you can take out some of your smaller passages and condense it together. The most important sections for me are: Knowing Malcolm works in stocks amongst men and women ignorant of low or no income earners - Knowing Malcolm was on the streets and rescued in a shelter - Knowing Malcolm makes a decision to respond to his own past through present actions. So the headlines add something extra to the work - but I can't say it was completely necessary. Otherwise, there are little snippets that add to the nature of his decision, but I personally think you let go of that tight language you had at the start when it comes to the end. Most likely, it is because you've added the ending more recently. I think the quotes at the end don't round off Malcolm's personal journey - but they certainly talk about the ramifications of discovery on society.
So, where you are at: You've probably got the most flexible story I have read yet. You can stop it at a few stages, you can take little bits out here and there, you can condense it if needed, and you explore so many different stages of discovery on different people. You're in a BLESSING of a position right now! It is just about looking at as many stimulus options and exam papers as possible, and then applying your work by preparing how you'd add, subtract, adjust your work!
Hopefully this makes sense. I put a few small suggestions throughout the work, but now it's just about working out your plan for the exam!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 06:16:00 pm
What if someone copies your work or a teacher finds it and thinks you copied your essay/creative from online
We can always contact a school if it is suspected that someone has copied from online for an internal assessment. If, for example, you posted your work here for feedback and it comes up through an internet search of words from your creative, we can contact the school upon request to verify that you are the person who has posted the work :)
hey guys, i reached 60.. this would mean so much if its looked at ! :) :) :) :-\
Will get to you shortly Tahmina! thanks for working so hard :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 06:18:22 pm
Alrighty, no worries! Also if I get 30 posts is that for only one essay being checked or I can give in a few? :)
30 posts per long piece (essay or creative) :)
But by all means, post your thesis statements or introductions here for smaller feedback in the mean time :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 06:42:16 pm
Could you please mark my creative writing piece and give me feedback on it? Would this story be suitable to tackle a wide variety of stimuli? I was told by a friend that my structure is pretty rigid so it will be hard to adapt this story to a variety of different discovery stimuli. If it is rigid, is there anything that I could fix to make it more open to adaptation? Thankyou very much!
Hi there! No need to post your work twice, I saw it the first time, I've just been trying to catch up on it all :)
Comments are in the spoiler in bold font :)
Spoiler
She playfully pranced around in the verdant grass beneath her. Ankle-deep, undulating and tangled like a horse’s mane, its tiny fingers tickled her thighs, resulting in a bout of giggles. Every time a new person speaks, you need to start a new line :) “Darling” Her mother gestured. “C’mere. I have a very important responsibility to assign to you”. Curious as to know what, she made her way to the veranda where her mother sat. In her favourite rocking chair, oaken & well-polished to a lovely shade of umber brown. “Today could you help me the washing? It’s a very important job you see.” New line. “Yes mother!” Without hesitation, she agreed. New line. “First could you turn that knob?” Following her mother’s guidance, she adjusted the skeletal tree to better suit her height. Afterwards, she knelt down to grasp clothes from the washing basket, fresh out of the stomach of the great hulking beast which lay in its lair, the shed. Placing each garment onto the branches of the tree, she carefully straightened out any creases in the process. Her dainty little fingers then nimbly fastened pegs, one by one. And then it was done! She sat there admiring her handiwork; her own semaphore secrets depicted in colourful t-shirts and mismatched socks that were fluttering in a scarcely seen summer breeze. She giggled with delight, realising how wonderful her new responsibility was.
***************
Stubborn they called her. Old fashioned,comma they said. She knew otherwise. Unlike other people who used tumble dryers, she dried her clothes in the warmth of the sun, just like her mother had taught her to do so. As the sun blazed above her, she grasped the washing basket chock a block if this was dialogue, then by all means colloquialism is great. But because it is coming from the narrator, it really stands out. full of an assortment of damp garments and brought it over to the base of the rotary clothes line. One by one she raised each garment on the line, ceaselessly repeating the same movements over and over. Her well-worn hands accumulated in the line-etched story of life in scars and wrinkles, gently reached for the wooden pegs in the tub. One peg, no need for a capital letter in "two" Two pegs …. or here for "twenty"Twenty pegs clamped, all spread out unevenly on each side of the square. Her hands eventually ceased motion, with a sheen of sweat coating her back being the only reward for her hard work. Her feetsubsequently probably a bit too calculated language for this really delicate scene led her towards a nearby shed where there lay the washing machine, a familiar sight to her. Perhaps a new paragraph here. You're in need of a new para, and here might be the best place. Adjusting a knob, she dumped the next load of clothes into its cavernous mouth along with a spoonful of powder. Wiping her forehead with a sleeve, she shuffled out of the shed towards the veranda, a veritable oasis from the heat of the day. Where there lay shade and an oaken framed rocker. Or perhaps the new paragraph here?As she sunk into its wooden frame, a relieved sigh made its way out from her mouth. Time and time again she could never fully appreciate the comfort it offered her until a good day’s worth of work had been completed. The rocking chair was nothing special. It had seen better days, and no amount of polishing could conceal the circular black burn on the right arm, or the chips on the curved gliders, and the scratch marks on the seat. But it was her bastion of favourite memories, for it was in that piece of creaking wood that her mother had once sat, instructing her on how to construct a secret code on the line festooned with garments. “Create your own vivid message” she had been instructed. But its age-warped lines betrayed such an evocative memory, a stark contrast with its past appearance. Ironically she was in the same position as her mother had been in, except without her own daughter doing the laundry outside, who instead was lazing around in the house. The machine let out its familiar grunt, disturbing her silent moment of reverie. Love this sentence! Perhaps it was time? She could no longer support an entire household’s worth of chores by herself. Her age had caught up to her. Perhaps she’d have to instruct her daughter just like her mother had done so…
******************
“Maria! Could you please come out darling. I have a very important job to assign to you.” Her own words echoed the same instructions her mother had once said. New line “Muuum” her daughter protested, eager to stay within the comforts of her own room. New line“Maria, come out now”.Don't need this quotation mark here, or the one before please. “Please, for me? Put a quotation mark here < :)… Delete the elipsis and start a new line for "Alright" :) “Alright Mum”. With great reluctance her daughter made her way outside the house. And so she guided her daughter. New line :) “Start with the corner farthest from the house, and work your way back. You can even create your own special combinations of colours as well”. She watched on with great satisfaction at her daughter’s inexperienced attempts at hanging up the laundry. A smug grin couldn’t help but creep itself up onto her face. “I know now, mother. You taught me so that someone else could help out with the housework”. Delightful it was, passing the mantle onto your own child. Truly wonderful that another set of hands could share the workload. The rocker creaked in reply; her own mother amused at her newfound realisation.
******************
Humming, Maria stood in the haze of the afternoon, clumsily grasping each garment and hoisting them onto the sagging wires until she was finally finished. She stepped back to admire her handiwork. New line“Mum, I’ve done a good job right?” As she turned around to ask her mother, she turned around to see her grinning as she lazily slouched on the veranda, on her favourite rocking chair. A drop of sweat ran down her brow. “This is my responsibility?!! That cow!”
***************
Stubborn they called her. Old fashioned,comma they said. She knew otherwise. Unlike other people who used tumble dryers, she dried her clothes in the warmth of the sun, just like her mother had taught her to do so. As the sun blazed above her, she grasped the washing basket chock a block if this was dialogue, then by all means colloquialism is great. But because it is coming from the narrator, it really stands out. full of an assortment of damp garments and brought it over to the base of the rotary clothes line. One by one she raised each garment on the line, ceaselessly repeating the same movements over and over. Her well-worn hands accumulated in the line-etched story of life in scars and wrinkles, gently reached for the wooden pegs in the tub. One peg, no need for a capital letter in "two" Two pegs …. or here for "twenty"Twenty pegs clamped, all spread out unevenly on each side of the square. Her hands eventually ceased motion, with a sheen of sweat coating her back being the only reward for her hard work. Her feet
******************
“Maria! Could you please come out darling. I have a very important job to assign to you.” Her own words echoed the same instructions her mother had once said. New line “Muuum” her daughter protested, eager to stay within the comforts of her own room. New line“Maria, come out now”.Don't need this quotation mark here, or the one before please. “Please, for me? Put a quotation mark here < :)… Delete the elipsis and start a new line for "Alright" :) “Alright Mum”. With great reluctance her daughter made her way outside the house. And so she guided her daughter. New line :) “Start with the corner farthest from the house, and work your way back. You can even create your own special combinations of colours as well”. She watched on with great satisfaction at her daughter’s inexperienced attempts at hanging up the laundry. A smug grin couldn’t help but creep itself up onto her face. “I know now, mother. You taught me so that someone else could help out with the housework”. Delightful it was, passing the mantle onto your own child. Truly wonderful that another set of hands could share the workload. The rocker creaked in reply; her own mother amused at her newfound realisation.
******************
Humming, Maria stood in the haze of the afternoon, clumsily grasping each garment and hoisting them onto the sagging wires until she was finally finished. She stepped back to admire her handiwork. New line“Mum, I’ve done a good job right?” As she turned around to ask her mother, she turned around to see her grinning as she lazily slouched on the veranda, on her favourite rocking chair. A drop of sweat ran down her brow. “This is my responsibility?!! That cow!”
I've been picky on the formatting of dialogue because it is super important for your exam! Unorganised dialogue + crazy exam handwriting can make your work really tricky to read :) Google dialogue formatting if you aren't sure! :)
I like how your story goes in the three stages and I also like the way you have carefully used "mother" and "mum" in different contexts - very very clever, I enjoyed it!
The ONLY thing I'm not sure about is the ending. I like the little bit of humour and the abruptness of the conclusion, but I think it could be expressed slightly more as a realisation mentally, paired with an exclamation. So perhaps something like (this is super rough, don't use this exactly lol), "the tables had turned, the baton was passed on." Then, the exclamation in dialogue! I think that works, do you? I just want to make sure you aren't selling yourself short in the ending, but at the same time I don't want to detract from that ending either!
I don't think there's much about the transformative nature of discovery, and to me that's always a section of the rubric I think is really important because it deals with the latter half of the "discovery process." What do you think? It is rigid, but that's just because it's tightly articulated. It's time to think about how you would deal with a stimulus. You've got room for complication. You could add in that the mother is sick and the daughter didn't realise she'd warn her into the ground with arthritis, or something like that. There is room for a subplot that gives you another opportunity for discovery! What do you think?
Overall, great work :) It's now just about your application to the question!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 06:57:33 pm
Hey Jamon,
Firstly thank you for the feedback, the subjective nature of the marking has always frightened me to be honest but i'm glad that it is double marked (something I did not know). Does that also go for the Essays as well or is it just creative that they do that?
Also I've passed the 15 post mark like you said however I saw your earlier post about reaching 30. Does that mean I now have to reach 30 to get my creative checked?
I'm not entirely sure, but you're working hard so I'll give yours some feedback now! :)
Spoiler
Every new school year that comes around you get a fresh batch of new It's a bit tautologous to "fresh" so I'd leave this out :) faces, a fresh batch of uncontaminated and naïve minds,comma but sometimes you get lucky. One person comes along who flips your world upside down, that reminds you why it is you do what you do.
As I walked into the room all went still. I took my seat and observed the scene before me. Natural light filtered in through the open windows all along the right side of the room, the drip, drip, drip of the tap at the back filled the empty silence, the back sink stacked high with unwashed pallets and brushes and the students’ expectant gazes fell on me, instinctively wondering what this course had in store for them. To me, it's really weird that the tap is dripping lol! I'd take that bit out, it creates a bit of imagery that distracts from the rest.
It’s always refreshing to see a group of young people enthused by art, who are completely ready to dedicate their entire lives to it. I’ve always thought of art as a means to provide opportunities for self-expression, bringing the inner world into the outer world of concrete reality, however those that do well are the ones who able to gain inspiration from their own experiences and their own inner conflict. Something these students would have to quickly learn. This sounds quite generic of the way one would talk about art. I think the way to make it interesting is to identify the students before them. For example, there's the kid who likes grafitti, there's the girl who doesn't talk but makes beautiful pottery, and the boy who looks cartooning. Something simple like this takes it out of the generic "self expression" of art and puts it into a real classroom situation.
As the period came to an end I quickly informed the class of their next task before they were all out the door.
xxx
As the sun set, the sky was nothing more than shades of purple and orange, there was an eerie feel in the air as a slight breeze whipped back and forth through the branches of the trees along the pathway on which I was walking. All was silent as the last of the students left campus to return to their rooms, or wherever it is they go after dark.
“So this is where you go to hide away from the world?”
“No, it’s where I go to escape into the world.”
I looked over her shoulder and peered at the sketchbook sitting snugly on her lap, her hands shook as she tightly gripped the pencil. The page was smudged with disconnected lines and scratches of words that I couldn’t quick read, the frustration clear from her posture and by her sudden sigh of defeat.
“You know, I only handed that task out today? You have two weeks to complete it.”
“I know, um I just wanted to try and get a start before I completely lose all my motivation-“ She laughed humourlessly “clearly it isn’t going well, I guess I never realised how much I relied on my sight.”
I nodded empathetically and took a seat beside her.
“The great thing about art is that it can come in many different forms, it isn’t about copying what’s already there but more being able to interpret and recreate what already exists, to give something which we all know a new meaning. So you can’t see. Find another way to interpret the world… here, give me your hand.”
Hesitantly she lifted her hand up; I placed mine over the top of hers and slowly lowered it to the ground, quietly instructing her to utilise her other senses to create an image in her mind.
I lifted my hand and placed it beside hers, following the path that she was tracing. My fingers slid across the damp ground and as it did I could feel every blade of grass slide through my fingers and each individual grain of dirt attaching itself to my hand as it continued on. I felt the hairs on my arm lift slightly as a cool breeze swept passed in that moment carrying with it fallen leaves, the smell of damp earth and a sweet tinge of some unidentifiable flower. The sound of the rustling of the branches and the distinct lack of bird calls made the late hour quite obvious. I heard my steady breathe mix in with hers as I continued to take in my surroundings. The more that I began to physically notice, the more of an image I could start to visualise, which I also hope Clarity was able to do.
A short moment passed and I opened my eyes to see Clarity digging through her backpack beside her, sketchpad and pencil long forgotten. Curiously I waited as she finally found what she was searching for; she pulled out a small block of clay from her bag and began to manipulate the substance still keeping her eyes firmly shut. I watched mesmerised by the precise movements of her hands as if they had a life of their own, as I got up quietly to leave her be I momentarily looked back to see a small smile on her face and was reminded why it is I do what I do.
As I walked into the room all went still. I took my seat and observed the scene before me. Natural light filtered in through the open windows all along the right side of the room, the drip, drip, drip of the tap at the back filled the empty silence, the back sink stacked high with unwashed pallets and brushes and the students’ expectant gazes fell on me, instinctively wondering what this course had in store for them. To me, it's really weird that the tap is dripping lol! I'd take that bit out, it creates a bit of imagery that distracts from the rest.
It’s always refreshing to see a group of young people enthused by art, who are completely ready to dedicate their entire lives to it. I’ve always thought of art as a means to provide opportunities for self-expression, bringing the inner world into the outer world of concrete reality, however those that do well are the ones who able to gain inspiration from their own experiences and their own inner conflict. Something these students would have to quickly learn. This sounds quite generic of the way one would talk about art. I think the way to make it interesting is to identify the students before them. For example, there's the kid who likes grafitti, there's the girl who doesn't talk but makes beautiful pottery, and the boy who looks cartooning. Something simple like this takes it out of the generic "self expression" of art and puts it into a real classroom situation.
As the period came to an end I quickly informed the class of their next task before they were all out the door.
xxx
As the sun set, the sky was nothing more than shades of purple and orange, there was an eerie feel in the air as a slight breeze whipped back and forth through the branches of the trees along the pathway on which I was walking. All was silent as the last of the students left campus to return to their rooms, or wherever it is they go after dark.
“So this is where you go to hide away from the world?”
“No, it’s where I go to escape into the world.”
I looked over her shoulder and peered at the sketchbook sitting snugly on her lap, her hands shook as she tightly gripped the pencil. The page was smudged with disconnected lines and scratches of words that I couldn’t quick read, the frustration clear from her posture and by her sudden sigh of defeat.
“You know, I only handed that task out today? You have two weeks to complete it.”
“I know, um I just wanted to try and get a start before I completely lose all my motivation-“ She laughed humourlessly “clearly it isn’t going well, I guess I never realised how much I relied on my sight.”
I nodded empathetically and took a seat beside her.
“The great thing about art is that it can come in many different forms, it isn’t about copying what’s already there but more being able to interpret and recreate what already exists, to give something which we all know a new meaning. So you can’t see. Find another way to interpret the world… here, give me your hand.”
Hesitantly she lifted her hand up; I placed mine over the top of hers and slowly lowered it to the ground, quietly instructing her to utilise her other senses to create an image in her mind.
I lifted my hand and placed it beside hers, following the path that she was tracing. My fingers slid across the damp ground and as it did I could feel every blade of grass slide through my fingers and each individual grain of dirt attaching itself to my hand as it continued on. I felt the hairs on my arm lift slightly as a cool breeze swept passed in that moment carrying with it fallen leaves, the smell of damp earth and a sweet tinge of some unidentifiable flower. The sound of the rustling of the branches and the distinct lack of bird calls made the late hour quite obvious. I heard my steady breathe mix in with hers as I continued to take in my surroundings. The more that I began to physically notice, the more of an image I could start to visualise, which I also hope Clarity was able to do.
A short moment passed and I opened my eyes to see Clarity digging through her backpack beside her, sketchpad and pencil long forgotten. Curiously I waited as she finally found what she was searching for; she pulled out a small block of clay from her bag and began to manipulate the substance still keeping her eyes firmly shut. I watched mesmerised by the precise movements of her hands as if they had a life of their own, as I got up quietly to leave her be I momentarily looked back to see a small smile on her face and was reminded why it is I do what I do.
My suggestions:
I think that last bit with the clay is great. Except, I wouldn't do it in that moment. It's too convenient that she has some clay nearby. I think it works best if you move into class the next day, and you tell everyone to start their work, and Clarity brings out the clay. That's more powerful because it implies that the teacher's words have really touched her and transformed her way of thinking (hello discovery!!!). I also like the way you've used Clarity's name as a careful choice :)
I definitely think you should keep this piece, I think it's great. I enjoyed it, and I think the simplicity is something that works in its favour :) I think the only thing to tweak is just my small suggestion about describing the class, and then the ending. This works well with a lot of different discovery aspects. I do really think that the ending needs to work hard to present discovery as transformative, expressive, and changing of perspectives. I think that's where the bulk of your discovery expression sits, so it's important to leave the marker with that sense of rich discovery! :)
Post by: Blissfulmelodii on October 08, 2016, 07:15:11 pm
My suggestions:
I think that last bit with the clay is great. Except, I wouldn't do it in that moment. It's too convenient that she has some clay nearby. I think it works best if you move into class the next day, and you tell everyone to start their work, and Clarity brings out the clay. That's more powerful because it implies that the teacher's words have really touched her and transformed her way of thinking (hello discovery!!!). I also like the way you've used Clarity's name as a careful choice :)
I definitely think you should keep this piece, I think it's great. I enjoyed it, and I think the simplicity is something that works in its favour :) I think the only thing to tweak is just my small suggestion about describing the class, and then the ending. This works well with a lot of different discovery aspects. I do really think that the ending needs to work hard to present discovery as transformative, expressive, and changing of perspectives. I think that's where the bulk of your discovery expression sits, so it's important to leave the marker with that sense of rich discovery! :)
Thanks so much! Yeah I was always unsure with the ending but was too worried about making it longer because i am generally not a very quick writer and I usually leave space so that i'm able to adapt it to the stimulus.
I really like the idea of resetting the scene in the classroom however wouldn't having another time jump in such a short piece be a bad idea?
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 07:16:13 pm
Thanks so much! Yeah I was always unsure with the ending but was too worried about making it longer because i am generally not a very quick writer and I usually leave space so that i'm able to adapt it to the stimulus.
I really like the idea of resetting the scene in the classroom however wouldn't having another time jump in such a short piece be a bad idea?
I don't think so! It's not as though you're introducing a new environment - that might be a bit chaotic. Instead, you're looking at moving back to a previous environment. So your story is framed in a circular motion, which can be very satisfying for a reader! :)
Post by: Blissfulmelodii on October 08, 2016, 07:18:08 pm
I don't think so! It's not as though you're introducing a new environment - that might be a bit chaotic. Instead, you're looking at moving back to a previous environment. So your story is framed in a circular motion, which can be very satisfying for a reader! :)
Ah true, didn't think of it in that way. Thanks again!! :) :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 07:20:08 pm
Post by: BPunjabi on October 08, 2016, 07:29:33 pm
Thankyou so much Guys!! We all adore your guys help!, Would you please also provide a mark out of 15 aswell please.
Thanks,
Cole had been waiting for this moment his whole life. Graduating Mr. Presley’s class of 2078, he had been studying the art of deciphering facial emotions and law enforcement against those who betray the rules set by Mr. Presley. The world was at its best when crime thought was severely punishable and was determined by the interactive system, Mr Presley. Here Cole was, teeth glaring against the vicious wind, lined up ready to receive his qualification report. The ash grey sky happily sat upon the horizon, making the park seem more like a graveyard site, being lit by only simple streetlights. This initiation was being screened everywhere around the world and would show his movement into the Presley Law enforcement group. Once his name was announced, Cole stood up with all his might and confidently strode towards the commander.
It was 2:05, as the time projected on the walls of his decrepit apartment. A week had passed since the graduation and today was going to be his first shift being a part of the task force. Cole was feeling sick, really sick. This was all new, not many humans could get this job. His generation had seen it all; society had nearly discovered the cure for age though being restricted to 200 years. For God’s Sake Cole was living proof, it was his seventy sixth year of living and he felt great. But this…. This frightened him more. The bed croaked as he rose, and a voice came to life “Still three hours and forty-five minutes of sleep left Sir". Cole walked over to one of the dim walls and said "Wall three, Activate window". A giant glass frame appeared where the wall was, providing outlook into the busy metropolis of Tokyo. The black fog rested upon the top of the skyscrapers casting a dark shadow, constantly fighting against the city streetlights. It was always dark, even when the sun was visible. There is a tale that the sky reflected Mr Presley's emotions towards civilization as they committed crimes. The city was not silent, the ringing of sirens were present indicating that some sort of task force was assisting the city in some way. Society had grown dangerously violent which had assisted the rule making of no crimes are to be imagined, creating a positive impact on the world. Cole walked back towards the bed, falling towards the mattress closing his eyes.
It actually was not that bad, The day had gone smoothly. Cole was introduced to the team, Roland being the team leader. Cole had been acquainted to a watch like device which ran the Presley simulation. He was instructed how a normal human has anywhere between 180-220 imagination power, anything more is lethal. Roland informed Cole that “Crime had cut down by at least 30% and Mr Presley was the genius who created a system, measuring brain levels to determine imagination statistics telling users if someone had recently thought of a dangerous crime. There were no interferences at all, but then suddenly an unexpected bell shook the building. The staff immediately ran towards the exit. “Follow me”, encouraged Roland. Each member had their own laser-bike which assisted with traffic as well as fast speed. “I have no idea how to ride this” announced Cole, “Well you will learn!” replied one of the members aggressively. “Just put your hands here and use your feet to shift through the gears”. They were off, this definitely had to be the best feeling Cole had ever felt, his brown hair surfing the grey wind. He was ecstatic, following the other four motorbikes which glued into a pack heading towards the forest. Finally arriving at the destination everyone split into groups following different paths moving through the green bushy terrain.
A rustle in the tree’s grabbed his attention. There. A glimpse of someone running the in shadows, a small figure. The watch glowed aggressively and started to heat up. "Enemy of state detected, imagination level 308 out of 223" alerted the device. "Quick follow me” said the squad leader. They ran through the forest using the watch as a navigation system, the faster the beeps the closer the danger was. A disembodied ghastly sound echoed off the branches in attempt to throw of the watch’s scent. There she was again, running from us. It was weird, constant images of deja vu appeared as everyone was running in circles, treading the same path as if the forest was attempting to protect its flower.
The mysterious girl scurried into a secluded tree canopy. She was cornered. Roland took the lead and walked towards her, his coat flying briskly behind. He was a couple of meters from her when he raised his arm and once again the watch buzzed to life. “Abigail Spencer, Age 11, Parental Status - Recently Deceased, imagination level 311 out of 223” suggested the device. “HE.. He.. Killed my Parrentss” cried Abigail as she pointed towards a trail of smoke wafting towards the sky in a distance. One of the squad members spoke into his watch and magically the sound of sirens filled the air moving closer towards the smoke. “That isn't my problem, you have been imagining murder, that is punishable by death” replied Roland. Cole’s heart skipped a beat, Roland wasn't serious was he?. The girl did nothing wrong, she probably imagined herself killing her parents murderer.
Cole ran to the girl’s side, tell us what happened. “There was a masked man, he ran into our house and demanded money from my mother. Dad ran downstairs and punched him, but the robber got up and shot them both. Screamingly, mother used her last breath and kicked him, telling me to run and not look back. As I ran away I heard another bang and picked up speed.” This is not what I Imagined, this cannot be happening. “I’m very sorry Abagail, you cannot be fixed” said Roland as he snickered. They were evil they cannot be doing this, they had forgotten the true intentions and purpose of the group or is this what they had been doing all along?. Excitement was bursting from Roland's eyes like lanterns crackling away at the midnight sky. Cole could see the growing estrangement from this group. He was beginning to understand, they are bloodhounds. They kill for adrenaline, no matter the cost. Mr Presley had done this, he has corrupted them. “Welcome to Mr Presley's Cole” announced Roland as he walked towards Abigail, gun in hand while the other three members grinned.
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 08, 2016, 07:49:53 pm
Hey Elyse I think I have 30 more posts from my others so is there a chance I could post my creative now and get feedback tonight.
Thankyou so much Guys!! We all adore your guys help!, Would you please also provide a mark out of 15 aswell please.
Thanks,
Hi :) Here's your feedback:
Spoiler
Cole had been waiting for this moment his whole life. Graduating Mr. Presley’s class of 2078, he had been studying the art of deciphering facial emotions and law enforcement against those who betray the rules set by Mr. Presley. The world was at its best when crime thought was severely punishable and was determined by the interactive system, Mr Presley. Here Cole was, teeth glaring against the vicious wind, lined up ready to receive his qualification report. The ash grey sky happily sat upon the horizon, making the park seem more like a graveyard site, being lit by only simple streetlights. This initiation was being screened everywhere around the world and would show his movement into the Presley Law enforcement group. Once his name was announced, Cole stood up with all his might and confidently strode towards the commander. Just the right amount of language variation here to create what seems like a bizarre state of affairs!
It was 2:05, as the time projected on the walls of his decrepit apartment. A week had passed since the graduation and today was going to be his first shift being a part of the task force. Cole was feeling sick, really sick. This was all new, not many humans could get this job. His generation had seen it all; society had nearly discovered the cure for age LOL cure for age - love it. though being restricted to 200 years. For God’s Sake Cole was living proof, it was his seventy sixth year of living and he felt great. But this…. This frightened him more. The bed croaked as he rose, and a voice came to life “Still three hours and forty-five minutes of sleep left Sir". Cole walked over to one of the dim walls and said "Wall three, Activate window". A giant glass frame appeared where the wall was, providing outlook into the busy metropolis of Tokyo. The black fog rested upon the top of the skyscrapers casting a dark shadow, constantly fighting against the city streetlights. It was always dark, even when the sun was visible. There is a tale that the sky reflected Mr Presley's emotions towards civilization as they committed crimes. The city was not silent, the ringing of sirens were present indicating that some sort of task force was assisting the city in some way. Society had grown dangerously violent since? which had assisted the rule making of no crimes are to be imagined, creating a positive impact on the world. Cole walked back towards the bed, falling towards the mattress closing his eyes.
It actually was not that bad, The day had gone smoothly. Cole was introduced to the team, Roland being the team leader. Cole had been acquainted to a watch like device which ran the Presley simulation. He was instructed how a normal human has anywhere between 180-220 imagination power, anything more is lethal. You're explaining the dystopic world really well. Roland informed Cole that “Crime had cut down by at least 30% and Mr Presley was the genius who created a system, measuring brain levels to determine imagination statistics telling users if someone had recently thought of a dangerous crime. There were no interferences at all, but then suddenly an unexpected bell shook the building. The staff immediately ran towards the exit. New line for a new speaker.“Follow me”, encouraged Roland. Each member had their own laser-bike which assisted with traffic as well as fast speed. New line “I have no idea how to ride this” announced Cole, “Well you will learn!” replied one of the members aggressively. New line “Just put your hands here and use your feet to shift through the gears”. They were off, this definitely had to be the best feeling Cole had ever felt, his brown hair surfing the grey wind. Excellent imagery! He was ecstatic, following the other four motorbikes which glued into a pack heading towards the forest. Finally arriving at the destination, comma everyone split into groups following different paths moving through the green bushy terrain.
A rustle in the tree’s no apostrophe here grabbed his attention. There. A glimpse of someone runningthe in in the shadows, a small figure. The watch glowed aggressively and started to heat up. "Enemy of state detected, imagination level 308 out of 223" alerted the device. "Quick follow me” said the squad leader. They ran through the forest using the watch as a navigation system, the faster the beeps the closer the danger was. A disembodied ghastly sound echoed off the branches in attempt to throw of the watch’s scent. There she was again, running from us. It was weird, constant images of deja vu appeared as everyone was running in circles, treading the same path as if the forest was attempting to protect its flower. "It was weird" is a strange thing for a third person narrator to say, I'd consider rephrasing :)
The mysterious girl scurried into a secluded tree canopy. She was cornered. Roland took the lead and walked towards her, his coat flying briskly behind. He was a couple of meters from her when he raised his arm and once again the watch buzzed to life. New line “Abigail Spencer, Age 11, Parental Status - Recently Deceased, imagination level 311 out of 223” suggested the device. New line “HE.. He.. Killed my Parrentss” cried Abigail as she pointed towards a trail of smoke wafting towards the sky in a distance. One of the squad members spoke into his watch and magically the sound of sirens filled the air moving closer towards the smoke. New line “That isn't my problem, you have been imagining murder, that is punishable by death” replied Roland. Cole’s heart skipped a beat, Roland wasn't serious was he?. The girl did nothing wrong, she probably imagined herself killing her parentspossessive apostrophe behind the s murderer.
Cole ran to the girl’s side, tell us what happened. new line “There was a masked man, he ran into our house and demanded money from my mother. Dad It's standing out to me that mum is mother and dad is dad - I'd be more likely to call both mum and dad or mother and father.ran downstairs and punched him, but the robber got up and shot them both. Screamingly, mother used her last breath and kicked him, telling me to run and not look back. As I ran away I heard another bang and picked up speed.” This is not what I Imagined, this cannot be happening. “I’m very sorry Abagail, you cannot be fixed” said Roland as he snickered. They were evil punctuation required here they cannot be doing this, they had forgotten the true intentions and purpose of the group or is this what they had been doing all along?. Excitement was bursting from Roland's eyes like lanterns crackling away at the midnight sky. Cole could see the growing estrangement from this group. He was beginning to understand, they are bloodhounds. They kill for adrenaline, no matter the cost. Mr Presley had done this, he has corrupted them. New line“Welcome to Mr Presley's Cole” announced Roland as he walked towards Abigail, gun in hand while the other three members grinned.
It was 2:05, as the time projected on the walls of his decrepit apartment. A week had passed since the graduation and today was going to be his first shift being a part of the task force. Cole was feeling sick, really sick. This was all new, not many humans could get this job. His generation had seen it all; society had nearly discovered the cure for age LOL cure for age - love it. though being restricted to 200 years. For God’s Sake Cole was living proof, it was his seventy sixth year of living and he felt great. But this…. This frightened him more. The bed croaked as he rose, and a voice came to life “Still three hours and forty-five minutes of sleep left Sir". Cole walked over to one of the dim walls and said "Wall three, Activate window". A giant glass frame appeared where the wall was, providing outlook into the busy metropolis of Tokyo. The black fog rested upon the top of the skyscrapers casting a dark shadow, constantly fighting against the city streetlights. It was always dark, even when the sun was visible. There is a tale that the sky reflected Mr Presley's emotions towards civilization as they committed crimes. The city was not silent, the ringing of sirens were present indicating that some sort of task force was assisting the city in some way. Society had grown dangerously violent since? which had assisted the rule making of no crimes are to be imagined, creating a positive impact on the world. Cole walked back towards the bed, falling towards the mattress closing his eyes.
It actually was not that bad, The day had gone smoothly. Cole was introduced to the team, Roland being the team leader. Cole had been acquainted to a watch like device which ran the Presley simulation. He was instructed how a normal human has anywhere between 180-220 imagination power, anything more is lethal. You're explaining the dystopic world really well. Roland informed Cole that “Crime had cut down by at least 30% and Mr Presley was the genius who created a system, measuring brain levels to determine imagination statistics telling users if someone had recently thought of a dangerous crime. There were no interferences at all, but then suddenly an unexpected bell shook the building. The staff immediately ran towards the exit. New line for a new speaker.“Follow me”, encouraged Roland. Each member had their own laser-bike which assisted with traffic as well as fast speed. New line “I have no idea how to ride this” announced Cole, “Well you will learn!” replied one of the members aggressively. New line “Just put your hands here and use your feet to shift through the gears”. They were off, this definitely had to be the best feeling Cole had ever felt, his brown hair surfing the grey wind. Excellent imagery! He was ecstatic, following the other four motorbikes which glued into a pack heading towards the forest. Finally arriving at the destination, comma everyone split into groups following different paths moving through the green bushy terrain.
A rustle in the tree’s no apostrophe here grabbed his attention. There. A glimpse of someone running
The mysterious girl scurried into a secluded tree canopy. She was cornered. Roland took the lead and walked towards her, his coat flying briskly behind. He was a couple of meters from her when he raised his arm and once again the watch buzzed to life. New line “Abigail Spencer, Age 11, Parental Status - Recently Deceased, imagination level 311 out of 223” suggested the device. New line “HE.. He.. Killed my Parrentss” cried Abigail as she pointed towards a trail of smoke wafting towards the sky in a distance. One of the squad members spoke into his watch and magically the sound of sirens filled the air moving closer towards the smoke. New line “That isn't my problem, you have been imagining murder, that is punishable by death” replied Roland. Cole’s heart skipped a beat, Roland wasn't serious was he?. The girl did nothing wrong, she probably imagined herself killing her parentspossessive apostrophe behind the s murderer.
Cole ran to the girl’s side, tell us what happened. new line “There was a masked man, he ran into our house and demanded money from my mother. Dad It's standing out to me that mum is mother and dad is dad - I'd be more likely to call both mum and dad or mother and father.ran downstairs and punched him, but the robber got up and shot them both. Screamingly, mother used her last breath and kicked him, telling me to run and not look back. As I ran away I heard another bang and picked up speed.” This is not what I Imagined, this cannot be happening. “I’m very sorry Abagail, you cannot be fixed” said Roland as he snickered. They were evil punctuation required here they cannot be doing this, they had forgotten the true intentions and purpose of the group or is this what they had been doing all along?. Excitement was bursting from Roland's eyes like lanterns crackling away at the midnight sky. Cole could see the growing estrangement from this group. He was beginning to understand, they are bloodhounds. They kill for adrenaline, no matter the cost. Mr Presley had done this, he has corrupted them. New line“Welcome to Mr Presley's Cole” announced Roland as he walked towards Abigail, gun in hand while the other three members grinned.
The greatest thing holding your work back is the way that dialogue is formatted. Have a quick google about how dialogue should be formatted. Basically: a new speaker, a new line. Coordinating dialogue is important for the presentation of your work and the way your plot is conveyed.
The dystopic world is really original and will set you a part from the other students I think! I think discovery is really strong in this and Mr Presley plays a huge role in the piece in a consistent manner! Depending on your incorporation of the exam prompt and stimulus, I'd give this a band 6! :)
Post by: Neutron on October 08, 2016, 09:06:11 pm
Hey :) Taking a look at this one now!SpoilerThe city’s core hammered to the metronome of pattering rain as the lone skyscraper pulsated within the night sky. Tentatively massaging the nape of his neck, Malcolm’s gaze flickered between the contracts before him, awaiting his endorsement. His fingers echoed a rhythmic tapping on the desk, as his fountain pen hovered above the agreements, lingering over one slightly longer than the other. Love the metronome idea - great!
By signing, both parties consent to constructing residential condominiums to be retailed under the second party’s franchise… totaling in a net profit of sixty million dollars... I don't think the elipsis adds anything here!
The eruption of applause from the enterprise’s shareholders was almost audible as his pen poised above the contract, the ringing approval undeniably expanding his company further. After all, the homeless can look after themselves right? Hesitant, Malcolm withdrew and diverted his gaze to the adjacent contract.
By declaring agreement to the governmental regulations of constructing non-for-profit homeless shelters, the understanding that such housings are public amenities is assumed…
A long-suffering sigh escaped his lips, the potential outrage and plummet in reputation was mirrored by the ferocious thunderstorm outside. The series of enterprise awards glowered at his indecision, imposing an indirect threat by the parasitic stakeholders. Malcolm’s leather chair groaned as he swiveled swivelled* it towards the wall of window, his reflection confronting him. You've created this wonderfully calculated experience, I'm enjoying it!
***
Dazzling Christmas lights illuminate, blinding Malcolm’s bloodshot eyes as he skims the waterlogged footpath, searching for a drier spot to rest with his rucksack of belongings. The laughter captures his attention as he pauses, recognizing recognising* his brother’s house. His heart sinks. Their animated euphoria swamps him, immobilizing immobilising* him as he absorbs the warmth through the window. A few moments of dejection pass, before he trudges onwards, aimless and hopeless. (snubbing the witnessed affection.) I'm not sure about this last bit - not quite sure what it means?
***
A roll of thunder grumbled. The perfect life Malcolm had spent years and years constructing, his comfort, early retirement and stability all possibly sabotaged, not by someone else, but by himself. The homeless will be fine, I would know, he assured. This last bit here could do with some tweaking - I think even just adding "he assured his colleagues" just so that it makes more sense who it is directed at. The first person narration was a little bizarre, until I read it as though it was being said to someone. So just that little tweak will make things a tiny bit more precise.
***
A bellow of thunder erupts. A filth-woven blanket enslaves I think enslaves is too graphic and intense for this sentence. Malcolm’s frail limbs as the downpour offers his first shower in months. Day after day, his tin can pathetically rattles. A stampede of chills lingers and a devouring hunger gnaws, creating a ceaseless void that tortures Malcolm like an unscratchable itch. His passive façade enables the business officials to walk by innocently, their gazes fixated only upon society’s wealth.
“Help…please” he rasps towards the hurricane of suits trampling past him, neither noticing nor caring.
------------
***
The stock market’s turmoil and the controversial media coverage all flashed before Malcolm. Crazed ex-homeless man throws wealth away, I'd put this in quotation marks. they’ll say. Explosions of thunder detonated near the building as a streak of lightning fractured the night sky. The fear of pandemonium drove his pen back onto the first contract.
***
The consuming black river swirls beneath the bridge, emulating the inking darkness surrounding him. His mind urges him to jump, just a little step more, there’s nothing left for you anyway, it says and slowly, he clambers over, one leg at a time. The traffic continues to thunder behind him as he perches on the edge, the wind whistling through his greasy, month-old beard. Closing his eyes, he leans forward. Although I'm enjoying reading this a lot - if you need to cut down on words, then the place to do it is in one of these short little passages like this one. The story can go on without it, although it is better with it. So I'd be trying to put these little snippets into other areas.
***
The storm subdued to a gentle murmur of drizzle as Malcolm rummaged his finger through his pompadour, groaning at the papers before him. He supported thousands of employees and families whose salaries depended on his success. The homeless don’t need his help.
***
A hand clasps on his shoulder, steadying him again.
“Please don’t do this.”
He whips around, swollen eyes gazing into comforting hazel ones. A tentative smile wavers on the youthful girls lips, rubbing his shoulders as her parked hatchback exposes the shadows of the merciless torrents below them.
“Everything will be okay. I know a shelter that will help.” The girl lifts Malcolm back over the bridge, his actions entranced by her soothing words.
“In life, you always have two choices, the easy or the hard way. And you’ll always find that what’s right, is never easy. Sometimes, look at things differently.”
Spinning him around, she directed his gaze to the other side of the bridge, where a full moon and constellation of stars explodes across the horizon, the immense brightness spellbinding him.
***
The crack of dawn unexpectedly erupted across the skyline, radiating streams of light into the office. Malcolm’s reflection watched him, gradually morphing, his facial creases receding as a wild, untamed beard sprouted. The hollowness within his past eyes frightened Malcolm, blinking slowly with an expression devoid of purpose.
After all, the homeless can look after themselves, right? His reflection seemed to echo, amused at Malcolm’s astonishment.
“In life, you always have two choices”
Malcolm rolled up his sleeves, pushing aside the desk’s irrelevant contents.
“The easy or the hard way”
Glancing at each contract one last time, Malcolm grabbed his fountain pen, uncapping the lid.
“And you’ll find that what’s right,”
The ghost of his former self hovered towards Malcolm, staring intently before plunging into his present self, galvanizing his revitalized emotions.
“is never easy”
He’d let himself become just another suit in the city, everything he hated on the streets. It needed to end. Gripping his pen, he scrawled his signature across the homeless contract, authorizing authorising it in an envelope before scrunching the other proposal. Standing, he shoved all his awards off the wall, shattering their glass casing. The true currency of life isn’t measured in money.
“To hell with the shareholders, I’m doing this for me.”
-----------
***
The stark establishment erupted before him. The scaffold was mechanically mounting, the modules slotting in like jigsaws as they each provided an additional layer of complexity and stability. Construction workers scuttled around as though they were laborious honeybees, their fluorescent hardhats functioning as beacons of progress.
“Sir, we’re still at the preliminary stages. It’s not too late to-”
“No. This is the right thing to do.”
The commotion of operational drills, overhead cranes and distant commands swallowed his self-doubt.
***
Young entrepreneur rejects once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to resolve growing population, plummets in net worth.
Incoming economic recession after wasteful and misguided expenditure by our leading enterprise.
Corporate partnerships dismantled over crazed ex-homeless man’s alleged ‘moral awakening’
The above three should be in quotation marks :)
The headlines sprawled across his desk, letters of outrage screaming for his attention. The shelter had only been operating for a week and already housed a thousand occupants. Did that mean nothing to them? The piercing jangle of his handset reverberates around the room, relentless with the stream of fuming shareholders demanding revocation.
“I rehabilitated a thousand people, rescued them off the streets and treated them like humans!” He hollered, ripping the handset’s connector chord.
***
Padding stretched across the entirety of the chamber, sheets of white sprawling across each mattress. The orderly rows were disrupted by the occasional banter of the occupants, laughter and light chatter energizing the room. The vagrants convened within small communal groups, organizing organising* and redistributing their meager belongings as well as amending their physical attributes. A cleanly shaved man with a tainted button-up bustled into one of the groups, excitedly exclaiming and triggering a cheerful uproar. Malcolm watched as they rhythmically chanted, hoisting him on their backs.
“He got it! He got it! He’ll be poor no more! He got it! He got it! He’ll have a meal for sure!” The room echoed, contributing to the clamor.
Spotting Malcolm at the overhang, the crowd cascaded in ebullient applause, with random cries amongst the eruption.
“You sir are the reason why I got my job today!”
“You gave us a second chance when no one else would!”
“Thank you for believing in us!”
Malcolm beamed, tears streaking down his cheek as the gleaming reflection of the community blinded him. Some things money just can’t buy.
I have a lot of different thoughts about this story. It's complicated yet quite simple, which is interesting. Your actual writing is sophisticated and clear yet never verbose. That's great. As you pointed out, the story can end earlier than it does. I think it could actually end at several different points. I like having the effect of discovery there, the ramifications. But, I don't think it is the most important thing. I think you can take out some of your smaller passages and condense it together. The most important sections for me are: Knowing Malcolm works in stocks amongst men and women ignorant of low or no income earners - Knowing Malcolm was on the streets and rescued in a shelter - Knowing Malcolm makes a decision to respond to his own past through present actions. So the headlines add something extra to the work - but I can't say it was completely necessary. Otherwise, there are little snippets that add to the nature of his decision, but I personally think you let go of that tight language you had at the start when it comes to the end. Most likely, it is because you've added the ending more recently. I think the quotes at the end don't round off Malcolm's personal journey - but they certainly talk about the ramifications of discovery on society.
So, where you are at: You've probably got the most flexible story I have read yet. You can stop it at a few stages, you can take little bits out here and there, you can condense it if needed, and you explore so many different stages of discovery on different people. You're in a BLESSING of a position right now! It is just about looking at as many stimulus options and exam papers as possible, and then applying your work by preparing how you'd add, subtract, adjust your work!
Hopefully this makes sense. I put a few small suggestions throughout the work, but now it's just about working out your plan for the exam!
Thank you Elyse! This has been helpful :) Yeah I definitely tacked on my ending really quickly just because I was trying to nail a few more rubric points haha In terms of the multiple spots in which I can stop the story, could you list a few examples? To me, since I wrote it and as such is overly attached to every word, I only considered ending it in one of two places, after he signs the contract or after the shelter is built. Thank you again for taking out the time to help us!
Neutron
Post by: BPunjabi on October 08, 2016, 11:04:22 pm
Hi :) Here's your feedback:You dont realise how happy that made me... in english I was doing well untill we had our listening task. I got the last rank for it and my yearly rank dropped dramatically. Im hoping all my essays and the HSC can do me justiceSpoilerCole had been waiting for this moment his whole life. Graduating Mr. Presley’s class of 2078, he had been studying the art of deciphering facial emotions and law enforcement against those who betray the rules set by Mr. Presley. The world was at its best when crime thought was severely punishable and was determined by the interactive system, Mr Presley. Here Cole was, teeth glaring against the vicious wind, lined up ready to receive his qualification report. The ash grey sky happily sat upon the horizon, making the park seem more like a graveyard site, being lit by only simple streetlights. This initiation was being screened everywhere around the world and would show his movement into the Presley Law enforcement group. Once his name was announced, Cole stood up with all his might and confidently strode towards the commander. Just the right amount of language variation here to create what seems like a bizarre state of affairs!
It was 2:05, as the time projected on the walls of his decrepit apartment. A week had passed since the graduation and today was going to be his first shift being a part of the task force. Cole was feeling sick, really sick. This was all new, not many humans could get this job. His generation had seen it all; society had nearly discovered the cure for age LOL cure for age - love it. though being restricted to 200 years. For God’s Sake Cole was living proof, it was his seventy sixth year of living and he felt great. But this…. This frightened him more. The bed croaked as he rose, and a voice came to life “Still three hours and forty-five minutes of sleep left Sir". Cole walked over to one of the dim walls and said "Wall three, Activate window". A giant glass frame appeared where the wall was, providing outlook into the busy metropolis of Tokyo. The black fog rested upon the top of the skyscrapers casting a dark shadow, constantly fighting against the city streetlights. It was always dark, even when the sun was visible. There is a tale that the sky reflected Mr Presley's emotions towards civilization as they committed crimes. The city was not silent, the ringing of sirens were present indicating that some sort of task force was assisting the city in some way. Society had grown dangerously violent since? which had assisted the rule making of no crimes are to be imagined, creating a positive impact on the world. Cole walked back towards the bed, falling towards the mattress closing his eyes.
It actually was not that bad, The day had gone smoothly. Cole was introduced to the team, Roland being the team leader. Cole had been acquainted to a watch like device which ran the Presley simulation. He was instructed how a normal human has anywhere between 180-220 imagination power, anything more is lethal. You're explaining the dystopic world really well. Roland informed Cole that “Crime had cut down by at least 30% and Mr Presley was the genius who created a system, measuring brain levels to determine imagination statistics telling users if someone had recently thought of a dangerous crime. There were no interferences at all, but then suddenly an unexpected bell shook the building. The staff immediately ran towards the exit. New line for a new speaker.“Follow me”, encouraged Roland. Each member had their own laser-bike which assisted with traffic as well as fast speed. New line “I have no idea how to ride this” announced Cole, “Well you will learn!” replied one of the members aggressively. New line “Just put your hands here and use your feet to shift through the gears”. They were off, this definitely had to be the best feeling Cole had ever felt, his brown hair surfing the grey wind. Excellent imagery! He was ecstatic, following the other four motorbikes which glued into a pack heading towards the forest. Finally arriving at the destination, comma everyone split into groups following different paths moving through the green bushy terrain.
A rustle in the tree’s no apostrophe here grabbed his attention. There. A glimpse of someone runningthe inin the shadows, a small figure. The watch glowed aggressively and started to heat up. "Enemy of state detected, imagination level 308 out of 223" alerted the device. "Quick follow me” said the squad leader. They ran through the forest using the watch as a navigation system, the faster the beeps the closer the danger was. A disembodied ghastly sound echoed off the branches in attempt to throw of the watch’s scent. There she was again, running from us. It was weird, constant images of deja vu appeared as everyone was running in circles, treading the same path as if the forest was attempting to protect its flower. "It was weird" is a strange thing for a third person narrator to say, I'd consider rephrasing :)
The mysterious girl scurried into a secluded tree canopy. She was cornered. Roland took the lead and walked towards her, his coat flying briskly behind. He was a couple of meters from her when he raised his arm and once again the watch buzzed to life. New line “Abigail Spencer, Age 11, Parental Status - Recently Deceased, imagination level 311 out of 223” suggested the device. New line “HE.. He.. Killed my Parrentss” cried Abigail as she pointed towards a trail of smoke wafting towards the sky in a distance. One of the squad members spoke into his watch and magically the sound of sirens filled the air moving closer towards the smoke. New line “That isn't my problem, you have been imagining murder, that is punishable by death” replied Roland. Cole’s heart skipped a beat, Roland wasn't serious was he?. The girl did nothing wrong, she probably imagined herself killing her parentspossessive apostrophe behind the s murderer.
Cole ran to the girl’s side, tell us what happened. new line “There was a masked man, he ran into our house and demanded money from my mother. Dad It's standing out to me that mum is mother and dad is dad - I'd be more likely to call both mum and dad or mother and father.ran downstairs and punched him, but the robber got up and shot them both. Screamingly, mother used her last breath and kicked him, telling me to run and not look back. As I ran away I heard another bang and picked up speed.” This is not what I Imagined, this cannot be happening. “I’m very sorry Abagail, you cannot be fixed” said Roland as he snickered. They were evil punctuation required here they cannot be doing this, they had forgotten the true intentions and purpose of the group or is this what they had been doing all along?. Excitement was bursting from Roland's eyes like lanterns crackling away at the midnight sky. Cole could see the growing estrangement from this group. He was beginning to understand, they are bloodhounds. They kill for adrenaline, no matter the cost. Mr Presley had done this, he has corrupted them. New line“Welcome to Mr Presley's Cole” announced Roland as he walked towards Abigail, gun in hand while the other three members grinned.
The greatest thing holding your work back is the way that dialogue is formatted. Have a quick google about how dialogue should be formatted. Basically: a new speaker, a new line. Coordinating dialogue is important for the presentation of your work and the way your plot is conveyed.
The dystopic world is really original and will set you a part from the other students I think! I think discovery is really strong in this and Mr Presley plays a huge role in the piece in a consistent manner! Depending on your incorporation of the exam prompt and stimulus, I'd give this a band 6! :)
I forgot to thank you so much for the analysis. You guys help us all out and we have you guys to thank!!
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 09, 2016, 08:57:42 am
Heya! You've noted a part in italics, but the italics haven't copied over to the thread here - so I can't comment on it because I can't see it! No you don't need a title - it has never been a criticism or praise from the marking centre. And I usually feel uncomfortable giving a mark out of 15 because I'm not an official marker, I'm just a reader of the mark, so I give feedback based on the audience's experience :) I'll give it a crack, though! But don't take my mark as anything definitive.SpoilerAt the bottom of the box lay an old dog eared photo album from a life much more happier and complete than this one. All he wanted to do was know what it was like to be happy again, but he did not know how best to go about it, who to ask first. As he flicked through the pages, crinkled through theassistanceI'm just not sure this is the right word? Tears assisted him? of so many tears, the photographs came alive. There he was back up on the old, wooden stage in primary school confidently reciting his leadership speech. The image flips and suddenly he is on the glossy stage of secondary school, stoked that he has topped the class in English. Another photo goes past and he is in the music ensemble, laughing and playing his guitar. It always amazed him how he used to find such trivial things such as kicking a ball or egging his least favourite teacher's car not only fun and entertaining but also daring and enthralling. I'd put a new paragraph here :)He can't help but wonder if that version of him would be proud of what he'd become. It was like he had a split personality, happy and bubbly at first, then a few pages later dark, brooding and evasive. I like the "a few pages later" - it emphasises the importance of the photo album. He had to stop for a minute when he saw a photo of himself unhappy, because there were too many ice shards in his ice-cream. He wanted to scream at himself "Don't you realise that this is so trivial, so minute, and does not matter at all?" This is a bit random - it increases the understanding of some kind of bipolar-like experience, but it doesn't detail it enough to create an emotion from the reader I think. If you haven't experienced something like this yourself, I'd do some quick googling to get some accounts of people who have suffered something similar, just so that you can add an extra sentence or two on top of the ice cream sentence and really flesh out the battle in two minds, in the same head. I think that's a really important entry point for a marker to relate to the work. A separate sleeve at the end of the album showed achievements and commendations for a boy he was sure was not him; he would never have been able to do something so valiant and brave, or caring and compassionate.
As he was putting the document back in the sleeve he heard movement and slammed the album so fast his finger instantly turned about as blue as he felt. Do you mean blue as in down/sad or blue as in angry? I think it's too ambiguous. There's the expression "I'm feeling blue" and there's also the expression "I'm so angry I could argue this until I'm blue in the face" which is why I'm not sure how you want it to be interpreted. A moment of indecision as the intruder comes down the narrow, creaky, wooden stairs. No one ever comes down here. Not anymore. He was just about to flee when he heard a familiar voice that put him instantly at ease. New paragraph.He whirled around andsawnot sure about this word - saw indicates that he visually spotted the spirit. I think that this creates the idea that the protagonist is a medium, rather than just someone experiencing a very touching time. Feeling the spirit is more relatable than seeing it. If you want to make it so that he saw the spirit, then I'd be putting that questioning about whether or not he saw it or if his mind just painted her in front of him soon, but not yet. it was none other than his mother's spirit. She whispered something in his ear that made him remember why he had loved her so much; able to keep calm and carry on through these tough times. He had the "keep calm and carry on" posters taped to the back of his door until he could no longer successfully meet the requirements they posed. Already his mother's spirit was receding, and he questions whether or not it was real or if he had just imagined it. His bruised finger provided enough evidence for him that it was real. It was in that exact moment that he had a strong urge to visit the park where his dad and him had played with each other. He used to ride on his shoulders and believe he was on top of the world; that he could could do anything he set his mind to. He opened the door for the first time in many years, the door hesitant to budge fromlack of usethis is just a little too clinical. and stepped outside. He opened the door for the first time in many years. It scraped the frame it has hugged for years, and dust platooned form the tight seal. << This indicates the same thing, but it shows and doesn't tell.
Outside, the sun was blinding like a hundred flashlights burning his retinas. Outside was a bustling metropolis he was not used to. Outside, people were stressed and in such a hurry to get to some place unbeknown to him, which always puzzled him.
He finally reached the park where he had spent most of his childhood. Perhaps flesh out this battle a bit more? What did he go through physically and mentally to get to the park? We've got the trio of "outside" sentences above, but I think here you could talk about the times you wanted to turn around, the times you wanted to just run to the park to get it over with, etc. Just something little, but I think we just make a bit of a jump and its a missed opportunity to engage the marker. It was fairly unchanged; the same green grass covered the space like a blanket and it was unoccupied. As he sits down, a warm breeze wraps around him like a tight hug loooove this and he comes to the realisation that he can no longer live locked up his whole life, in his self created jail cell. I'd be more inclined to take the imagery away from a jail cell because that connotes punishment, and instead, talk about it like a swaddle. Something that's protective and tight. Because to him, the house is that safe place, not a punishment. But now, outside, he is realising that he can also feel safe and protected outside. The presence of his mother is what provides the safety and support. /b]He needs to be outside in the elements. It is only out here where he can truly heed his mother's advice to keep calm and carry on, and for the first time inages, probably a bit too colloquial - perhaps "for the first time since the..." and choose however you want to phrase it. he feels as though he can do anything he sets his mind to. The change in tense here is really nice.
[NOTE: The part in italics does not flow well and I am looking to change that, just not sure how.]
Contextually - I'm wondering how this person got such a complex about their mum's protection and presence. But, the story works without it. It could be a potential opportunity to raise ethos for the character by providing the trauma that caused this, but you could also fall into the trap of being a cliche trauma. So if you do pursue this, you'd need to be careful. But, it is something that you can add for very little effort and potentially great results. I don't feel the need to know about the dad - I think it's not relevant. I don't assume people have ever lived with both parents, so it wasn't a big question mark where I was wondering about the dad.
Otherwise, I think this is great. My only suggestions are throughout where I've suggested ways to enhance the plot with a few extra sentences. I'd put this as a band 5 because the story line is original, the discovery is meaningful, transformative, physical, spiritual, emotional, intellectual, etc. But, I think it is missing a few opportunities to lift the ethos of the protagonist, and also a tiny tiny bit more complexity in the character's life.
Hope this helps! :) Good luck!
Thank you so much for this!! And your quick but detailed feedback!
I was purposely avoiding using "since the ?" because I dont quite know what it is, and it will be bordering on cliche/teen angst if i try and identify it I think.
The italics were where he had the sudden urge to go to the park, that got marked as "strengthen this" in my trial. It got put as a 13/15, which is a Band 5 (87%) so you were on the money there :)
I was going to call his self created jail cell a concrete bunker, away from everything but I didnt know how to really word it.
In the seen vs felt department as well I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place. If it is "feel" how can walk down the creaky stairs and if it "see" how can it be a spirit kind of thing. people feel spirits but see intruders walking down stairs.
I really dont know how best to go about the icecream sentence either, what would i google and how could i reword it? Having not gone through this type of trauma, i am inexperienced in the field.
Thanks again and sorry for more questions! ;D ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 09, 2016, 09:16:02 am
Thank you so much for this!! And your quick but detailed feedback!
I was purposely avoiding using "since the ?" because I dont quite know what it is, and it will be bordering on cliche/teen angst if i try and identify it I think.
The italics were where he had the sudden urge to go to the park, that got marked as "strengthen this" in my trial. It got put as a 13/15, which is a Band 5 (87%) so you were on the money there :)
I was going to call his self created jail cell a concrete bunker, away from everything but I didnt know how to really word it.
In the seen vs felt department as well I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place. If it is "feel" how can walk down the creaky stairs and if it "see" how can it be a spirit kind of thing. people feel spirits but see intruders walking down stairs.
I really dont know how best to go about the icecream sentence either, what would i google and how could i reword it? Having not gone through this type of trauma, i am inexperienced in the field.
Thanks again and sorry for more questions! ;D ;D
To be honest I didn't actually picture the protagonist as a teenager, but a young adult, perhaps in his twenties. So I think that alone could take it out of the teen angst idea, although I totally see what you're saying. I think to capture the paranoia and anxiety, having a google of "walking outside with anxiety" or "being in a crowd with anxiety" might give you some ideas (I haven't googled this myself, so you might need to tweak the wording to get something to come up). That might just give you some examples of what goes on mentally in that time! Just to add a sentence of a realism.
The concrete bunker sounds like a good idea too. To me, a concrete bunker creates the idea that everything else is dangerous, which makes me think the mum died in some kind of non-health related death brought about the dangers of the world. If you want to go down that path, then by all means! You don't have to do much talking, but just enough to feed into the idea I think! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 09, 2016, 09:20:27 am
Thank you Elyse! This has been helpful :) Yeah I definitely tacked on my ending really quickly just because I was trying to nail a few more rubric points haha In terms of the multiple spots in which I can stop the story, could you list a few examples? To me, since I wrote it and as such is overly attached to every word, I only considered ending it in one of two places, after he signs the contract or after the shelter is built. Thank you again for taking out the time to help us!
Neutron
Not a problem Neutron! I suppose I think those are the best two places to end the story as well, but you could remove other little snippets from between as you please if you ever needed to condense it. I know what it's like to think that every part of the story is so important - but you've got to remember that to someone who has never read the work before and has no attachment to any of it, some of those words aren't as important. Sometimes it is because they will only read it once, where you only pick up on a certain layer of things. Whereas you've read it plenty more times than once, so you're playing into the deeper layers. I suggest drawing out a bit of a storyboard and basically just looking at what happens at what time, so you know that in the sections that don't directly advance the plot, you could get rid of them if you needed/wanted to! I'm more talking about little sentences here and there rather than entire chunks. Because of the non-traditional structure of paragraphs in your work, there is that freedom to chop and change pieces :)
You dont realise how happy that made me... in english I was doing well untill we had our listening task. I got the last rank for it and my yearly rank dropped dramatically. Im hoping all my essays and the HSC can do me justice
I forgot to thank you so much for the analysis. You guys help us all out and we have you guys to thank!!
So happy to hear it! Best of luck :)
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 09, 2016, 09:23:29 am
To be honest I didn't actually picture the protagonist as a teenager, but a young adult, perhaps in his twenties. So I think that alone could take it out of the teen angst idea, although I totally see what you're saying. I think to capture the paranoia and anxiety, having a google of "walking outside with anxiety" or "being in a crowd with anxiety" might give you some ideas (I haven't googled this myself, so you might need to tweak the wording to get something to come up). That might just give you some examples of what goes on mentally in that time! Just to add a sentence of a realism.
The concrete bunker sounds like a good idea too. To me, a concrete bunker creates the idea that everything else is dangerous, which makes me think the mum died in some kind of non-health related death brought about the dangers of the world. If you want to go down that path, then by all means! You don't have to do much talking, but just enough to feed into the idea I think! :)
Ok that makes sense now, thanks you are a legend!
no, YOU'RE a legend ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 09, 2016, 09:38:45 am
Ok that makes sense now, thanks you are a legend!
no, YOU'RE a legend ;D
I had to put my glasses on to read that small print! ::) Definitely worth it though ;)
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 09, 2016, 09:41:53 am
I had to put my glasses on to read that small print! ::) Definitely worth it though ;)Oh sorry :-[
no YOU'RE a legend!!
Now everyone can know how awesome you are ;D
Post by: BPunjabi on October 09, 2016, 11:35:17 am
The mysterious girl scurried into a secluded tree canopy. She was cornered. Roland took the lead and walked towards her, his coat flying briskly behind. He was a couple of meters from her when he raised his arm and once again the watch buzzed to life.
New line “Abigail Spencer, Age 11, Parental Status - Recently Deceased, imagination level 311 out of 223” suggested the device.
New line “HE.. He.. Killed my Parrentss” cried Abigail as she pointed towards a trail of smoke wafting towards the sky in a distance. One of the squad members spoke into his watch and magically the sound of sirens filled the air moving closer towards the smoke.
New line “That isn't my problem, you have been imagining murder, that is punishable by death” replied Roland.
Hey Elyse I dont want to post my essay again as a new marking thing but Im confused about the dialogue. Do you mean just press the enter key when someone speaks like this?
Post by: jakesilove on October 09, 2016, 11:36:35 am
Hey Elyse I dont want to post my essay again as a new marking thing but Im confused about the dialogue. Do you mean just press the enter key when someone speaks like this?
Yep! New lines of dialogue (ie. a new character speaking) should have a new line in the text.
Jake
Post by: BPunjabi on October 09, 2016, 11:43:12 am
Yep! New lines of dialogue (ie. a new character speaking) should have a new line in the text.
Jake
Ok say if this was a paragraph that I wrote:
Jake and Bobby went bowling. This was fun. Jake said "Yeah" as he scored. Bobby said "Nooo". This continued for a couple of hours and eventually Jake got bored and said "bye gotta go, catch ya in the drift". Then they left. The end.
Would the correct format be this:
Jake and Bobby went bowling. This was fun.
Jake said "Yeah" as he scored.
Bobby said "Nooo". This continued for a couple of hours and eventually
Jake got bored and said "bye gotta go, catch ya in the drift". Then they left. The end.
or this:
Jake and Bobby went bowling. This was fun.
Jake said "Yeah" as he scored.
Bobby said "Nooo".
This continued for a couple of hours and eventually
Jake got bored and said "bye gotta go, catch ya in the drift".
Then they left. The end.
Post by: jakesilove on October 09, 2016, 11:52:32 am
Ok say if this was a paragraph that I wrote:
Jake and Bobby went bowling. This was fun. Jake said "Yeah" as he scored. Bobby said "Nooo". This continued for a couple of hours and eventually Jake got bored and said "bye gotta go, catch ya in the drift". Then they left. The end.
Would the correct format be this:
Jake and Bobby went bowling. This was fun.
Jake said "Yeah" as he scored.
Bobby said "Nooo". This continued for a couple of hours and eventually
Jake got bored and said "bye gotta go, catch ya in the drift". Then they left. The end.
or this:
Jake and Bobby went bowling. This was fun.
Jake said "Yeah" as he scored.
Bobby said "Nooo".
This continued for a couple of hours and eventually
Jake got bored and said "bye gotta go, catch ya in the drift".
Then they left. The end.
As far as I understand it, the 'new line' thing only occurs when the quote is at the start of the sentence. Ie. for Jake and Bobby went boling. This was fun. "Yeah!" Jake said as he scored. Bobby said "noooo". it would be correct to write:
Jake and Bobby went boling. This was fun.
"Yeah!" Jake said as he scored. Bobby said "noooo".
Post by: BPunjabi on October 09, 2016, 11:53:41 am
As far as I understand it, the 'new line' thing only occurs when the quote is at the start of the sentence. Ie. for Jake and Bobby went boling. This was fun. "Yeah!" Jake said as he scored. Bobby said "noooo". it would be correct to write:
Jake and Bobby went boling. This was fun.
"Yeah!" Jake said as he scored. Bobby said "noooo".
Ok. Thanks I understand now, It was a tad confusing at first!
Post by: jakesilove on October 09, 2016, 12:14:50 pm
Hi ! just needed heaps of feedback on my creative would really appreciate it :)
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uf47klOonLtywPktiAuEeVlx-ax7uaDzl60XbchavLo/edit?usp=sharing
Hey! Just reposting the rule Jamon outlined above:
Hi everyone! So exams are right around the corner, and unsurprisingly, there are a HEAP of people wanting feedback on essays/creatives. Given that demand is really high, it is only natural that we will need to increase the post requirement for the coming days, to make sure that our feedback remains of the highest possible quality. Thus, for all essays posted between now (this post) and this time next week, you will need 30 posts for every creative you would like marked. Note that this does not apply to things posted before this point, meaning no one is in post debt. It just means that creatives 'cost more' for the next week. We appreciate your understanding :)
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 09, 2016, 04:03:40 pm
As far as I understand it, the 'new line' thing only occurs when the quote is at the start of the sentence. Ie. for Jake and Bobby went boling. This was fun. "Yeah!" Jake said as he scored. Bobby said "noooo". it would be correct to write:
Jake and Bobby went boling. This was fun.
"Yeah!" Jake said as he scored. Bobby said "noooo".
Not to challenge a HSC lecturer, but i thought whenever a new person, idea, or event happens you have to drop a new line?
Hence it would be
Jake and Bobby went bowling. This was fun.
"Yeah!" Jake said as he scored.
"Noooo," Bobby said.
Feel free to correct me as I am most likely wrong :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 09, 2016, 04:08:37 pm
Ok. Thanks I understand now, It was a tad confusing at first!Each speaker gets their own paragraph, whether it is at the start of the sentence or not. This here might help clear it up: https://writingcenterunderground.wordpress.com/2015/04/01/dialogue-101-how-to-format-narrative-dialogue/ :)
Post by: BPunjabi on October 09, 2016, 04:27:34 pm
Each speaker gets their own paragraph, whether it is at the start of the sentence or not. This here might help clear it up: https://writingcenterunderground.wordpress.com/2015/04/01/dialogue-101-how-to-format-narrative-dialogue/ :)
wow cheers.
Never knew about the commas: John said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” “I’ll call you tomorrow,” John said.
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 09, 2016, 06:55:58 pm
Hi, I have to compose a short creative piece about a personal experience regarding discovery and how its impacted me. I have no idea what to write, my life's kinda boring. Any ideas? tyHey asd987!
You may want to direct this question over to the forum discussion/question group to get the most out of it. This is only a creative writing marking thread. Additionally, you need 30 atarnotes posts. Youll get there, dont worry.
Welcome to atarnotes and hope you enjoy it :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 09, 2016, 07:14:36 pm
wow cheers.]
Never knew about the commas: John said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” “I’ll call you tomorrow,” John said.
Yep! Knowing how to format dialogue is really important - especially when you add messy exam hand writing into the mix, it gets hard to understand! So correct formatting is essential :)
Post by: AngelicOnyx on October 09, 2016, 11:03:10 pm
An icy breeze shocked the man from his peaceful slumber. Rubbing his eyes with slightly reddened and blistered fingers, he contemplated for a moment how long it he had been there for, as the warmth of the day seemed little more than a distant memory. The grass below his feet gleamed a glistening glow, a vision only enhanced further by the night light. It was no hindrance to him though, as he had no plans on leaving. His mind remained fixated on a single thought, everything else, from the crow's eyes leering, to the single squirrel scattering below the swing, seemed meaningless.
Disappointment wasn’t the sensation, neither were anger or grief. While some could say that emptiness was impossible, he would refute them right away, as that was the only word he could place to it. He couldn’t face her, not then, not now, not even with five-feet of mulch and dirt between them. He leaned forward on the park bench and inhaled, watching his breath emerging and dissipating. He brought the coat closer to himself, closing his eyes to the night.
'Still out here, Carlos?’
The man’s eyes flew open at once, then fell. He glared at the woman for only a few seconds before softening his gaze. Her grin only faltered slightly, and it quickly raced back to full speed. She was as radiant as ever, smiling and cheerful…at first glance. If one was to look closer, they would see her tired features, her paling skin, her trembling hands. He dearly wished to say something to her in return, but something held him back. Was it fear? Distrust? Her gaze fell slightly, but then became fixated on the small object between his fingers.
The warmth of the day has waged a great battle against the flower, but it prevailed, the petals fresh and untarnished. Its deep tone reflected the light of the sea, however, it only seemed to further exemplify the deepening barrier between them. The woman seemed to realize it’s significance, and continued to smile, however, an uneasy edge seemed to be present. Biting her lip as if attempting to speak, she appeared to deliberate her words before leaning in towards him
‘You can’t save everyone. Death is death. But never blame yourself for this’
The man’s pale orbs widened and he opened his mouth to respond. At that moment however, he felt himself falling back deep into the abyss, and prepared for his descent. He heard a small sound in the distance however, calling out to him, tugging at his soul
‘Because I love you. And I always will.
He jerked forwards, gasping and grasping for air. All he could feel was the endless chill, a stark contrast from the warmth of his memory. He couldn’t comprehend it though. His wife, the most gentle person he’d ever known should’ve hated him for his failings, despised him from the grave. He has the power once to stop it, his doctor accreditation proof of that. His inability to act and cure her, as slim as those odds were still had some potential, potential that was gone. A soft down fell from the skies, yet he barely felt it, and apparently neither did the deep blue rose still twisted between his fingers. It was his own personal custom to bestow them upon her grave, a sign of a love impossible to return. But he had loved her, so very dearly. That was something they shared.
Suddenly, something felt amiss. She loved him. She forgave him. She had told him as much in the past, why did he believe this was not true for the present? This was something she has always done, and something she had in common with him, mutual respect and love.
He could see it now. She’d never despised him, never held him accountable for her eventual disease. He was the foolish one for overlooking that fact, hiding himself from the grave, distancing himself from her. They had loved each other irrevocably, and doubting it was nothing less than an insult. Looking down at his suddenly warmed hands, he smiled at the sight. A pool of dark petals painted the ground, whilst between his fingers was a crimson rose, demure yet vivacious. The symbol of a love left requited.
.
Post by: BPunjabi on October 09, 2016, 11:52:32 pm
Hi! I really need someone too look over my English Standard creative, I know it sounds very cliche, but does it work as a piece? Thanks~
An icy breeze shocked the man from his peaceful slumber. Rubbing his eyes with slightly reddened and blistered fingers, he contemplated for a moment how long it he had been there for, as the warmth of the day seemed little more than a distant memory. The grass below his feet gleamed a glistening glow, a vision only enhanced further by the night light. It was no hindrance to him though, as he had no plans on leaving. His mind remained fixated on a single thought, everything else, from the crow's eyes leering, to the single squirrel scattering below the swing, seemed meaningless.
Disappointment wasn’t the sensation, neither were anger or grief. While some could say that emptiness was impossible, he would refute them right away, as that was the only word he could place to it. He couldn’t face her, not then, not now, not even with five-feet of mulch and dirt between them. He leaned forward on the park bench and inhaled, watching his breath emerging and dissipating. He brought the coat closer to himself, closing his eyes to the night.
'Still out here, Carlos?’
The man’s eyes flew open at once, then fell. He glared at the woman for only a few seconds before softening his gaze. Her grin only faltered slightly, and it quickly raced back to full speed. She was as radiant as ever, smiling and cheerful…at first glance. If one was to look closer, they would see her tired features, her paling skin, her trembling hands. He dearly wished to say something to her in return, but something held him back. Was it fear? Distrust? Her gaze fell slightly, but then became fixated on the small object between his fingers.
The warmth of the day has waged a great battle against the flower, but it prevailed, the petals fresh and untarnished. Its deep tone reflected the light of the sea, however, it only seemed to further exemplify the deepening barrier between them. The woman seemed to realize it’s significance, and continued to smile, however, an uneasy edge seemed to be present. Biting her lip as if attempting to speak, she appeared to deliberate her words before leaning in towards him
‘You can’t save everyone. Death is death. But never blame yourself for this’
The man’s pale orbs widened and he opened his mouth to respond. At that moment however, he felt himself falling back deep into the abyss, and prepared for his descent. He heard a small sound in the distance however, calling out to him, tugging at his soul
‘Because I love you. And I always will.
He jerked forwards, gasping and grasping for air. All he could feel was the endless chill, a stark contrast from the warmth of his memory. He couldn’t comprehend it though. His wife, the most gentle person he’d ever known should’ve hated him for his failings, despised him from the grave. He has the power once to stop it, his doctor accreditation proof of that. His inability to act and cure her, as slim as those odds were still had some potential, potential that was gone. A soft down fell from the skies, yet he barely felt it, and apparently neither did the deep blue rose still twisted between his fingers. It was his own personal custom to bestow them upon her grave, a sign of a love impossible to return. But he had loved her, so very dearly. That was something they shared.
Suddenly, something felt amiss. She loved him. She forgave him. She had told him as much in the past, why did he believe this was not true for the present? This was something she has always done, and something she had in common with him, mutual respect and love.
He could see it now. She’d never despised him, never held him accountable for her eventual disease. He was the foolish one for overlooking that fact, hiding himself from the grave, distancing himself from her. They had loved each other irrevocably, and doubting it was nothing less than an insult. Looking down at his suddenly warmed hands, he smiled at the sight. A pool of dark petals painted the ground, whilst between his fingers was a crimson rose, demure yet vivacious. The symbol of a love left requited.
.
I am not a marker or anything though I am terrible at english but I loved your creative. It was original and it sounds just pure awesome! 8) 8)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 10, 2016, 09:24:21 am
Hey guys!
I would like to get some feedback on my creative because I know its bad; the plot needs a lot more developing. I'm just not sure how!
Thank you!
Hi! I really need someone too look over my English Standard creative, I know it sounds very cliche, but does it work as a piece? Thanks~
Hey guys!! The current policy in this busy week is that everyone needs 30 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay they'd like marked. Justina, you are very close to that, hang around the site a bit today and get those last few posts?
AngelicOnyx, welcome to the forums!! If you hang around the site today, say hey, ask a few questions or even answer a few, I bet you'll rack those posts up really quick too ;D
Post by: AngelicOnyx on October 10, 2016, 09:45:32 am
Hey guys!! The current policy in this busy week is that everyone needs 30 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay they'd like marked. Justina, you are very close to that, hang around the site a bit today and get those last few posts?
AngelicOnyx, welcome to the forums!! If you hang around the site today, say hey, ask a few questions or even answer a few, I bet you'll rack those posts up really quick too ;D
Oops sorry, completely forgot about that :P
Post by: BPunjabi on October 10, 2016, 10:01:01 am
Hey guys!! The current policy in this busy week is that everyone needs 30 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay they'd like marked. Justina, you are very close to that, hang around the site a bit today and get those last few posts?
AngelicOnyx, welcome to the forums!! If you hang around the site today, say hey, ask a few questions or even answer a few, I bet you'll rack those posts up really quick too ;D
Hey Jamon,
Would you know how many things I could submit, I know I can defiantly submit one, but two?
Cheers
Post by: atar27 on October 10, 2016, 10:47:14 am
Post by: BPunjabi on October 10, 2016, 11:02:30 am
Hey Jamon, I have reached the 20 points :)
Its 30 mate, why dont you go on the game section and get some posts up... Its real easy! ;) ;)
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 10, 2016, 12:09:08 pm
Its 30 mate, why dont you go on the game section and get some posts up... Its real easy! ;) ;)
The games section doesn't actually count towards your total posts unfortunately :/
Hey Jamon, I have reached the 20 points :)
This means you only need 10 more! You can do this easily by asking or answering questions, making your first post and hopping on general discussion threads.
Unfortunately the games section does not count towards your post count but all the other things above do :D
Post by: BPunjabi on October 10, 2016, 12:12:15 pm
The games section doesn't actually count towards your total posts unfortunately :/
This means you only need 10 more! You can do this easily by asking or answering questions, making your first post and hopping on general discussion threads.
Unfortunately the games section does not count towards your post count but all the other things above do :D
Damn lol... It counts towards your forum leader board rank though..
Post by: atar27 on October 10, 2016, 12:13:17 pm
Post by: BPunjabi on October 10, 2016, 12:19:48 pm
But Jamon has said that I needed 20 points to get my creative marked?
Ahaha thats cool! But why not get your posts up anyway? It helps to contribute to the community :o
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 10, 2016, 12:30:21 pm
Damn lol... It counts towards your forum leader board rank though..
Hahaha there are one too many people who look at that leaderboard religiously ;D (i may or may not be one of those :P)
Post by: BPunjabi on October 10, 2016, 12:36:24 pm
Hahaha there are one too many people who look at that leaderboard religiously ;D (i may or may not be one of those :P)I only look at monthly... I think its too late for me to join the yearly leaderboard
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 10, 2016, 12:42:46 pm
I only look at monthly... I think its too late for me to join the yearly leaderboardI'm on the yearly board :) havent been active enough to be on the weekly/monthly ones yet though
Post by: BPunjabi on October 10, 2016, 12:45:36 pm
I'm on the yearly board :) havent been active enough to be on the weekly/monthly ones yet though
Good Job Mate!!!!
Do we get a free ATAR notes textbook if we come like first on yearly!!! Its going to actually be extremely beneficial after HSC. I recon they should make one for IPT
Anyway Back to Creative writing... How many words should it be around. I have 1000 words, is it possible to complete it in time?
Post by: atar27 on October 10, 2016, 12:54:28 pm
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 10, 2016, 12:58:45 pm
Good Job Mate!!!!
Do we get a free ATAR notes textbook if we come like first on yearly!!! Its going to actually be extremely beneficial after HSC. I recon they should make one for IPT
Anyway Back to Creative writing... How many words should it be around. I have 1000 words, is it possible to complete it in time?
Well it depends whether you are going in with a prepared response or not.
If you are.. You have 35 minutes to write 1000 words. (5 mins working with stimulus). This is achievable if you can write fast. I dont know how fast you can write but I can only write 800 or so in 35 minutes.
If you are not.. You are leaving yourself with 30 minutes or less. (Plan for 10, write for 30) I would not recommend it in this case.
Having said that though, you are expected in Module B (Close/Critical study of texts) to write approximately 1000 words in 40 minutes and I can almost do that (I take 45 mins
Hope this helps!
Post by: BPunjabi on October 10, 2016, 12:58:49 pm
I think it should be less than 1000 because you still have the comprehension and essay sections to complete in 2 hours. So if you can cut it down I reckon it will be better.
If I lessen any part of my Creative it will not be a band 6 response anymore.... I cant afford it
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 10, 2016, 01:00:23 pm
If I lessen any part of my Creative it will not be a band 6 response anymore.... I cant afford it
I would just recommend only spending 30-35 minutes on the short answers so you have the extra time up your sleeve for the creative. Personally, i would leave it last to see how much time I've got left, but if you tend to go overtime, do it first.
Post by: ladyofathena on October 10, 2016, 03:19:03 pm
Good Job Mate!!!!
Do we get a free ATAR notes textbook if we come like first on yearly!!! Its going to actually be extremely beneficial after HSC. I recon they should make one for IPT
Anyway Back to Creative writing... How many words should it be around. I have 1000 words, is it possible to complete it in time?
My creative was around 1100 words and I managed to get it out during trials. I did have to edit the end a little to make sure I finished in time, but it was probably only around 50 words less. This is coming from someone who can only get around 950 words max in a 40 minute essay, so it is possible you just have to know how fast you can write.
I agree with studybuddy7777 on spending less time on short answers so you can have the extra time for the essay or creative. In trials I left my creative last because I was going in with a prepared one and I could work it to the stimulus and question given.
Post by: marynguyen18 on October 10, 2016, 03:21:47 pm
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 10, 2016, 03:27:54 pm
how do you cut down your creative?
Unless its excessively long (1200+) then you don't. You just learn to write quicker and devote more time to the creative.
Sorry if this isnt really feedback, but it is very difficult to give good advice on how to cut down a creative piece i have never seen before.
Post by: marynguyen18 on October 10, 2016, 03:38:19 pm
Unless its excessively long (1200+) then you don't. You just learn to write quicker and devote more time to the creative.
Sorry if this isnt really feedback, but it is very difficult to give good advice on how to cut down a creative piece i have never seen before.
its around 1197 words...
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 10, 2016, 03:42:49 pm
its around 1197 words...Well how long does it take you to write it under exam conds? (which means no notes, only a black pen and your head :D)
Add 5 minutes onto the end of what you get (for effective incorporation into the given stimulus) and then thats how long you need.
Post by: BPunjabi on October 10, 2016, 03:50:18 pm
Well how long does it take you to write it under exam conds? (which means no notes, only a black pen and your head :D)
Add 5 minutes onto the end of what you get (for effective incorporation into the given stimulus) and then thats how long you need.
Are you guys doing the weight things for your pens?
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 10, 2016, 03:51:50 pm
Are you guys doing the weight things for your pens?
I'm supposed to be :D but nah my writing is so messy but fast anyway the weight thing just makes it messier and faster :P
Post by: birdwing341 on October 10, 2016, 03:53:25 pm
If I lessen any part of my Creative it will not be a band 6 response anymore.... I cant afford it
Don't worry man! My creative is 1200!!!
Are you guys doing the weight things for your pens?
Also, check out this conversation talking about the pluses and minuses of using a weighted pen
CSSA Sound Off Thread
Personally I've heard negative things about it, but some people like it :)
Post by: marynguyen18 on October 10, 2016, 03:55:58 pm
Are you guys doing the weight things for your pens?
i don't really think the weight thing works so i don't do it
Post by: BPunjabi on October 10, 2016, 03:56:35 pm
i don't really think the weight thing works so i don't do it
Ahahah dont worry I dont :P
Post by: marynguyen18 on October 10, 2016, 03:57:21 pm
Well how long does it take you to write it under exam conds? (which means no notes, only a black pen and your head :D)
Add 5 minutes onto the end of what you get (for effective incorporation into the given stimulus) and then thats how long you need.
usually i can finish my creative under time condition but my creative always changes from when i pre write it to when i do it under timed conditions
Post by: Justina Shehata on October 10, 2016, 03:57:58 pm
[/quote]
Keep in mind that during the exam, you will naturally cut down and edit to adapt to the stimulus. If its around the 1000 word mark then just try write as quickly as you can keeping in mind that you will slightly change it in exam
Post by: Justina Shehata on October 10, 2016, 04:05:42 pm
Hey guys!! The current policy in this busy week is that everyone needs 30 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay they'd like marked. Justina, you are very close to that, hang around the site a bit today and get those last few posts?
Oh okay awesome! I'm at 30 now!
Post by: studybuddy7777 on October 10, 2016, 04:46:44 pm
Welcome to the community!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 10, 2016, 05:37:01 pm
But Jamon has said that I needed 20 points to get my creative marked?
Could you quote to where I said this? Don't take this as accusatory, it isn't, I just don't remember where/why I said it! :)
Post by: Justina Shehata on October 10, 2016, 05:42:17 pm
Post by: atar27 on October 10, 2016, 06:45:13 pm
Hey ATAR! You'll need to get to 20 posts to get feedback on this creative, based on earlier feedback ;D
Here it is :) That's okay :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 10, 2016, 08:39:33 pm
Here it is :) That's okay :)
Ohhh okay I've clicked now! So the marking criteria has increased now in the lead up to the English Exam, which would normally mean you'd have to get to 35 posts. That said, I've been a pain, and you did technically post it before the change, so I am sure Elyse would be happy to give you feedback on your Creative :)
Post by: atar27 on October 10, 2016, 09:55:25 pm
Post by: marynguyen18 on October 10, 2016, 09:57:48 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 10, 2016, 10:01:24 pm
am i eligible to post my creative writing?
Yep :)
Post by: marynguyen18 on October 10, 2016, 10:04:12 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 10, 2016, 10:34:41 pm
Okay so I hit the 30 posts! I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to repost my creative or not but just in case, here it is!
Hey Justina! Thanks for that :)
Spoiler
I, Bellamy Potarisa, knew that ‘truth’ in its most pure and authentic state was consistently and inevitably, brutal. But that word in particular lingered, positing a nauseating ambivalence within my mind. Great setting of tone!
Clutching at my throat to withstand the usual yet persistently overwhelming note of bergamot, was accompanied by an unsettling grin that bred of conceit, as he comfortably leaned on the edges of his desk. It is unclear whether it was the clone or his rigid grin that expounded an ominous feeling. Perhaps it was both. Nevertheless, within a month of employment, he had dumped me with the first lesson of corruption. I like how suddenly yet teasingly this is all unfolding!
For my moral dilemma, one of which I was consciously aware of, had burdened me with the utterance of an “untruth”.
“Oh come on Bellamy, don’t go all ‘girl-next-door’ on me. You won’t be lying as such, only telling some un-truths, so to speak…” his voice seemed to trail on. *uhhhh* I can totally imagine this
He flashed me a big porcelain smile like the devil addressed in Prada.
As I happen to recall, I believe “tap into” were the words he uttered.
“So…um…you want me to ‘tap into’ politician Ben Ashcroft’s emails and dig some dirt on his…"
Again, came the monstrous laugh – as though to interrupt me from exposure. Ryan Trystan, my boss, whom I had grown such a fondness and reputable complexion of, was unfortunately my worst nightmare. He brought back the most vulnerable and tenebrous shadows of myself that lay beneath my newly found world.
“Oh Bell, Bell, Bell…now did I say ‘tap into’? No. All I said was be a little more enterprising”
His light tone has somewhat dissipated.
It was in those very two minutes that I had been burdened with an incomprehensible distress, one of which quickly transitioned to anger with the thought of his ease. It did not matter that I would hack into his email, forge evidence and frame him for the stolen revenue. His conceited smile lingered the most. It functioned as my source of angst, even more than the request. Well actually, demand. I realised that incessant vanity and innocent smiles camouflaged the unrelenting reality of life and gave it benevolence.
The nuances of journalist vernacular were of only significance, and thus what was necessary – that is, for the ‘The Sun’ newspaper was to offer its reading masses a succinct piece of scandal dressed up as ‘journalism’. A story that offers readers a deep and profound fulfilment for approximately 56 seconds of their insignificant lives that would come at the expense of shattering my probity.
Had I known this before my excitement consumed me a month ago, and voluntarily participated?
It was not my fault. No, it couldn’t be. I had to convince myself of this. It was the only way to keep my sanity. I was cheated just as much as I was told to cheat. I was given significance, name, identity, and stature – something that otherwise was foreign.
I came to comprehend that the discovery of my identity, involved deeper layers of consciousness, layers which were more often than not, subliminal.
Now firmly fixated on his computer screen, a once charming Ryan, gave me no more attention as if my presence was absent. So I left.
And thus, he had taught me my second lesson of corruption: ‘un-truths’ were the modern form of lies.
Trying to pull myself together in the bathroom, I recalled the phone call informing me of my employment. I remembered my surprise at receiving a response in such a short period of time. A young and shy lady whom only just finished a degree in I'd probably capitalise Journalism if we are talking about a degree. journalism was offered a job at one of the world’s most renowned publishing industries. It did not make sense but the thrill was so overwhelming, it brushed off the crevices in the puzzle.
Of course now – it did make sense.
Staring into the mirror, I could finally see it.
I fit the criteria because I was easy. Unlike the others who were incredibly attractive and showed off their flashing numbers with struts of Burberry and Chanel, I scraped through the brief because I could offer something much more significant and grandiose than aesthetic appeasement – innocence.
The most insufferable experience one would never wish to hear was that they were not good enough. My discovery there's no rule against saying "discovery" but your piece is incredibly well articulated - so I'd avoid it in this instance just to avoid jarring it. I'd said "realisation" of personal integrity was far from superfluous within a cesspit of journalistic and editorial sharks that imposed nothing more than sheer banality within the obscure ramblings of truth.
This time, recalling my first day of employment was thoroughly unsatisfying. This was no fluke. I was given significance, a name, identity, stature.
No. Wrong.
I was given a phantom.
Funnily enough, never once did reality wish to spare me of its brutality.
To expose the darkness beyond the palette of the colourful paper – I knew – there was no going back.
I picked up a pen.
Now, I was going to have my say.
And the title it was written: ‘Integrity’
Never like this moment in my life had I completely been in touch with the entirety of myself – beneath all the layers of which my darkest fears were veiled.
But now I can say – unequivocally – I was liberated.
Clutching at my throat to withstand the usual yet persistently overwhelming note of bergamot, was accompanied by an unsettling grin that bred of conceit, as he comfortably leaned on the edges of his desk. It is unclear whether it was the clone or his rigid grin that expounded an ominous feeling. Perhaps it was both. Nevertheless, within a month of employment, he had dumped me with the first lesson of corruption. I like how suddenly yet teasingly this is all unfolding!
For my moral dilemma, one of which I was consciously aware of, had burdened me with the utterance of an “untruth”.
“Oh come on Bellamy, don’t go all ‘girl-next-door’ on me. You won’t be lying as such, only telling some un-truths, so to speak…” his voice seemed to trail on. *uhhhh* I can totally imagine this
He flashed me a big porcelain smile like the devil addressed in Prada.
As I happen to recall, I believe “tap into” were the words he uttered.
“So…um…you want me to ‘tap into’ politician Ben Ashcroft’s emails and dig some dirt on his…"
Again, came the monstrous laugh – as though to interrupt me from exposure. Ryan Trystan, my boss, whom I had grown such a fondness and reputable complexion of, was unfortunately my worst nightmare. He brought back the most vulnerable and tenebrous shadows of myself that lay beneath my newly found world.
“Oh Bell, Bell, Bell…now did I say ‘tap into’? No. All I said was be a little more enterprising”
His light tone has somewhat dissipated.
It was in those very two minutes that I had been burdened with an incomprehensible distress, one of which quickly transitioned to anger with the thought of his ease. It did not matter that I would hack into his email, forge evidence and frame him for the stolen revenue. His conceited smile lingered the most. It functioned as my source of angst, even more than the request. Well actually, demand. I realised that incessant vanity and innocent smiles camouflaged the unrelenting reality of life and gave it benevolence.
The nuances of journalist vernacular were of only significance, and thus what was necessary – that is, for the ‘The Sun’ newspaper was to offer its reading masses a succinct piece of scandal dressed up as ‘journalism’. A story that offers readers a deep and profound fulfilment for approximately 56 seconds of their insignificant lives that would come at the expense of shattering my probity.
Had I known this before my excitement consumed me a month ago, and voluntarily participated?
It was not my fault. No, it couldn’t be. I had to convince myself of this. It was the only way to keep my sanity. I was cheated just as much as I was told to cheat. I was given significance, name, identity, and stature – something that otherwise was foreign.
I came to comprehend that the discovery of my identity, involved deeper layers of consciousness, layers which were more often than not, subliminal.
Now firmly fixated on his computer screen, a once charming Ryan, gave me no more attention as if my presence was absent. So I left.
And thus, he had taught me my second lesson of corruption: ‘un-truths’ were the modern form of lies.
Trying to pull myself together in the bathroom, I recalled the phone call informing me of my employment. I remembered my surprise at receiving a response in such a short period of time. A young and shy lady whom only just finished a degree in I'd probably capitalise Journalism if we are talking about a degree. journalism was offered a job at one of the world’s most renowned publishing industries. It did not make sense but the thrill was so overwhelming, it brushed off the crevices in the puzzle.
Of course now – it did make sense.
Staring into the mirror, I could finally see it.
I fit the criteria because I was easy. Unlike the others who were incredibly attractive and showed off their flashing numbers with struts of Burberry and Chanel, I scraped through the brief because I could offer something much more significant and grandiose than aesthetic appeasement – innocence.
The most insufferable experience one would never wish to hear was that they were not good enough. My discovery there's no rule against saying "discovery" but your piece is incredibly well articulated - so I'd avoid it in this instance just to avoid jarring it. I'd said "realisation" of personal integrity was far from superfluous within a cesspit of journalistic and editorial sharks that imposed nothing more than sheer banality within the obscure ramblings of truth.
This time, recalling my first day of employment was thoroughly unsatisfying. This was no fluke. I was given significance, a name, identity, stature.
No. Wrong.
I was given a phantom.
Funnily enough, never once did reality wish to spare me of its brutality.
To expose the darkness beyond the palette of the colourful paper – I knew – there was no going back.
I picked up a pen.
Now, I was going to have my say.
And the title it was written: ‘Integrity’
Never like this moment in my life had I completely been in touch with the entirety of myself – beneath all the layers of which my darkest fears were veiled.
But now I can say – unequivocally – I was liberated.
I'm sorry that you worked so hard to get 30 posts only for me to tell you that this is definitely the work of a band 6 student! This was an absolute pleasure to read! I enjoyed every moment. You capture a professional setting filled with corruption really well and you capture the integrity (or lack of) in the media industry really well! The discovery is clear, in the lead up, the moment, and the ramifications. You've been very smart with this piece in that your climax coincides with discovery just before the end, so that you can have the all clear for discussing the ramifications of discovery.
I hope this gives you confidence to go into the exam with your head held high because I love love love this piece! Usually when I love pieces, I still can critique discovery. But in this case, you've done it so craftfully that it's difficult :) I hope the stimulus is kind to you!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 10, 2016, 10:59:11 pm
I've changed my creative slightly since the last time i posted it, thank you in advanced
Heya! You've done a lot of great work on the forums :) Go you!
Spoiler
The sun was slowly waking up from its slumber.
How could this happen? All she could think about was the guilt that was bubbling up inside of her trying to escape. Everything was her fault. Why didn’t she just pretend that she loved Alice in Wonderland as much as her mother did? Her daughter had no idea what to do with this excruciating pain that kept on intensifying, as all she could feel were the tears streaming down her face. A tiny bit contradictory when we talk about excruciating pain and then all that can be felt is weightless tears. Perhaps a "yet" or other connective could work in here.
As the casket slowly lowered into the ground,this implication of present tense - try "it" was Lauren’s last chance to say something, anything, this was the final goodbye to her beloved mother. There were so many memories that should have been shared. Lauren had always struggled to understand what her mother had gone through both mentally and physically. All she could do was look up to her dad and wonder if he felt as guilty as Lauren did. He had banned her mother from reading Alice to Lauren when she younger as she was terrified of the book.
As soon as Lauren arrived home it was time to slowly start to divide her mother’s possessions into three separate boxes: keep, donate and throw away. This made it feel so official that it was time to treasure the memories and maybe move on from all that was left of her mother.
As Lauren was sorting through her mother’s wardrobe she found an old box filled with different editions of the “The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland” by Lewis Carroll, DVDs and even found a coffee mug with a gold rim that her dad had given to her mother on their wedding day. The gold rim is a really nice touch. Mum would always read Alice In Wonderland to Lauren as a bedtime story. The thing about Lauren’s mother was that she wouldn’t read the book in her normal voicecomma she would give each character its own unique voice which frightened Lauren when she was younger. The voices were so realistic that it would give her nightmares to the point where her father had to take matters into his own hands and banned Lauren’s mother from ever reading the book to Lauren ever again. Describe some of the voices here - high pitched and fettered for the rabbit, for example.
Lauren wished she would have known thatmy we just flipped into first person. mother loved the book so much, if she had known sooner her mother would still be alive. If she had known that her mother was so unwell Lauren would’ve been there to support and help her mother. "Mother" was used 4 times just now, probably 3 times too many. Consider chopping this sentence up :) One of the books that Lauren had found was an old box which contained her mother’s original copy of Alice when she was growing up. I the change of tense is confusing me? carefully turned the page to find words written around the original text in my mother’s beautiful cursive writing.
“I promised him I would follow him; I gave him my word, my bond, my hands, my eyes and my ears that I would make it to Wonderland to be transfixed and encapsulated by its beauty once more”. Lauren grew more concerned about her mother’s mentality as in Wonderland, the sun would always be smiling and radiating a sense of happiness to create an atmosphere of joy and tranquillity. It was her safe haven.
Her mother could no longer tell the differences between reality and imagination. Every night during dinner mum would get really paranoid about whether or not the food she was about to consume would make her grow to the size of the tallest tree or make her shrink to the size of an ant. She wouldn’t even drink water without Lauren tasting it first. Lauren couldn’t find the words to explain to mum that the food was perfectly fine; nothing got through to her.
Every so often Lauren would hear mum cry out “Oh no! She’s coming for me, off with my head, off with my head, oh! I’ve grown quite fond of my head, don’t let her get me Lauren!”. Red, the colour red had triggered so many emotional memories of constant hysteria. The constant delusion of the Red Queen haunting her was slowly eating her alive. There was no way to help her mother’s antagonising pain. I really love this bit!!!!
The rhythmic ticking of the clock created a pathway for Lauren’s gradual understanding of what her mother had gone through. Every word that her mother had made in the tiny margins showed bits of her childhood. The adventures that she had read about meeting a talking caterpillar that inhaled hookah smoke who had offered the worst advice in a rude, yet concise tone all of which became a real part of her world. It became clear to Lauren as she continued to read that her mother was completely immersed in Wonderland. She had used it as a way to escape an abusive home, where sounds of bottles shattering against the wall would put her to sleep. How can she not have known about this? It’s all starting to make sense. Beautiful
On the inside cover of the book there was a note that Lauren’s mother had written to her parents. They were written along the lines of “Dear mum and dad, I’m sorry to have been such a disappointment to you, no one understands mecomma or elipsis only the white rabbit does…” Tears were rolling down Lauren’s face, how could she have allowed her mother go through this alone.
“Hey dad, can you come here for a second? Did you know that mum felt this way when she was younger?”
“I had no idea that she was battling with such an emotional demon or I would have tried to get her to see a physiologist or something. If I had known, I would have dealt with the situation in a different way.” Dad replied in a sorrowful tone
“Can we read Alice in Wonderland together like mum used to do for me when I was younger?”
“Of course we can, let’s even do the voices just for her” Dad replied with a smile on his face
Dad and Lauren shared a moment to remember and experience the wonder of Wonderland all over again. At least Lauren knew that it wasn’t her fault that her mother had died. All the combined guilt seemed to melt into the air and was replaced with joy.
How could this happen? All she could think about was the guilt that was bubbling up inside of her trying to escape. Everything was her fault. Why didn’t she just pretend that she loved Alice in Wonderland as much as her mother did? Her daughter had no idea what to do with this excruciating pain that kept on intensifying, as all she could feel were the tears streaming down her face. A tiny bit contradictory when we talk about excruciating pain and then all that can be felt is weightless tears. Perhaps a "yet" or other connective could work in here.
As the casket slowly lowered into the ground,
As soon as Lauren arrived home it was time to slowly start to divide her mother’s possessions into three separate boxes: keep, donate and throw away. This made it feel so official that it was time to treasure the memories and maybe move on from all that was left of her mother.
As Lauren was sorting through her mother’s wardrobe she found an old box filled with different editions of the “The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland” by Lewis Carroll, DVDs and even found a coffee mug with a gold rim that her dad had given to her mother on their wedding day. The gold rim is a really nice touch. Mum would always read Alice In Wonderland to Lauren as a bedtime story. The thing about Lauren’s mother was that she wouldn’t read the book in her normal voicecomma she would give each character its own unique voice which frightened Lauren when she was younger. The voices were so realistic that it would give her nightmares to the point where her father had to take matters into his own hands and banned Lauren’s mother from ever reading the book to Lauren ever again. Describe some of the voices here - high pitched and fettered for the rabbit, for example.
Lauren wished she would have known that
“I promised him I would follow him; I gave him my word, my bond, my hands, my eyes and my ears that I would make it to Wonderland to be transfixed and encapsulated by its beauty once more”. Lauren grew more concerned about her mother’s mentality as in Wonderland, the sun would always be smiling and radiating a sense of happiness to create an atmosphere of joy and tranquillity. It was her safe haven.
Her mother could no longer tell the differences between reality and imagination. Every night during dinner mum would get really paranoid about whether or not the food she was about to consume would make her grow to the size of the tallest tree or make her shrink to the size of an ant. She wouldn’t even drink water without Lauren tasting it first. Lauren couldn’t find the words to explain to mum that the food was perfectly fine; nothing got through to her.
Every so often Lauren would hear mum cry out “Oh no! She’s coming for me, off with my head, off with my head, oh! I’ve grown quite fond of my head, don’t let her get me Lauren!”. Red, the colour red had triggered so many emotional memories of constant hysteria. The constant delusion of the Red Queen haunting her was slowly eating her alive. There was no way to help her mother’s antagonising pain. I really love this bit!!!!
The rhythmic ticking of the clock created a pathway for Lauren’s gradual understanding of what her mother had gone through. Every word that her mother had made in the tiny margins showed bits of her childhood. The adventures that she had read about meeting a talking caterpillar that inhaled hookah smoke who had offered the worst advice in a rude, yet concise tone all of which became a real part of her world. It became clear to Lauren as she continued to read that her mother was completely immersed in Wonderland. She had used it as a way to escape an abusive home, where sounds of bottles shattering against the wall would put her to sleep. How can she not have known about this? It’s all starting to make sense. Beautiful
On the inside cover of the book there was a note that Lauren’s mother had written to her parents. They were written along the lines of “Dear mum and dad, I’m sorry to have been such a disappointment to you, no one understands mecomma or elipsis only the white rabbit does…” Tears were rolling down Lauren’s face, how could she have allowed her mother go through this alone.
“Hey dad, can you come here for a second? Did you know that mum felt this way when she was younger?”
“I had no idea that she was battling with such an emotional demon or I would have tried to get her to see a physiologist or something. If I had known, I would have dealt with the situation in a different way.” Dad replied in a sorrowful tone
“Can we read Alice in Wonderland together like mum used to do for me when I was younger?”
“Of course we can, let’s even do the voices just for her” Dad replied with a smile on his face
Dad and Lauren shared a moment to remember and experience the wonder of Wonderland all over again. At least Lauren knew that it wasn’t her fault that her mother had died. All the combined guilt seemed to melt into the air and was replaced with joy.
I can't remember exactly how this piece was last time, although I do remember parts, but I'm happy to report this is a lot better! I love the way you've manipulated the story to be a form of escape.
What I'm not loving is this ending though - you build up such a creative story, with so much wonderful articulation, and then the ending literally spells out the discovery rather than continuing the respect for the reader. In my opinion, this is an easy fix. After offering the dad a read of the note, then I'd say,
"Her dad's furrowed brows met the page. Slowly, his forehead softened and his eyes moistened."
Something like this shows instead of tells. You've told the reader that the dad didn't know, but he is sad to know, without even saying it. You also leave it open to the reader to interpret if they think the dad is at fault for not letting her express herself to her daughter, or if the dad is regretting, etc. What do you think of this ending?
Otherwise, just consistency of tense is important :)
You've really elevated this piece beyond what it originally was, and I'm really proud of you! You should be proud of this! With the right adaptation in an exam, this has very high potential! You should be stoked :)
Post by: brenden on October 10, 2016, 11:00:17 pm
Hi this is my creative that i wrote for both mid years and trials! i got a much better mark in trials but i am wondering how i can fix it and whether i should write another creative in case or stick with this one:It's a good question, right? Should you write another creative or stick with this one..?
That question implies to me like, you have to "go with" one or the other. Like, what is the "in case" scenario? In case you forget your first one? (Well, having two to remember won't help with that). Is it in case the first one doesn't fit the topic/prompt? That seems more likely... But this question is the wrong question to ask. It's not about having "multiple options" to stick down on a topic. It's about having one piece that you're really comfortbale with and that you can take in many different directions if necessary. I wouldn't be writing another piece now. I would be working intimately with this piece - very intimately - and doing a lot of essay plans to your "worst case scnario" topics (i.e., what topic would actually fuck you over? practise those topics). Do lots of essay plans until your'e confident you can mould THIS piece into the piece you need it to be. Just in case ;)
Now, I will tell you if anything's broken and how to fix it.
The road before her stretched on for what seemed like eternity. The sun’s fiery embrace breathed down her neck and as the thought of another step made her shudder. I like your opening, I have a really good idea of the 'scene' and the writing is nice so far!She looks up, and is blinded by a white behemoth of cosmic energy. Carol reached for Lucy’s hands and feels the sweat amongst her palms and between her fingers. She turns her head around and catches a glimpse of her sisters blank white terrified face usually, try for two adjectives that achieve everything you want. When you go for three in a row, you're probably overreaching. In this scenario, i'd remove blank. Because why should a face be both blank and terrified? Pale and terrfied does ALL the work you need. Also --- use commas between your adjectives!!! it's v easy, and your assessor will appreciatebefore she added a small smile to comfort her. She turns her face further behind her as she reliased, her eye lids begin to stretch further in shock. She holds her sisters hands tighter and screams, The biggest thing here is that... You use "Carol" and "LucY' in the same sentence, then continue to ONLY us "she"... But which one are you talking about? Carol or Lucy?!?!?!?! --- I believe it's Carol, because Carol was doing the reaching for Lucy's hand, so presumably you keep talking about Carol. But I'm having to do reasoning to work this out. You don't want people to have to 'figure out' - it should be clear and there for them... so just be wary about your impersonal pronouns (she, he, they)... because whilst they're VERY CLEAR to you in your mind, because you know exactly who you are referring to, they can sometimes be less clear to an examiner, who NEED specific words to TELL them who you're referring to. Just keep it in mind :) :)Hey!!
‘RUN LUCY RUN HURRY!’. You HAVE to punctuate. How does Carole say it in your head? Presumably she says something like "RUNNNN! Lucy, RUN! HURRY!" is that what it sounds like? if that what it sounds like, that's how you should write it! Good punctuation looks very sophisticated, but it's actually super easy, which means you get good VALUE for little EFFORT on your behalf.
They tumble down a hill feeling the rocks and tree barks drilling through their bodies, but careless about the pain that endures within them physically and mentally they quickly gain their balance and sprint through the trees and finding a small cave, Carol pulls her sister inside the cave hearing no sign of footsteps following them. You've used one "but", and two "and"... Remeber, those words are conjunction words. They join a sentence together. So if you've used 3 conjunctive words, you have probably just shoved 4 sentences into 1 sentence. Usually a recipe for a messy setence! I think you can tidy this up a bit. After you talk about their pain, you start talking about their action (balance, cave). It doesn't "flow" as well as it could - rewrite this one a little bit and see if you can make it more sophisticated Lucy cuddles her sister and lays softly on her crossed legs to sleep, Carol passes her the deer figurine. On the verge of closing her eyes she spots a shadow moving her eyes instantly towards the outside of the cave. Her drowsy eyes pull her away leaning her head against the wall. Suddenly she feels a tap on her shoulder, she slowly looks up as her neck muscles start to ache. She gradually reaches to a tall slim figure, his large eyes looking right through her. Carol immediately clutches to Lucy feeling her body temperature rising feeling the heat bouncing of her body. This is a way better sentence structure and series of sentences than the one about the balance and the cave that I told you off for. Good job!! ‘The Russian solider is the man who was chasing us all a long, but why didn’t he shoot us already?’ The punctuation in this dialogue is also way better than the punctation I told you off for, before. Woo! agonising thoughts invaded her. Her muscles tense, he might be tricking her, he might be holding the gun towards her.
‘Who are you and what do you want?!’
“I am a jew…”
“A Jew!’
Carol interrupts breathlessly, she looks up, inspecting him from top to bottom. He is wearing the striped pyjamas that mamma always used to tell us they would wear when they were thrown into the concentration camps. They deserve to be punished for what they have done to Germany. ‘Don’t you dare come near my sister and I, mamma is right, she has always been right about you jews’.
She starts packing her bag, gently placing the deer back into her bag. He slowly sits down as he fixes his eyes on her.
’My name is Arron’ would maybe change the name to something more obvious jewish routes, just for a 'nice touch'.
He shows the care of a jewish person worried about her wellbeing and their danger for being in the midst of the bush alone.
******
Thinking back in time had her eyebrows scrunched together, a familiar feeling in the deepest parts of her stomach arose. Anger and doubt ran through her veins, leaving nothing but trails of fire spreading destructively throughout her body. She thinks the unthinkable and decides to tell Arron in attempt to calm the ever persistent thoughts in her mind.
‘My father’, she said,
‘Before our mother passed away she gave us the deer to be added to her collection back at home when we arrive at Omi’s house in Hamburg and my dad left us to commit his life to Hitler as General Anthony’.
A little voice constantly remaindered her of the question that had no answer, why did papa leave his two daughters for Hitler?.
‘Hitler’ he gently said,
‘Sent the jews to concentration camps because he believed that the jews generated the collapse of the German economy, but in reality we were just building our lives’.
Carol’s butterflies settled down as she lifted her eyes and looked at the sadness that filled his eyes. A few weeks later, they finally arrive at the Hamburg train station a sense of relief to finally go home. Lucy smiles back at her sister holding her sisters hands tightly and skipping along. Her thoughts, were interrupted by a sudden movement from behind and her tear strained eyes darted towards the looming figures that grew larger as the footsteps grew louder. Her whole body twists around. Her eyes grew larger and her mouth dropped to the ground as she reached her hands and screamed on the top of her lungs, ‘NOOOOOOOOOOOO’. German soldiers forced her away as she hears the shot gun going off, she slows down and her heart beats a million times per second. ‘Welcome aboard, the train will be leaving in one minute’.
Lucy pulls Carol inside the train. Carol looks outside the window with the last thought of brutality towards the jews, they don’t deserve to be treated this way. From Arran’s word Carol finds that every pillar of her previous life was built upon a foundation of lies and propaganda. Her inner core temperature boils, burning her from every part of her body. With the last breath they finally reach Omi’s house. Carol runs to her mums bedroom and places the deer on the dresser, next to a collection of figurines. She wakes up the next morning and finds Lucy and grandma cheerfully dancing to music in the kitchen. Carol storms off, finding it difficult to adjust to her old lifestyle. During dinner, they are all sitting at the dinning table when Carol impulsively grabs a piece of bread and stuffs it in her mouth. Carol runs back into her room smashing the figurine’s including the deer, suggesting a new future reputing with the past.
Thank You for checking it, it will be much appreciated :)
Okay, SO... Structurally, I think youv'e got a pretty clear progression through the story, bits of action, bits of realisation. No need to make any major structural changes other than those required by the topic.
The two things I would say is this:
You've used punctuation well at times in this piece, but at other times have been a bit relaxed and not punctated in places you could have. It's no good to over punctuate, but it's also not good to under puncation. The best thing you can do is just, say it in your head and put a comma wherever you might pause for a fractino of a second. If you get some more commas in the right place, it will slow the pacing of your work down to a pace the reader is familiar with reading (i.e., in professional books and stuff). Better punction is just a bit more professional, will go a long way to appeasing your marker :)
The one thing I would say is -- add maybe a few more lines about discovery. The key line for me is " From Arran’s word Carol finds that every pillar of her previous life was built upon a foundation of lies and propaganda. ". That's where you hit home on the discovery, but then after that, you just talk abotu Carole's anger... You could explore MORE about the discovery, the brainwashing... Just a few sentences more about her realising the truth and how she did it, what that discovery means for her life (beyond the anger she feels - what does it mean for her view of hte world).
Both really small changes, but could be worth a few marks on Thursday! Good work :)
Post by: marynguyen18 on October 10, 2016, 11:21:24 pm
Heya! You've done a lot of great work on the forums :) Go you!SpoilerThe sun was slowly waking up from its slumber.
How could this happen? All she could think about was the guilt that was bubbling up inside of her trying to escape. Everything was her fault. Why didn’t she just pretend that she loved Alice in Wonderland as much as her mother did? Her daughter had no idea what to do with this excruciating pain that kept on intensifying, as all she could feel were the tears streaming down her face. A tiny bit contradictory when we talk about excruciating pain and then all that can be felt is weightless tears. Perhaps a "yet" or other connective could work in here.
As the casket slowly lowered into the ground,thisimplication of present tense - try "it" was Lauren’s last chance to say something, anything, this was the final goodbye to her beloved mother. There were so many memories that should have been shared. Lauren had always struggled to understand what her mother had gone through both mentally and physically. All she could do was look up to her dad and wonder if he felt as guilty as Lauren did. He had banned her mother from reading Alice to Lauren when she younger as she was terrified of the book.
As soon as Lauren arrived home it was time to slowly start to divide her mother’s possessions into three separate boxes: keep, donate and throw away. This made it feel so official that it was time to treasure the memories and maybe move on from all that was left of her mother.
As Lauren was sorting through her mother’s wardrobe she found an old box filled with different editions of the “The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland” by Lewis Carroll, DVDs and even found a coffee mug with a gold rim that her dad had given to her mother on their wedding day. The gold rim is a really nice touch. Mum would always read Alice In Wonderland to Lauren as a bedtime story. The thing about Lauren’s mother was that she wouldn’t read the book in her normal voicecomma she would give each character its own unique voice which frightened Lauren when she was younger. The voices were so realistic that it would give her nightmares to the point where her father had to take matters into his own hands and banned Lauren’s mother from ever reading the book to Lauren ever again. Describe some of the voices here - high pitched and fettered for the rabbit, for example.
Lauren wished she would have known thatmywe just flipped into first person. mother loved the book so much, if she had known sooner her mother would still be alive. If she had known that her mother was so unwell Lauren would’ve been there to support and help her mother. "Mother" was used 4 times just now, probably 3 times too many. Consider chopping this sentence up :) One of the books that Lauren had found was an old box which contained her mother’s original copy of Alice when she was growing up. I the change of tense is confusing me? carefully turned the page to find words written around the original text in my mother’s beautiful cursive writing.
“I promised him I would follow him; I gave him my word, my bond, my hands, my eyes and my ears that I would make it to Wonderland to be transfixed and encapsulated by its beauty once more”. Lauren grew more concerned about her mother’s mentality as in Wonderland, the sun would always be smiling and radiating a sense of happiness to create an atmosphere of joy and tranquillity. It was her safe haven.
Her mother could no longer tell the differences between reality and imagination. Every night during dinner mum would get really paranoid about whether or not the food she was about to consume would make her grow to the size of the tallest tree or make her shrink to the size of an ant. She wouldn’t even drink water without Lauren tasting it first. Lauren couldn’t find the words to explain to mum that the food was perfectly fine; nothing got through to her.
Every so often Lauren would hear mum cry out “Oh no! She’s coming for me, off with my head, off with my head, oh! I’ve grown quite fond of my head, don’t let her get me Lauren!”. Red, the colour red had triggered so many emotional memories of constant hysteria. The constant delusion of the Red Queen haunting her was slowly eating her alive. There was no way to help her mother’s antagonising pain. I really love this bit!!!!
The rhythmic ticking of the clock created a pathway for Lauren’s gradual understanding of what her mother had gone through. Every word that her mother had made in the tiny margins showed bits of her childhood. The adventures that she had read about meeting a talking caterpillar that inhaled hookah smoke who had offered the worst advice in a rude, yet concise tone all of which became a real part of her world. It became clear to Lauren as she continued to read that her mother was completely immersed in Wonderland. She had used it as a way to escape an abusive home, where sounds of bottles shattering against the wall would put her to sleep. How can she not have known about this? It’s all starting to make sense. Beautiful
On the inside cover of the book there was a note that Lauren’s mother had written to her parents. They were written along the lines of “Dear mum and dad, I’m sorry to have been such a disappointment to you, no one understands mecomma or elipsis only the white rabbit does…” Tears were rolling down Lauren’s face, how could she have allowed her mother go through this alone.
“Hey dad, can you come here for a second? Did you know that mum felt this way when she was younger?”
“I had no idea that she was battling with such an emotional demon or I would have tried to get her to see a physiologist or something. If I had known, I would have dealt with the situation in a different way.” Dad replied in a sorrowful tone
“Can we read Alice in Wonderland together like mum used to do for me when I was younger?”
“Of course we can, let’s even do the voices just for her” Dad replied with a smile on his face
Dad and Lauren shared a moment to remember and experience the wonder of Wonderland all over again. At least Lauren knew that it wasn’t her fault that her mother had died. All the combined guilt seemed to melt into the air and was replaced with joy.
I can't remember exactly how this piece was last time, although I do remember parts, but I'm happy to report this is a lot better! I love the way you've manipulated the story to be a form of escape.
What I'm not loving is this ending though - you build up such a creative story, with so much wonderful articulation, and then the ending literally spells out the discovery rather than continuing the respect for the reader. In my opinion, this is an easy fix. After offering the dad a read of the note, then I'd say,
"Her dad's furrowed brows met the page. Slowly, his forehead softened and his eyes moistened."
Something like this shows instead of tells. You've told the reader that the dad didn't know, but he is sad to know, without even saying it. You also leave it open to the reader to interpret if they think the dad is at fault for not letting her express herself to her daughter, or if the dad is regretting, etc. What do you think of this ending?
Otherwise, just consistency of tense is important :)
You've really elevated this piece beyond what it originally was, and I'm really proud of you! You should be proud of this! With the right adaptation in an exam, this has very high potential! You should be stoked :)
thank you so much Elyse i originally had it in first person and tried to change it into third person and i must have missed some of the original first person narration once again thank you so much ill definitely fix up the ending :)
Post by: atar27 on October 11, 2016, 01:45:36 pm
It's a good question, right? Should you write another creative or stick with this one..?
That question implies to me like, you have to "go with" one or the other. Like, what is the "in case" scenario? In case you forget your first one? (Well, having two to remember won't help with that). Is it in case the first one doesn't fit the topic/prompt? That seems more likely... But this question is the wrong question to ask. It's not about having "multiple options" to stick down on a topic. It's about having one piece that you're really comfortbale with and that you can take in many different directions if necessary. I wouldn't be writing another piece now. I would be working intimately with this piece - very intimately - and doing a lot of essay plans to your "worst case scnario" topics (i.e., what topic would actually fuck you over? practise those topics). Do lots of essay plans until your'e confident you can mould THIS piece into the piece you need it to be. Just in case ;)
Now, I will tell you if anything's broken and how to fix it.
Hey!!
Okay, SO... Structurally, I think youv'e got a pretty clear progression through the story, bits of action, bits of realisation. No need to make any major structural changes other than those required by the topic.
The two things I would say is this:
You've used punctuation well at times in this piece, but at other times have been a bit relaxed and not punctated in places you could have. It's no good to over punctuate, but it's also not good to under puncation. The best thing you can do is just, say it in your head and put a comma wherever you might pause for a fractino of a second. If you get some more commas in the right place, it will slow the pacing of your work down to a pace the reader is familiar with reading (i.e., in professional books and stuff). Better punction is just a bit more professional, will go a long way to appeasing your marker :)
The one thing I would say is -- add maybe a few more lines about discovery. The key line for me is " From Arran’s word Carol finds that every pillar of her previous life was built upon a foundation of lies and propaganda. ". That's where you hit home on the discovery, but then after that, you just talk abotu Carole's anger... You could explore MORE about the discovery, the brainwashing... Just a few sentences more about her realising the truth and how she did it, what that discovery means for her life (beyond the anger she feels - what does it mean for her view of hte world).
Both really small changes, but could be worth a few marks on Thursday! Good work :)
Thank You soo much Brenden you are a legend!!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 11, 2016, 03:50:16 pm
Hey can you please read over my creative and see if it makes sense?
Tell me if its engaging, and how I could improve it.
Hey Vincent! Thanks for posting your creative, but unfortunately right now you need 30 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay/creative you'd like marked! This is just in the lead up to the English Exam, but you are close! Hang around a bit more and I bet you'll get there :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 11, 2016, 03:50:56 pm
thank you so much Elyse i originally had it in first person and tried to change it into third person and i must have missed some of the original first person narration once again thank you so much ill definitely fix up the ending :)
That makes sense! Best of luck! Make sure you check back after the exam and let us know how you go with the stimulus!
Post by: vincentso69 on October 11, 2016, 05:08:35 pm
Hey Vincent! Thanks for posting your creative, but unfortunately right now you need 30 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay/creative you'd like marked! This is just in the lead up to the English Exam, but you are close! Hang around a bit more and I bet you'll get there :)
I can post in any forum right? like other subjects and the "game" sections?
Cause i did a bit and my thing doesn't seem to be adding up
Post by: vincentso69 on October 11, 2016, 05:30:51 pm
Hey Vincent! Thanks for posting your creative, but unfortunately right now you need 30 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay/creative you'd like marked! This is just in the lead up to the English Exam, but you are close! Hang around a bit more and I bet you'll get there :)
ok i think i did it
Umm yea here is my story.
-i need to know if the discoveries are clear
-does it makes sense
-should i remove the flash backs (the begginning paragraph and ending? so it would just be one straight story that ends with "I wonder what else we will find..."
_________________________
I stared at the small window where rays of light emerged from. That was the only source of light in the room, partly blocked by two corroding metal bars that divided the window into 3 segments. Still, it was enough light for me to see my tiresome reflection in the putrefied puddle which would usually disgust a normal person, but I was here long enough to get used to it. Sitting against the dusty concrete wall, I squirmed my feet against the rough ground to stop the pins and needles in my feet. Occasionally, the guards would carelessly toss us sections of the newspaper. This wasn’t exactly the best place to be, I really wished I had been more careful, because I lost it all; lost my mind, my soul, myself.The only thing I had left was my mum’s wedding ring…
* * * * *
“Where is Rob? He should be here by now. I mean, he IS the older brother.” I thought to myself as I wandered around on top of my orphanage building. The lights from the ground of the building illuminated the dark sky, revealing sombre clouds. In an instant, my arms were pulled back from me and my head was covered with a bag. But I stayed calm.
“Rob, I know it’s you bro, cut it out and tell me why we are here” I ordered.
“Alright Steeler, there is something I need to show you,” Rob said with excitement. “I was thinking of doing it for Christmas, but that’s ages away. Follow me, you won’t believe this.”
What could this be? Well, there is really no turning back now. I have already escaped from the boring choir where the strict nuns forced us to do boring stuff.
We hopped from building to building, jumped from roof to roof, climbed the hundreds of ceilings ahead of us. It was a painful journey, but finally we arrived at a narrow and dark alleyway. Despite his excitement, Rob stared at me strangely and pointed to my black right eye.
“No, fighting again?”
“Dude, they said really bad stuff about us. That dad dumped us here at the orphanage because we’re worthless. And that mum is in Hell...” I blurted out, clenching my fist and feeling my face get warmer.
“They’re just trying to pump you up, don’t listen to them.” Rob reassured me. “Anyways here it is”, Rob pointed at some object that was covered in a dirty sheet. He slowly unravelled the object and there it was...I couldn't believe it... It was a motorbike. But something didn't match up, this was an unnatural occurrence, Rob never did this type of stuff just randomly. My heart jumped over the moon, but my mind sunk deeper into the ocean of thoughts that surrounded me. I immediately asked him where he got it.
“Hard earned cash brother, I am a changed man” Rob confidently replied, as he looked up in the skies awkwardly. Something wasn’t right.
“The only time you pull a stunt like this, is when you’re trying to make up for something” I gushed out, staring hard at Rob. He froze like ice for second, then gave me a hard look. He then chuckled as a sneaky smirk swept across his face.
“You’re too smart for your own good, you know that? Ok hear me out,” Rob confesses. So this is what really happened. He got a job. Pays well. However there was a catch. He’s leaving town for a year...
That dog! How could he abandon me? I turned my body away from Rob to face the illuminating lamp post in the distance, which revealed garbage cans resting next to graffitied walls.“I’m doing this for the both of us. Look, I know how much the orphanage sucks-”
“You have no idea” I interrupted. “It’s not fair”.
“Nothing in our lives has been fair. But we made it work right?”
I guess he’s right. Our parents unfortunately never had time for us, debts had priority over us.
“The bike wasn’t the only surprise. I guess I’m going to have to spoil the next one.” Rob snickered. I turned my body back to him again and looked at him in the eyes. What can this be now? “I found the guy who has mum’s stuff.” Rob smirked. My eyes widened. I walked closer to him and slapped my hands on his shoulders in disbelief. Apparently it was just on the other side of town. But I wondered how we’re going to buy that. Wedding rings aren’t cheap.
“No! We’re not going to steal it are we?” I questioned.
“Well technically, it’s not stealing if we’re getting something back that's ours to begin with” Rob said. He hopped on the bike and started revving the engine loudly, gesturing for me to come. I hesitated, but the thought of my orphanage compelled that doubt. So I hopped on the back of Rob’s motorcycle. The throttle’s roar nearly deafened my ears, but it didn’t matter. And so with that, we zoomed off. I wonder what other goods we’ll find...
* * * * *
I kept a collection of the newspaper that the warden gave us, it was the only way I was able to avoid boredom. My eye caught something. It was a heading of the newspaper “Rare Vulpine Pearl Ring gone miss, huge reward offered”. My eyes stared at the image of a beautiful ring below. It’s prongs held in place a head of a fox engraved in gold, which its mouth held a pearl. My eyes frantically alternated between the picture and the ring that sat on my hand. A sneaky smirk swept slowly across my face. I had it.
___________________________________________________________________________
Post by: marynguyen18 on October 11, 2016, 05:58:19 pm
That makes sense! Best of luck! Make sure you check back after the exam and let us know how you go with the stimulus!
hopefully ill be able to adapt it to the stimulus i still don't know how i am going to end it but i liked the idea you suggested
Post by: tahmina on October 11, 2016, 06:58:28 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 11, 2016, 09:19:21 pm
I can post in any forum right? like other subjects and the "game" sections?
Cause i did a bit and my thing doesn't seem to be adding up
The game sections don't count towards your post count that appears under your profile (what we use for essay marking) :) thanks for posting your creative, but you haven't quite met the 30 post requirement! You are close though! :)
hey so do i need to get up to 65 for my creative to be read ?
My spreadsheet says you will need to get to 95 :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 11, 2016, 10:00:05 pm
My spreadsheet says you will need to get to 95 :)
Yes Jamon has a spreadsheet. Can confirm.
Post by: vincentso69 on October 11, 2016, 10:33:32 pm
The game sections don't count towards your post count that appears under your profile (what we use for essay marking) :) thanks for posting your creative, but you haven't quite met the 30 post requirement! You are close though! :)
My spreadsheet says you will need to get to 95 :)
Ok i think i got it now
and btw ,wtf, why does your spreadsheet say 95?
Post by: tahmina on October 11, 2016, 10:35:16 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 11, 2016, 11:12:40 pm
but i never got my creative read at 60 - before the new guidelines, oh well all good ! :)
Ohh okay you've caught me, I did a recount and I discovered two simultaneous counting errors by me (this spreadsheet isn't automatic yet, my summer project will be automating it and perhaps making it publicly viewable on a server somewhere or something). I added that creative when I shouldn't have, but I also missed an AoS essay you posted in August! Adjusting for that, it is 75 posts that you need, not 95 :)
Do let me know if you guys think I'm quoting an incorrect figure for your marking requirements, am happy to re-check for you.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 12, 2016, 01:41:38 am
Post by: massive on October 12, 2016, 03:11:39 am
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 12, 2016, 10:17:01 am
guys quickly is "figurative associations to..." a valid technique??
Yes...is it better to identify it as the connotations or denotations? Not sure what your context is for this so perhaps connotations and/or denotations are a better way to describe it! Figurative associations isn't incorrect, though :)
Post by: Justina Shehata on October 12, 2016, 04:08:56 pm
Hey Justina! Thanks for that :)SpoilerI, Bellamy Potarisa, knew that ‘truth’ in its most pure and authentic state was consistently and inevitably, brutal. But that word in particular lingered, positing a nauseating ambivalence within my mind. Great setting of tone!
Clutching at my throat to withstand the usual yet persistently overwhelming note of bergamot, was accompanied by an unsettling grin that bred of conceit, as he comfortably leaned on the edges of his desk. It is unclear whether it was the clone or his rigid grin that expounded an ominous feeling. Perhaps it was both. Nevertheless, within a month of employment, he had dumped me with the first lesson of corruption. I like how suddenly yet teasingly this is all unfolding!
For my moral dilemma, one of which I was consciously aware of, had burdened me with the utterance of an “untruth”.
“Oh come on Bellamy, don’t go all ‘girl-next-door’ on me. You won’t be lying as such, only telling some un-truths, so to speak…” his voice seemed to trail on. *uhhhh* I can totally imagine this
He flashed me a big porcelain smile like the devil addressed in Prada.
As I happen to recall, I believe “tap into” were the words he uttered.
“So…um…you want me to ‘tap into’ politician Ben Ashcroft’s emails and dig some dirt on his…"
Again, came the monstrous laugh – as though to interrupt me from exposure. Ryan Trystan, my boss, whom I had grown such a fondness and reputable complexion of, was unfortunately my worst nightmare. He brought back the most vulnerable and tenebrous shadows of myself that lay beneath my newly found world.
“Oh Bell, Bell, Bell…now did I say ‘tap into’? No. All I said was be a little more enterprising”
His light tone has somewhat dissipated.
It was in those very two minutes that I had been burdened with an incomprehensible distress, one of which quickly transitioned to anger with the thought of his ease. It did not matter that I would hack into his email, forge evidence and frame him for the stolen revenue. His conceited smile lingered the most. It functioned as my source of angst, even more than the request. Well actually, demand. I realised that incessant vanity and innocent smiles camouflaged the unrelenting reality of life and gave it benevolence.
The nuances of journalist vernacular were of only significance, and thus what was necessary – that is, for the ‘The Sun’ newspaper was to offer its reading masses a succinct piece of scandal dressed up as ‘journalism’. A story that offers readers a deep and profound fulfilment for approximately 56 seconds of their insignificant lives that would come at the expense of shattering my probity.
Had I known this before my excitement consumed me a month ago, and voluntarily participated?
It was not my fault. No, it couldn’t be. I had to convince myself of this. It was the only way to keep my sanity. I was cheated just as much as I was told to cheat. I was given significance, name, identity, and stature – something that otherwise was foreign.
I came to comprehend that the discovery of my identity, involved deeper layers of consciousness, layers which were more often than not, subliminal.
Now firmly fixated on his computer screen, a once charming Ryan, gave me no more attention as if my presence was absent. So I left.
And thus, he had taught me my second lesson of corruption: ‘un-truths’ were the modern form of lies.
Trying to pull myself together in the bathroom, I recalled the phone call informing me of my employment. I remembered my surprise at receiving a response in such a short period of time. A young and shy lady whom only just finished a degree in I'd probably capitalise Journalism if we are talking about a degree. journalism was offered a job at one of the world’s most renowned publishing industries. It did not make sense but the thrill was so overwhelming, it brushed off the crevices in the puzzle.
Of course now – it did make sense.
Staring into the mirror, I could finally see it.
I fit the criteria because I was easy. Unlike the others who were incredibly attractive and showed off their flashing numbers with struts of Burberry and Chanel, I scraped through the brief because I could offer something much more significant and grandiose than aesthetic appeasement – innocence.
The most insufferable experience one would never wish to hear was that they were not good enough. My discovery there's no rule against saying "discovery" but your piece is incredibly well articulated - so I'd avoid it in this instance just to avoid jarring it. I'd said "realisation" of personal integrity was far from superfluous within a cesspit of journalistic and editorial sharks that imposed nothing more than sheer banality within the obscure ramblings of truth.
This time, recalling my first day of employment was thoroughly unsatisfying. This was no fluke. I was given significance, a name, identity, stature.
No. Wrong.
I was given a phantom.
Funnily enough, never once did reality wish to spare me of its brutality.
To expose the darkness beyond the palette of the colourful paper – I knew – there was no going back.
I picked up a pen.
Now, I was going to have my say.
And the title it was written: ‘Integrity’
Never like this moment in my life had I completely been in touch with the entirety of myself – beneath all the layers of which my darkest fears were veiled.
But now I can say – unequivocally – I was liberated.
I'm sorry that you worked so hard to get 30 posts only for me to tell you that this is definitely the work of a band 6 student! This was an absolute pleasure to read! I enjoyed every moment. You capture a professional setting filled with corruption really well and you capture the integrity (or lack of) in the media industry really well! The discovery is clear, in the lead up, the moment, and the ramifications. You've been very smart with this piece in that your climax coincides with discovery just before the end, so that you can have the all clear for discussing the ramifications of discovery.
I hope this gives you confidence to go into the exam with your head held high because I love love love this piece! Usually when I love pieces, I still can critique discovery. But in this case, you've done it so craftfully that it's difficult :) I hope the stimulus is kind to you!
Thank you so so much! I honestly felt that it needed a lot of work so that is certainly a relief to hear!
Thank you so much for taking the time to read!
Post by: kavinila on October 12, 2016, 04:35:24 pm
The stillness of the navy tent was perforated by the flickering light of the torch held in Euroa’s hand. As the moonlight glinted against tent’s steel zip, he looked up at the night sky which resembled a blank ocean, blanketed by a canopy of shining stars. Blurry images formed in his mind as he recalled the many nights at home, where he would look at the English night sky and fall sleep with the comfort of knowing that his mother was one of those stars, always watching over him. Yet the Australian night sky offered a different sense of closure that in many ways discomforted him too. It felt as though he knew each of the stars, in the plethora of those that watched him.
Deep in thought, Euroa failed to notice that his grandfather had moved near the periphery of the tent, till the old man’s husky voice sounded. “What’s wrong my boy? The mozzies keeping you up are they?” the old man asked, as he stroked his grandson’s bush of curly hair that danced between black and brown, much like his own.
“No. I just feel like we aren’t the only ones here …” exclaimed the young man, as he tried settling in to his second day of outback living.
“Of course we aren’t!” chuckled the old man, as he played with the terracotta red dirt of the land. “What they sing; it’s true! Our land truly abounds in nature’s gifts of beauty rich and rare. Each of ancestors lives with us. In the sky, on the land and in the sea, they constantly ride with us through this cycle of life.”
A moment of silence passed by, before the young man meekly asked, “Do you really believe that pops? Or do you just say that because it’s your law?”
“Now where’d you hear that young sir?” questioned the elder man, bemused.
“I read ALL about Aboriginality and the Dreamtime pops” replied the young man excitedly.
“Euroa, there are some things that words cannot make justice to. From the reading you’ve done, I assume you’ve heard of oral tradition. Back in the day, nothing was written. And there was no real need for it. But Aborigines like myself, we’re the reason this tradition of writing things came about.” The old man’s voice quivered as he trapped a tear from landing on his grandson’s forehead that rested upon his lap.
He thought back to the day where things had gone horridly wrong.
It had initially been a fine day, like many others. Littered with self-induced bruises from his experimentation with the boomerang, he had returned home with his sister Alkina, covered in terracotta red dirt. A corroboree had taken place somewhere nearby. Glints of umber that were dispersed across the sky that was otherwise swallowed in fumes could be seen and smelt throughout. Buzzing blowflies swarmed about whilst the gleeful galahs flew into and out of waterfalls, as the high pitched “Chet! Chet!” calls echoed throughout the land. As he had sat around the fire with his mothers and siblings, he had felt enveloped and embraced by the warmth of the fire. The events to follow had been a cold slap in the face. His feet had been inter-twined with the red dirt of the land as the officer dragged him along. Swallowing back tears, the old man recollected the looks on his mothers’ faces as they helplessly called out to their children whilst pinned against the dilapidated wooden door by the officers. With his small hands interlaced with Alkina’s and his feet inter-twined with the land, he had been dragged along into the car.
The man had spent the many years after he was taken away from home in a silent vortex of despair. The stagnant scent of stale cigarettes. The slurred sentences that sounded between the smothered moans of the drunk officers dilly-dallying outside. The wails of his sisters as they were being exploited by the monstrous officers. They had all sent the old man into the dark, lonely vortex as he yearned to get his life back. He had been called a “blithering stone age idiot,” and an “incompetent savage.” Such experiences had led him to discover the only truth about what was happening around him. He preached to his fellow brothers and sisters, “we are not strangers in our own country … we are just strangers to a European society.” Although he couldn’t plant his feet firm upon the land, he stood tall with his newfound belief.
The old man’s melancholic reflections were brought to shore as Euroa awoke. It dawned upon him that he had spent the entire night staring out at the land. He shared the thought with his grandson.
“Isn’t that scary pops? This is one the most remote areas of the outback; you’ve never been here before either. How could you …” queried Euroa, bewildered, before he was cut off by his grandfather.
“Who am I to fear? I fear only mankind. The land, the water, the animals, the plants – they are with us and for us, aw we are,” replied the old man graciously.
Euroa smiled in reply. Although he couldn’t truly understand what his grandfather had said, he knew that he had been wrong. His grandfather’s touch had enabled Euroa to envision the pain. As they packed their bags to continue through the desert, Euroa felt as though he was recollecting everything he had left behind when he flew out to England as a newborn baby.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 12, 2016, 05:50:43 pm
ok i think i did it
Umm yea here is my story.
-i need to know if the discoveries are clear
-does it makes sense
-should i remove the flash backs (the begginning paragraph and ending? so it would just be one straight story that ends with "I wonder what else we will find..."
_________________________
Hi Vincent! Sorry we didn't get to this yesterday for you, so I'll give this a read and some quick comments that you can implement fast!! :)
Story is here:
Spoiler
I stared at the small window where rays of light emerged from. That was the only source of light in the room, partly blocked by two corroding metal bars that divided the window into 3 segments. Still, it was enough light for me to see my tiresome reflection in the putrefied puddle which would usually disgust a normal person, but I was here long enough to get used to it. Sitting against the dusty concrete wall, I squirmed my feet against the rough ground to stop the pins and needles in my feet. Occasionally, the guards would carelessly toss us sections of the newspaper. This wasn’t exactly the best place to be, I really wished I had been more careful, because I lost it all; lost my mind, my soul, myself.The only thing I had left was my mum’s wedding ring…
* * * * *
“Where is Rob? He should be here by now. I mean, he IS the older brother.” I thought to myself as I wandered around on top of my orphanage building. The lights from the ground of the building illuminated the dark sky, revealing sombre clouds. In an instant, my arms were pulled back from me and my head was covered with a bag. But I stayed calm.
“Rob, I know it’s you bro, cut it out and tell me why we are here” I ordered.
“Alright Steeler, there is something I need to show you,” Rob said with excitement. “I was thinking of doing it for Christmas, but that’s ages away. Follow me, you won’t believe this.”
What could this be? Well, there is really no turning back now. I have already escaped from the boring choir where the strict nuns forced us to do boring stuff.
We hopped from building to building, jumped from roof to roof, climbed the hundreds of ceilings ahead of us. It was a painful journey, but finally we arrived at a narrow and dark alleyway. Despite his excitement, Rob stared at me strangely and pointed to my black right eye.
“No, fighting again?”
“Dude, they said really bad stuff about us. That dad dumped us here at the orphanage because we’re worthless. And that mum is in Hell...” I blurted out, clenching my fist and feeling my face get warmer.
“They’re just trying to pump you up, don’t listen to them.” Rob reassured me. “Anyways here it is”, Rob pointed at some object that was covered in a dirty sheet. He slowly unravelled the object and there it was...I couldn't believe it... It was a motorbike. But something didn't match up, this was an unnatural occurrence, Rob never did this type of stuff just randomly. My heart jumped over the moon, but my mind sunk deeper into the ocean of thoughts that surrounded me. I immediately asked him where he got it.
“Hard earned cash brother, I am a changed man” Rob confidently replied, as he looked up in the skies awkwardly. Something wasn’t right.
“The only time you pull a stunt like this, is when you’re trying to make up for something” I gushed out, staring hard at Rob. He froze like ice for second, then gave me a hard look. He then chuckled as a sneaky smirk swept across his face.
“You’re too smart for your own good, you know that? Ok hear me out,” Rob confesses. So this is what really happened. He got a job. Pays well. However there was a catch. He’s leaving town for a year...
That dog! How could he abandon me? I turned my body away from Rob to face the illuminating lamp post in the distance, which revealed garbage cans resting next to graffitied walls.“I’m doing this for the both of us. Look, I know how much the orphanage sucks-”
“You have no idea” I interrupted. “It’s not fair”.
“Nothing in our lives has been fair. But we made it work right?”
I guess he’s right. Our parents unfortunately never had time for us, debts had priority over us.
“The bike wasn’t the only surprise. I guess I’m going to have to spoil the next one.” Rob snickered. I turned my body back to him again and looked at him in the eyes. What can this be now? “I found the guy who has mum’s stuff.” Rob smirked. My eyes widened. I walked closer to him and slapped my hands on his shoulders in disbelief. Apparently it was just on the other side of town. But I wondered how we’re going to buy that. Wedding rings aren’t cheap.
“No! We’re not going to steal it are we?” I questioned.
“Well technically, it’s not stealing if we’re getting something back that's ours to begin with” Rob said. He hopped on the bike and started revving the engine loudly, gesturing for me to come. I hesitated, but the thought of my orphanage compelled that doubt. So I hopped on the back of Rob’s motorcycle. The throttle’s roar nearly deafened my ears, but it didn’t matter. And so with that, we zoomed off. I wonder what other goods we’ll find...
* * * * *
I kept a collection of the newspaper that the warden gave us, it was the only way I was able to avoid boredom. My eye caught something. It was a heading of the newspaper “Rare Vulpine Pearl Ring gone miss, huge reward offered”. My eyes stared at the image of a beautiful ring below. It’s prongs held in place a head of a fox engraved in gold, which its mouth held a pearl. My eyes frantically alternated between the picture and the ring that sat on my hand. A sneaky smirk swept slowly across my face. I had it.
___________________________________________________________________________
* * * * *
“Where is Rob? He should be here by now. I mean, he IS the older brother.” I thought to myself as I wandered around on top of my orphanage building. The lights from the ground of the building illuminated the dark sky, revealing sombre clouds. In an instant, my arms were pulled back from me and my head was covered with a bag. But I stayed calm.
“Rob, I know it’s you bro, cut it out and tell me why we are here” I ordered.
“Alright Steeler, there is something I need to show you,” Rob said with excitement. “I was thinking of doing it for Christmas, but that’s ages away. Follow me, you won’t believe this.”
What could this be? Well, there is really no turning back now. I have already escaped from the boring choir where the strict nuns forced us to do boring stuff.
We hopped from building to building, jumped from roof to roof, climbed the hundreds of ceilings ahead of us. It was a painful journey, but finally we arrived at a narrow and dark alleyway. Despite his excitement, Rob stared at me strangely and pointed to my black right eye.
“No, fighting again?”
“Dude, they said really bad stuff about us. That dad dumped us here at the orphanage because we’re worthless. And that mum is in Hell...” I blurted out, clenching my fist and feeling my face get warmer.
“They’re just trying to pump you up, don’t listen to them.” Rob reassured me. “Anyways here it is”, Rob pointed at some object that was covered in a dirty sheet. He slowly unravelled the object and there it was...I couldn't believe it... It was a motorbike. But something didn't match up, this was an unnatural occurrence, Rob never did this type of stuff just randomly. My heart jumped over the moon, but my mind sunk deeper into the ocean of thoughts that surrounded me. I immediately asked him where he got it.
“Hard earned cash brother, I am a changed man” Rob confidently replied, as he looked up in the skies awkwardly. Something wasn’t right.
“The only time you pull a stunt like this, is when you’re trying to make up for something” I gushed out, staring hard at Rob. He froze like ice for second, then gave me a hard look. He then chuckled as a sneaky smirk swept across his face.
“You’re too smart for your own good, you know that? Ok hear me out,” Rob confesses. So this is what really happened. He got a job. Pays well. However there was a catch. He’s leaving town for a year...
That dog! How could he abandon me? I turned my body away from Rob to face the illuminating lamp post in the distance, which revealed garbage cans resting next to graffitied walls.“I’m doing this for the both of us. Look, I know how much the orphanage sucks-”
“You have no idea” I interrupted. “It’s not fair”.
“Nothing in our lives has been fair. But we made it work right?”
I guess he’s right. Our parents unfortunately never had time for us, debts had priority over us.
“The bike wasn’t the only surprise. I guess I’m going to have to spoil the next one.” Rob snickered. I turned my body back to him again and looked at him in the eyes. What can this be now? “I found the guy who has mum’s stuff.” Rob smirked. My eyes widened. I walked closer to him and slapped my hands on his shoulders in disbelief. Apparently it was just on the other side of town. But I wondered how we’re going to buy that. Wedding rings aren’t cheap.
“No! We’re not going to steal it are we?” I questioned.
“Well technically, it’s not stealing if we’re getting something back that's ours to begin with” Rob said. He hopped on the bike and started revving the engine loudly, gesturing for me to come. I hesitated, but the thought of my orphanage compelled that doubt. So I hopped on the back of Rob’s motorcycle. The throttle’s roar nearly deafened my ears, but it didn’t matter. And so with that, we zoomed off. I wonder what other goods we’ll find...
* * * * *
I kept a collection of the newspaper that the warden gave us, it was the only way I was able to avoid boredom. My eye caught something. It was a heading of the newspaper “Rare Vulpine Pearl Ring gone miss, huge reward offered”. My eyes stared at the image of a beautiful ring below. It’s prongs held in place a head of a fox engraved in gold, which its mouth held a pearl. My eyes frantically alternated between the picture and the ring that sat on my hand. A sneaky smirk swept slowly across my face. I had it.
___________________________________________________________________________
My thoughts:
- Try and make your internal and external dialogue more realistic. Say it out loud. Would you say it like that? At times it felt a little manufactured
- Be careful to only include relevant story elements. Don't add detail for the sake of detail (EG - I have already escaped from the boring choir where the strict nuns forced us to do boring stuff. )
- Ensure the story comes through clearly. It took a few reads to properly understand your story arc.
- I'm not quite getting the Discovery coming through loud and clear. Some more reflective statements near the end of the story could fix this, and would break up the, "This happened, then this happened," style of your script
- Personally, I think the first flash back works really really well, and the final one comes along with that. So I'd keep both personally!!
I hope those little bits of feedback will help you polish this up for tomorrow! Good luck ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 12, 2016, 06:37:56 pm
hey guys! :) I was just wondering if somebody could please just have a quick read over my creative and tell me if the element of discovery is expressed enough? I've saved my 15 posts for a while now, though being so last minute wasn't the plan. thankyou so much! :)
Hey Kavinila! No worries at all, good on you for posting it, I'll keep the feedback short and sweet so you can make the most of it! :)
The Creative itself is here:
Spoiler
The stillness of the navy tent was perforated by the flickering light of the torch held in Euroa’s hand. As the moonlight glinted against tent’s steel zip, he looked up at the night sky which resembled a blank ocean, blanketed by a canopy of shining stars. Blurry images formed in his mind as he recalled the many nights at home, where he would look at the English night sky and fall sleep with the comfort of knowing that his mother was one of those stars, always watching over him. Yet the Australian night sky offered a different sense of closure that in many ways discomforted him too. It felt as though he knew each of the stars, in the plethora of those that watched him.
Deep in thought, Euroa failed to notice that his grandfather had moved near the periphery of the tent, till the old man’s husky voice sounded. “What’s wrong my boy? The mozzies keeping you up are they?” the old man asked, as he stroked his grandson’s bush of curly hair that danced between black and brown, much like his own.
“No. I just feel like we aren’t the only ones here …” exclaimed the young man, as he tried settling in to his second day of outback living.
“Of course we aren’t!” chuckled the old man, as he played with the terracotta red dirt of the land. “What they sing; it’s true! Our land truly abounds in nature’s gifts of beauty rich and rare. Each of ancestors lives with us. In the sky, on the land and in the sea, they constantly ride with us through this cycle of life.”
A moment of silence passed by, before the young man meekly asked, “Do you really believe that pops? Or do you just say that because it’s your law?”
“Now where’d you hear that young sir?” questioned the elder man, bemused.
“I read ALL about Aboriginality and the Dreamtime pops” replied the young man excitedly.
“Euroa, there are some things that words cannot make justice to. From the reading you’ve done, I assume you’ve heard of oral tradition. Back in the day, nothing was written. And there was no real need for it. But Aborigines like myself, we’re the reason this tradition of writing things came about.” The old man’s voice quivered as he trapped a tear from landing on his grandson’s forehead that rested upon his lap.
He thought back to the day where things had gone horridly wrong.
It had initially been a fine day, like many others. Littered with self-induced bruises from his experimentation with the boomerang, he had returned home with his sister Alkina, covered in terracotta red dirt. A corroboree had taken place somewhere nearby. Glints of umber that were dispersed across the sky that was otherwise swallowed in fumes could be seen and smelt throughout. Buzzing blowflies swarmed about whilst the gleeful galahs flew into and out of waterfalls, as the high pitched “Chet! Chet!” calls echoed throughout the land. As he had sat around the fire with his mothers and siblings, he had felt enveloped and embraced by the warmth of the fire. The events to follow had been a cold slap in the face. His feet had been inter-twined with the red dirt of the land as the officer dragged him along. Swallowing back tears, the old man recollected the looks on his mothers’ faces as they helplessly called out to their children whilst pinned against the dilapidated wooden door by the officers. With his small hands interlaced with Alkina’s and his feet inter-twined with the land, he had been dragged along into the car.
The man had spent the many years after he was taken away from home in a silent vortex of despair. The stagnant scent of stale cigarettes. The slurred sentences that sounded between the smothered moans of the drunk officers dilly-dallying outside. The wails of his sisters as they were being exploited by the monstrous officers. They had all sent the old man into the dark, lonely vortex as he yearned to get his life back. He had been called a “blithering stone age idiot,” and an “incompetent savage.” Such experiences had led him to discover the only truth about what was happening around him. He preached to his fellow brothers and sisters, “we are not strangers in our own country … we are just strangers to a European society.” Although he couldn’t plant his feet firm upon the land, he stood tall with his newfound belief.
The old man’s melancholic reflections were brought to shore as Euroa awoke. It dawned upon him that he had spent the entire night staring out at the land. He shared the thought with his grandson.
“Isn’t that scary pops? This is one the most remote areas of the outback; you’ve never been here before either. How could you …” queried Euroa, bewildered, before he was cut off by his grandfather.
“Who am I to fear? I fear only mankind. The land, the water, the animals, the plants – they are with us and for us, aw we are,” replied the old man graciously.
Euroa smiled in reply. Although he couldn’t truly understand what his grandfather had said, he knew that he had been wrong. His grandfather’s touch had enabled Euroa to envision the pain. As they packed their bags to continue through the desert, Euroa felt as though he was recollecting everything he had left behind when he flew out to England as a newborn baby.
Deep in thought, Euroa failed to notice that his grandfather had moved near the periphery of the tent, till the old man’s husky voice sounded. “What’s wrong my boy? The mozzies keeping you up are they?” the old man asked, as he stroked his grandson’s bush of curly hair that danced between black and brown, much like his own.
“No. I just feel like we aren’t the only ones here …” exclaimed the young man, as he tried settling in to his second day of outback living.
“Of course we aren’t!” chuckled the old man, as he played with the terracotta red dirt of the land. “What they sing; it’s true! Our land truly abounds in nature’s gifts of beauty rich and rare. Each of ancestors lives with us. In the sky, on the land and in the sea, they constantly ride with us through this cycle of life.”
A moment of silence passed by, before the young man meekly asked, “Do you really believe that pops? Or do you just say that because it’s your law?”
“Now where’d you hear that young sir?” questioned the elder man, bemused.
“I read ALL about Aboriginality and the Dreamtime pops” replied the young man excitedly.
“Euroa, there are some things that words cannot make justice to. From the reading you’ve done, I assume you’ve heard of oral tradition. Back in the day, nothing was written. And there was no real need for it. But Aborigines like myself, we’re the reason this tradition of writing things came about.” The old man’s voice quivered as he trapped a tear from landing on his grandson’s forehead that rested upon his lap.
He thought back to the day where things had gone horridly wrong.
It had initially been a fine day, like many others. Littered with self-induced bruises from his experimentation with the boomerang, he had returned home with his sister Alkina, covered in terracotta red dirt. A corroboree had taken place somewhere nearby. Glints of umber that were dispersed across the sky that was otherwise swallowed in fumes could be seen and smelt throughout. Buzzing blowflies swarmed about whilst the gleeful galahs flew into and out of waterfalls, as the high pitched “Chet! Chet!” calls echoed throughout the land. As he had sat around the fire with his mothers and siblings, he had felt enveloped and embraced by the warmth of the fire. The events to follow had been a cold slap in the face. His feet had been inter-twined with the red dirt of the land as the officer dragged him along. Swallowing back tears, the old man recollected the looks on his mothers’ faces as they helplessly called out to their children whilst pinned against the dilapidated wooden door by the officers. With his small hands interlaced with Alkina’s and his feet inter-twined with the land, he had been dragged along into the car.
The man had spent the many years after he was taken away from home in a silent vortex of despair. The stagnant scent of stale cigarettes. The slurred sentences that sounded between the smothered moans of the drunk officers dilly-dallying outside. The wails of his sisters as they were being exploited by the monstrous officers. They had all sent the old man into the dark, lonely vortex as he yearned to get his life back. He had been called a “blithering stone age idiot,” and an “incompetent savage.” Such experiences had led him to discover the only truth about what was happening around him. He preached to his fellow brothers and sisters, “we are not strangers in our own country … we are just strangers to a European society.” Although he couldn’t plant his feet firm upon the land, he stood tall with his newfound belief.
The old man’s melancholic reflections were brought to shore as Euroa awoke. It dawned upon him that he had spent the entire night staring out at the land. He shared the thought with his grandson.
“Isn’t that scary pops? This is one the most remote areas of the outback; you’ve never been here before either. How could you …” queried Euroa, bewildered, before he was cut off by his grandfather.
“Who am I to fear? I fear only mankind. The land, the water, the animals, the plants – they are with us and for us, aw we are,” replied the old man graciously.
Euroa smiled in reply. Although he couldn’t truly understand what his grandfather had said, he knew that he had been wrong. His grandfather’s touch had enabled Euroa to envision the pain. As they packed their bags to continue through the desert, Euroa felt as though he was recollecting everything he had left behind when he flew out to England as a newborn baby.
- Excellent use of imagery in the opening
- Nice, realistic dialogue. It sounds real to read; which is tough for how much there is in this Creative. Good job! Parts could still be improved though; the longer passages from the grandfather at times sounded a bit forced. Try and think; is this how he'd really say it?
- So this subject matter falls into the cliche category; meaning that it needs to be done really well and treated with due sensitivity. Especially since you are tying in sexual assault as well. I think you need to do more with your language to make this powerful, and make it resonate more with Discovery. The two paragraphs in the middle aren't quite enough to do it justice in my opinion, and you can't let the subject matter do the work for you .
Overall, you are a fantastic writer exploring really cool aspects of Discovery! I'm especially impressed with your use of dialogue, and effective us of imagery in the orientation. However, I do think you need to do a little bit more to portray those Discovery aspects in the middle and end of your story. Go into more detail about the experiences of the grandfather and how they are conveyed. I like the idea of the flashback! But I think you need to do more with it, language wise, to make your style match the power of what you are discussing ;D
This is a great creative though! You should feel really confident ;D
Post by: kavinila on October 12, 2016, 06:58:05 pm
thankyou so much :)
Hey Kavinila! No worries at all, good on you for posting it, I'll keep the feedback short and sweet so you can make the most of it! :)
The Creative itself is here:SpoilerThe stillness of the navy tent was perforated by the flickering light of the torch held in Euroa’s hand. As the moonlight glinted against tent’s steel zip, he looked up at the night sky which resembled a blank ocean, blanketed by a canopy of shining stars. Blurry images formed in his mind as he recalled the many nights at home, where he would look at the English night sky and fall sleep with the comfort of knowing that his mother was one of those stars, always watching over him. Yet the Australian night sky offered a different sense of closure that in many ways discomforted him too. It felt as though he knew each of the stars, in the plethora of those that watched him.
Deep in thought, Euroa failed to notice that his grandfather had moved near the periphery of the tent, till the old man’s husky voice sounded. “What’s wrong my boy? The mozzies keeping you up are they?” the old man asked, as he stroked his grandson’s bush of curly hair that danced between black and brown, much like his own.
“No. I just feel like we aren’t the only ones here …” exclaimed the young man, as he tried settling in to his second day of outback living.
“Of course we aren’t!” chuckled the old man, as he played with the terracotta red dirt of the land. “What they sing; it’s true! Our land truly abounds in nature’s gifts of beauty rich and rare. Each of ancestors lives with us. In the sky, on the land and in the sea, they constantly ride with us through this cycle of life.”
A moment of silence passed by, before the young man meekly asked, “Do you really believe that pops? Or do you just say that because it’s your law?”
“Now where’d you hear that young sir?” questioned the elder man, bemused.
“I read ALL about Aboriginality and the Dreamtime pops” replied the young man excitedly.
“Euroa, there are some things that words cannot make justice to. From the reading you’ve done, I assume you’ve heard of oral tradition. Back in the day, nothing was written. And there was no real need for it. But Aborigines like myself, we’re the reason this tradition of writing things came about.” The old man’s voice quivered as he trapped a tear from landing on his grandson’s forehead that rested upon his lap.
He thought back to the day where things had gone horridly wrong.
It had initially been a fine day, like many others. Littered with self-induced bruises from his experimentation with the boomerang, he had returned home with his sister Alkina, covered in terracotta red dirt. A corroboree had taken place somewhere nearby. Glints of umber that were dispersed across the sky that was otherwise swallowed in fumes could be seen and smelt throughout. Buzzing blowflies swarmed about whilst the gleeful galahs flew into and out of waterfalls, as the high pitched “Chet! Chet!” calls echoed throughout the land. As he had sat around the fire with his mothers and siblings, he had felt enveloped and embraced by the warmth of the fire. The events to follow had been a cold slap in the face. His feet had been inter-twined with the red dirt of the land as the officer dragged him along. Swallowing back tears, the old man recollected the looks on his mothers’ faces as they helplessly called out to their children whilst pinned against the dilapidated wooden door by the officers. With his small hands interlaced with Alkina’s and his feet inter-twined with the land, he had been dragged along into the car.
The man had spent the many years after he was taken away from home in a silent vortex of despair. The stagnant scent of stale cigarettes. The slurred sentences that sounded between the smothered moans of the drunk officers dilly-dallying outside. The wails of his sisters as they were being exploited by the monstrous officers. They had all sent the old man into the dark, lonely vortex as he yearned to get his life back. He had been called a “blithering stone age idiot,” and an “incompetent savage.” Such experiences had led him to discover the only truth about what was happening around him. He preached to his fellow brothers and sisters, “we are not strangers in our own country … we are just strangers to a European society.” Although he couldn’t plant his feet firm upon the land, he stood tall with his newfound belief.
The old man’s melancholic reflections were brought to shore as Euroa awoke. It dawned upon him that he had spent the entire night staring out at the land. He shared the thought with his grandson.
“Isn’t that scary pops? This is one the most remote areas of the outback; you’ve never been here before either. How could you …” queried Euroa, bewildered, before he was cut off by his grandfather.
“Who am I to fear? I fear only mankind. The land, the water, the animals, the plants – they are with us and for us, aw we are,” replied the old man graciously.
Euroa smiled in reply. Although he couldn’t truly understand what his grandfather had said, he knew that he had been wrong. His grandfather’s touch had enabled Euroa to envision the pain. As they packed their bags to continue through the desert, Euroa felt as though he was recollecting everything he had left behind when he flew out to England as a newborn baby.
- Excellent use of imagery in the opening
- Nice, realistic dialogue. It sounds real to read; which is tough for how much there is in this Creative. Good job! Parts could still be improved though; the longer passages from the grandfather at times sounded a bit forced. Try and think; is this how he'd really say it?
- So this subject matter falls into the cliche category; meaning that it needs to be done really well and treated with due sensitivity. Especially since you are tying in sexual assault as well. I think you need to do more with your language to make this powerful, and make it resonate more with Discovery. The two paragraphs in the middle aren't quite enough to do it justice in my opinion, and you can't let the subject matter do the work for you .
Overall, you are a fantastic writer exploring really cool aspects of Discovery! I'm especially impressed with your use of dialogue, and effective us of imagery in the orientation. However, I do think you need to do a little bit more to portray those Discovery aspects in the middle and end of your story. Go into more detail about the experiences of the grandfather and how they are conveyed. I like the idea of the flashback! But I think you need to do more with it, language wise, to make your style match the power of what you are discussing ;D
This is a great creative though! You should feel really confident ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 12, 2016, 07:05:32 pm
thanks jamon! i'll go over and edit the parts you've mentioned. I really appreciate that you've marked this at this point in time.
thankyou so much :)
Not a problem at all; best of luck! ;D
Post by: anotherworld2b on October 12, 2016, 07:19:56 pm
Spoiler
1. Construct an opinion piece, speech or narrative to position an audience to respond in a particular way to the image provided.
Statement of intent: It focuses on the male character response to finalising his divorce with his wife
The image: pictured two monochromatic people, one male and one female back to back
The office was cold, and outside ethereal rays of light from the sun shone gently on the grass and flowers covered with glistening morning dew. His fingertips gently glided over the smooth paper as he looked at the numerous scribbles and daunting numbers on the last page of the document. The movement of his calloused fingers halted, hovering over the straight line next to the daunting and bold word ‘Signature’ once again. A familiar blur and sting fill his eyes as he closed his eyes engraving waves of lines into his forehead.
Now out beyond him were the vibrant red roses, tulips and peonies he loved arranged neatly in the flower beds. The nostalgic gentle breeze of spring blew her golden hair astray as she tended to her precious flowers with great care. A familiar gentle arch appeared on his face as he slowly approached her from behind. She let out a gasp of surprise and a melodious laugh as he enveloped her tightly in his grasp with loud laughter of his own. At night the familiar feeling of cotton would brush against his feet as he intertwined his fingers with hers gazing up vast and open night sky. He would teach her the names of constellations with passion as she looked at him with a wide eyed smile on her face. The chirping of crickets and stillness of the night would bask them in comfortable silence despite no words being spoken.
He could feel more tears trailing down his face dripping onto the white paper and the cold surface of his mahogany desk seeped through his silk shirt. The sound of laughter and noise was replaced by silence and the ticking of a clock. He took a deep breath and held a pen tight in his grip so tight his knuckles turned white. Signing the document with his signature finalising their separation.
Statement of intent: It focuses on the male character response to finalising his divorce with his wife
The image: pictured two monochromatic people, one male and one female back to back
The office was cold, and outside ethereal rays of light from the sun shone gently on the grass and flowers covered with glistening morning dew. His fingertips gently glided over the smooth paper as he looked at the numerous scribbles and daunting numbers on the last page of the document. The movement of his calloused fingers halted, hovering over the straight line next to the daunting and bold word ‘Signature’ once again. A familiar blur and sting fill his eyes as he closed his eyes engraving waves of lines into his forehead.
Now out beyond him were the vibrant red roses, tulips and peonies he loved arranged neatly in the flower beds. The nostalgic gentle breeze of spring blew her golden hair astray as she tended to her precious flowers with great care. A familiar gentle arch appeared on his face as he slowly approached her from behind. She let out a gasp of surprise and a melodious laugh as he enveloped her tightly in his grasp with loud laughter of his own. At night the familiar feeling of cotton would brush against his feet as he intertwined his fingers with hers gazing up vast and open night sky. He would teach her the names of constellations with passion as she looked at him with a wide eyed smile on her face. The chirping of crickets and stillness of the night would bask them in comfortable silence despite no words being spoken.
He could feel more tears trailing down his face dripping onto the white paper and the cold surface of his mahogany desk seeped through his silk shirt. The sound of laughter and noise was replaced by silence and the ticking of a clock. He took a deep breath and held a pen tight in his grip so tight his knuckles turned white. Signing the document with his signature finalising their separation.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 12, 2016, 07:26:49 pm
Hi I was wondering if I could get my story marked please ;DSpoiler1. Construct an opinion piece, speech or narrative to position an audience to respond in a particular way to the image provided.
Statement of intent: It focuses on the male character response to finalising his divorce with his wife
The image: pictured two monochromatic people, one male and one female back to back
The office was cold, and outside ethereal rays of light from the sun shone gently on the grass and flowers covered with glistening morning dew. His fingertips gently glided over the smooth paper as he looked at the numerous scribbles and daunting numbers on the last page of the document. The movement of his calloused fingers halted, hovering over the straight line next to the daunting and bold word ‘Signature’ once again. A familiar blur and sting fill his eyes as he closed his eyes engraving waves of lines into his forehead.
Now out beyond him were the vibrant red roses, tulips and peonies he loved arranged neatly in the flower beds. The nostalgic gentle breeze of spring blew her golden hair astray as she tended to her precious flowers with great care. A familiar gentle arch appeared on his face as he slowly approached her from behind. She let out a gasp of surprise and a melodious laugh as he enveloped her tightly in his grasp with loud laughter of his own. At night the familiar feeling of cotton would brush against his feet as he intertwined his fingers with hers gazing up vast and open night sky. He would teach her the names of constellations with passion as she looked at him with a wide eyed smile on her face. The chirping of crickets and stillness of the night would bask them in comfortable silence despite no words being spoken.
He could feel more tears trailing down his face dripping onto the white paper and the cold surface of his mahogany desk seeped through his silk shirt. The sound of laughter and noise was replaced by silence and the ticking of a clock. He took a deep breath and held a pen tight in his grip so tight his knuckles turned white. Signing the document with his signature finalising their separation.
Hey hey! Since you are a Prelim student, we'll get this marked for you after the current Year 12 HSC English Exams are done, just to make sure we're giving the help where its needed most over the next few days! ;D
Post by: katherine123 on October 12, 2016, 07:45:07 pm
-If the given quote is in 1st person, will it be okay if i integrate it as an internal dialogue so i can avoid changing my creative into 1st person?
-If the ques asks me to use a quote as central element not as part of creative (eg. attached below) , is it okay if i include the exact quote in my creative and then repeat the central idea throughout?
do you provide same number of techniques as the marks given for unseen texts?
Post by: anotherworld2b on October 12, 2016, 07:49:35 pm
Hey hey! Since you are a Prelim student, we'll get this marked for you after the current Year 12 HSC English Exams are done, just to make sure we're giving the help where its needed most over the next few days! ;D
Post by: ladyofathena on October 12, 2016, 08:05:24 pm
when will the exams over? Will it be the same for other threads as well?
For English, the exams are on tomorrow and Friday
All the HSC exams finish on the 4th of November :)
Post by: anotherworld2b on October 12, 2016, 08:12:04 pm
For English, the exams are on tomorrow and Friday
All the HSC exams finish on the 4th of November :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 12, 2016, 10:16:05 pm
- If i am asked to include a vague quote "suddenly, everything slips aside..." in the first sentence of creative, how am i or am i suppose to repeat the idea from the quote throughout my creative?
-If the given quote is in 1st person, will it be okay if i integrate it as an internal dialogue so i can avoid changing my creative into 1st person?
-If the ques asks me to use a quote as central element not as part of creative (eg. attached below) , is it okay if i include the exact quote in my creative and then repeat the central idea throughout?
do you provide same number of techniques as the marks given for unseen texts?
Hey Katherine! So if the question just says to start the creative with that quote, then that is all you need to do. The idea doesn't need to be permeated through (though the story needs to make sense, you can't just have them on a cliff and then randomly in a church for no reason ;))
Your ideas for the inclusion of the quote are both spot on! :)
As for marks vs techniques:
1 Mark: 1 Technique
2 Marks: 2 Techniques
3 Marks: 3-4 Techniques
4 Marks: 4-5 Techniques
5+ Marks: 7+ Techniques
There is a big jump for the 5 marker; you need quit a bit of depth to really make sure you get the marks!! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 12, 2016, 10:20:47 pm
- If i am asked to include a vague quote "suddenly, everything slips aside..." in the first sentence of creative, how am i or am i suppose to repeat the idea from the quote throughout my creative?
-If the given quote is in 1st person, will it be okay if i integrate it as an internal dialogue so i can avoid changing my creative into 1st person?
-If the ques asks me to use a quote as central element not as part of creative (eg. attached below) , is it okay if i include the exact quote in my creative and then repeat the central idea throughout?
do you provide same number of techniques as the marks given for unseen texts?
About the initial quote: If they specify that it needs to be the first sentence of your creative, you're unlikely to need to keep referring to it. If they specify it as the "central element" - that's where you need to refer consistently. But if it is the first sentence and that's all they specify, you have freedom.
Definitely okay to work with the narration like that :)
Third question: Yep! That sounds perfect!!
4th question: Not necessarily. If you want to go by that guide it won't be to your detriment, but it won't guarantee marks. For a two marker that says, "Describe the use of metaphor in relation to discovery" it might give you a mark for identifying the idea and location of the metaphor, and a second mark for explaining it's implications in the text, for example. So not necessarily two techniques there. :)
Post by: Sanaz on October 12, 2016, 10:32:49 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 12, 2016, 10:35:18 pm
Hey can I get my creative looked at? I am really nervous about tomorrow...
Upload it here Sanaz! We'll give it a really quick read for you :)
(you can add an attachment with the button below where you type your posts)
Post by: Sanaz on October 12, 2016, 10:38:52 pm
Hey can I get my creative looked at? I am really nervous about tomorrow...Green with Envy
Winston Eastwood observed the tantalising golden medal resting in front of him. It lured him like a desperate siren.
“George Forest,” called the announcer snapping Winston out of his reverie realising that only the best and brightest could receive the prize.
“Loner!” shouted Winston as the boy walked down the stage. “Wimp, stupid, loser,” Winston propelled insults directed at the lanky boy, whilst he felt a reassuring nudge on his back.
Everyone laughed.
Winston smirked at the prize.
That night, he stamped on the tallest poppy resting on his windowsill and with that let the cluster of memories sieve out of his porous mind, which allowed him to forget that he had chosen the crowd. Forget that the boy was not indeed a loser.
***
Cold wind pierced his leathery skin as he unzipped his adidas bag and tied a black rope across his checkered apron.
Monstrous buildings towered above him and the green poster with the once frazzled boy neatly arranged in a suit. The end of his golden chain was like a phantom limb weighing down his chest with guilt. He caressed the simmering medallion It was heavy, consumed of success, overwhelming Winston with the guilty burden. He brushed a hand through his sweaty curls, plastered onto his forehead, wrinkled with years of stress.
“You’re late again Winston, make me a chai latte, skim milk and two sugars and deliver It to block 37! Pronto!” Reynolds glared at him with slate grey beady eyes.
Car horns honked furiously, pushing and heaving the heavy traffic like viscous honey. Passers by chugged coffee, gulping like savage animals. Women in tight dresses clicked their heels onto the asphalt. Their hair was tucked perfectly in symmetrical buns and the men had theirs gelled in sharp jarring angles.
A cacophony of posters polluted the streets in herds and the banners decorated the streets, dripping with green.
“Vote green. Save our world. Vote for a brighter future and vote Forest!” The jungle of clones protested in front of the voting centre in a rhythmic march.
A pamphlet slid into Winston’s hands and once a whimper, the grin stretched across the page preserving the insults he had once tortured the boy with. Buildings towered menacingly above him, puncturing the happiness from the clouds and absorbing the sun’s silver rays. They leered like spectators with ravenous hunger as early morning commuters trudged behind robotically. Their faces were encrusted with decade-old grime and suffocated between a thick blanketing haze. Winston threw the pamphlet in the recycling bin. His stocky frame blended with the harsh lines of the angry city.
Winston watched him enter the centre. Bitter bile clogged his throat.
Everything was muted, the auditorium silencing in his presence. He approached a microphone and a confident voice escaped his thin lips, crushing Winston’s dreams with every heavy step he took.
And in an instant as if seeing it all again, Winston’s mind raced back to a time in where he was nineteen. The same brown hair in a modern comb over stared back at him. A line was shaved in his part. His suit was handsomely pressed. The boy next to him also had his shirt ironed, and the same line was shaved in his part. And despite the artificial smile attached to his face, a quiver escaped his small lips. And Winston drowned. He drowned in the sea of clones surrounding him.
But a lanky boy stood out amidst the sea of sheep.
Winston looked at him, his chest constricted, his forehead damp.
The tattered jeans and outdated shag reflected in the shiny metal made it ridiculous for anyone to believe he was even associated with his man in a different time.
Clutching his sides Winston gulped for breath after sprinting out of the centre.
He tried to piece together how this could be, how such a…a loser could become something better than him. Now he didn’t have anything but the plain shards of its memory stabbing at him like a dull knife. He couldn’t recall why he had become the loser he had been trying to avoid his entire life.
The crowd of green drones followed George like unfed pets begging for attention. George’s voice droned on in the background, a slight whisper caressing him.
“Good morning my loyal supporters,
I am George Forest and, electing me will lead to drastic change in your city. I’d like to build a green wall along Sydney tower and let us Sydney-siders salvage our dying nation. I will make your health a priority, and monitor air quality readings daily.”
“We want green!” Cheered the supporters.
George rushed out of the centre heedless of the clutching hands and questioning voices, parting the sea of heads with his outstretched arms.
Hot brown liquid splashed onto Winston’s arm leaving a scalding reminder of George’s burning eyes as he was pushed over by the buzzing crowd.
“Get off me,” George sneered and the once perfect smile scowled into a bitter grimace. “And by the way don’t forget to vote for me of course,” he chuckled sardonically.
The giant billboard mocked him, and like a vicious cancer burgeoning through the city its gaze burnt Winston’s pride. But what was the use of this pride if it was going to isolate him?
Winston refused to keep such a demeaning object. He snapped the medal in his fingers and shards of yellow plastic scattered surrounding him.
Outside the voting centre red poppies emerged through the soil and their deep, rich-red petals coloured the grass.
George left as Winston observed a single green note escape his briefcase, gently landing on the tallest poppy.
Post by: Sanaz on October 12, 2016, 10:46:12 pm
Upload it here Sanaz! We'll give it a really quick read for you :)
(you can add an attachment with the button below where you type your posts)
sorry for not sending it earlier... I was too nervous lol
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 12, 2016, 11:06:01 pm
Green with Envy
Cool! Your creative is in the spoiler and my comments are below it:
Spoiler
Winston Eastwood observed the tantalising golden medal resting in front of him. It lured him like a desperate siren.
“George Forest,” called the announcer snapping Winston out of his reverie realising that only the best and brightest could receive the prize.
“Loner!” shouted Winston as the boy walked down the stage. “Wimp, stupid, loser,” Winston propelled insults directed at the lanky boy, whilst he felt a reassuring nudge on his back.
Everyone laughed.
Winston smirked at the prize.
That night, he stamped on the tallest poppy resting on his windowsill and with that let the cluster of memories sieve out of his porous mind, which allowed him to forget that he had chosen the crowd. Forget that the boy was not indeed a loser.
***
Cold wind pierced his leathery skin as he unzipped his adidas bag and tied a black rope across his checkered apron.
Monstrous buildings towered above him and the green poster with the once frazzled boy neatly arranged in a suit. The end of his golden chain was like a phantom limb weighing down his chest with guilt. He caressed the simmering medallion It was heavy, consumed of success, overwhelming Winston with the guilty burden. He brushed a hand through his sweaty curls, plastered onto his forehead, wrinkled with years of stress.
“You’re late again Winston, make me a chai latte, skim milk and two sugars and deliver It to block 37! Pronto!” Reynolds glared at him with slate grey beady eyes.
Car horns honked furiously, pushing and heaving the heavy traffic like viscous honey. Passers by chugged coffee, gulping like savage animals. Women in tight dresses clicked their heels onto the asphalt. Their hair was tucked perfectly in symmetrical buns and the men had theirs gelled in sharp jarring angles.
A cacophony of posters polluted the streets in herds and the banners decorated the streets, dripping with green.
“Vote green. Save our world. Vote for a brighter future and vote Forest!” The jungle of clones protested in front of the voting centre in a rhythmic march.
A pamphlet slid into Winston’s hands and once a whimper, the grin stretched across the page preserving the insults he had once tortured the boy with. Buildings towered menacingly above him, puncturing the happiness from the clouds and absorbing the sun’s silver rays. They leered like spectators with ravenous hunger as early morning commuters trudged behind robotically. Their faces were encrusted with decade-old grime and suffocated between a thick blanketing haze. Winston threw the pamphlet in the recycling bin. His stocky frame blended with the harsh lines of the angry city.
Winston watched him enter the centre. Bitter bile clogged his throat.
Everything was muted, the auditorium silencing in his presence. He approached a microphone and a confident voice escaped his thin lips, crushing Winston’s dreams with every heavy step he took.
And in an instant as if seeing it all again, Winston’s mind raced back to a time in where he was nineteen. The same brown hair in a modern comb over stared back at him. A line was shaved in his part. His suit was handsomely pressed. The boy next to him also had his shirt ironed, and the same line was shaved in his part. And despite the artificial smile attached to his face, a quiver escaped his small lips. And Winston drowned. He drowned in the sea of clones surrounding him.
But a lanky boy stood out amidst the sea of sheep.
Winston looked at him, his chest constricted, his forehead damp.
The tattered jeans and outdated shag reflected in the shiny metal made it ridiculous for anyone to believe he was even associated with his man in a different time.
Clutching his sides Winston gulped for breath after sprinting out of the centre.
He tried to piece together how this could be, how such a…a loser could become something better than him. Now he didn’t have anything but the plain shards of its memory stabbing at him like a dull knife. He couldn’t recall why he had become the loser he had been trying to avoid his entire life.
The crowd of green drones followed George like unfed pets begging for attention. George’s voice droned on in the background, a slight whisper caressing him.
“Good morning my loyal supporters,
I am George Forest and, electing me will lead to drastic change in your city. I’d like to build a green wall along Sydney tower and let us Sydney-siders salvage our dying nation. I will make your health a priority, and monitor air quality readings daily.”
“We want green!” Cheered the supporters.
George rushed out of the centre heedless of the clutching hands and questioning voices, parting the sea of heads with his outstretched arms.
Hot brown liquid splashed onto Winston’s arm leaving a scalding reminder of George’s burning eyes as he was pushed over by the buzzing crowd.
“Get off me,” George sneered and the once perfect smile scowled into a bitter grimace. “And by the way don’t forget to vote for me of course,” he chuckled sardonically.
The giant billboard mocked him, and like a vicious cancer burgeoning through the city its gaze burnt Winston’s pride. But what was the use of this pride if it was going to isolate him?
Winston refused to keep such a demeaning object. He snapped the medal in his fingers and shards of yellow plastic scattered surrounding him.
Outside the voting centre red poppies emerged through the soil and their deep, rich-red petals coloured the grass.
George left as Winston observed a single green note escape his briefcase, gently landing on the tallest poppy.
“George Forest,” called the announcer snapping Winston out of his reverie realising that only the best and brightest could receive the prize.
“Loner!” shouted Winston as the boy walked down the stage. “Wimp, stupid, loser,” Winston propelled insults directed at the lanky boy, whilst he felt a reassuring nudge on his back.
Everyone laughed.
Winston smirked at the prize.
That night, he stamped on the tallest poppy resting on his windowsill and with that let the cluster of memories sieve out of his porous mind, which allowed him to forget that he had chosen the crowd. Forget that the boy was not indeed a loser.
***
Cold wind pierced his leathery skin as he unzipped his adidas bag and tied a black rope across his checkered apron.
Monstrous buildings towered above him and the green poster with the once frazzled boy neatly arranged in a suit. The end of his golden chain was like a phantom limb weighing down his chest with guilt. He caressed the simmering medallion It was heavy, consumed of success, overwhelming Winston with the guilty burden. He brushed a hand through his sweaty curls, plastered onto his forehead, wrinkled with years of stress.
“You’re late again Winston, make me a chai latte, skim milk and two sugars and deliver It to block 37! Pronto!” Reynolds glared at him with slate grey beady eyes.
Car horns honked furiously, pushing and heaving the heavy traffic like viscous honey. Passers by chugged coffee, gulping like savage animals. Women in tight dresses clicked their heels onto the asphalt. Their hair was tucked perfectly in symmetrical buns and the men had theirs gelled in sharp jarring angles.
A cacophony of posters polluted the streets in herds and the banners decorated the streets, dripping with green.
“Vote green. Save our world. Vote for a brighter future and vote Forest!” The jungle of clones protested in front of the voting centre in a rhythmic march.
A pamphlet slid into Winston’s hands and once a whimper, the grin stretched across the page preserving the insults he had once tortured the boy with. Buildings towered menacingly above him, puncturing the happiness from the clouds and absorbing the sun’s silver rays. They leered like spectators with ravenous hunger as early morning commuters trudged behind robotically. Their faces were encrusted with decade-old grime and suffocated between a thick blanketing haze. Winston threw the pamphlet in the recycling bin. His stocky frame blended with the harsh lines of the angry city.
Winston watched him enter the centre. Bitter bile clogged his throat.
Everything was muted, the auditorium silencing in his presence. He approached a microphone and a confident voice escaped his thin lips, crushing Winston’s dreams with every heavy step he took.
And in an instant as if seeing it all again, Winston’s mind raced back to a time in where he was nineteen. The same brown hair in a modern comb over stared back at him. A line was shaved in his part. His suit was handsomely pressed. The boy next to him also had his shirt ironed, and the same line was shaved in his part. And despite the artificial smile attached to his face, a quiver escaped his small lips. And Winston drowned. He drowned in the sea of clones surrounding him.
But a lanky boy stood out amidst the sea of sheep.
Winston looked at him, his chest constricted, his forehead damp.
The tattered jeans and outdated shag reflected in the shiny metal made it ridiculous for anyone to believe he was even associated with his man in a different time.
Clutching his sides Winston gulped for breath after sprinting out of the centre.
He tried to piece together how this could be, how such a…a loser could become something better than him. Now he didn’t have anything but the plain shards of its memory stabbing at him like a dull knife. He couldn’t recall why he had become the loser he had been trying to avoid his entire life.
The crowd of green drones followed George like unfed pets begging for attention. George’s voice droned on in the background, a slight whisper caressing him.
“Good morning my loyal supporters,
I am George Forest and, electing me will lead to drastic change in your city. I’d like to build a green wall along Sydney tower and let us Sydney-siders salvage our dying nation. I will make your health a priority, and monitor air quality readings daily.”
“We want green!” Cheered the supporters.
George rushed out of the centre heedless of the clutching hands and questioning voices, parting the sea of heads with his outstretched arms.
Hot brown liquid splashed onto Winston’s arm leaving a scalding reminder of George’s burning eyes as he was pushed over by the buzzing crowd.
“Get off me,” George sneered and the once perfect smile scowled into a bitter grimace. “And by the way don’t forget to vote for me of course,” he chuckled sardonically.
The giant billboard mocked him, and like a vicious cancer burgeoning through the city its gaze burnt Winston’s pride. But what was the use of this pride if it was going to isolate him?
Winston refused to keep such a demeaning object. He snapped the medal in his fingers and shards of yellow plastic scattered surrounding him.
Outside the voting centre red poppies emerged through the soil and their deep, rich-red petals coloured the grass.
George left as Winston observed a single green note escape his briefcase, gently landing on the tallest poppy.
Comments
- The first section, it is a little unclear what is happening. I think that's the intention, but even then, it's a bit too disorienting for my taste. Perhaps some description of the setting could help there?
- Some really cool imagery and word choice as the creative progresses, setting a really nice tone to the story. You have a cool writing style!
- Further, you do a really good job of portraying the emotional state of your protagonist. I'm inside their head, which is awesome! However, I'm still a TAD confused as to the exact specifics of what is happening by the middle. I get it, but I feel like I'm working a tad too hard to get it if you catch me. Be sure your plot is clear!
- The speech given by George is a little forced. It's not how a political speech would read, not a huge deal
- Not 100% sure of the significance of the Poppy motif
I think you are a really fantastic writer; I'll start with that. You've got some cool use of language here and you create a fantastic tone really quickly. You've got your style and it works really well for you! Really my biggest comment is that I'm not really getting a Discovery concept out of this. Be sure that when you head in tomorrow, you are actively thinking, "What do I want to say about Discovery?" That will inevitably get you thinking about it throughout, and that will translate into the concept being more obvious in your story! I know it is there now, but I'm looking for it to shine through a bit more :)
sorry for not sending it earlier... I was too nervous lol
Don't be!! I think this is really great, if you just really keep Discovery in your head when you write it tomorrow, then the concept will naturally be stronger, which is the only really big suggestion I'd make. You will smash it! Good luck :)
Post by: Sanaz on October 12, 2016, 11:15:40 pm
Cool! Your creative is in the spoiler and my comments are below it:SpoilerWinston Eastwood observed the tantalising golden medal resting in front of him. It lured him like a desperate siren.
“George Forest,” called the announcer snapping Winston out of his reverie realising that only the best and brightest could receive the prize.
“Loner!” shouted Winston as the boy walked down the stage. “Wimp, stupid, loser,” Winston propelled insults directed at the lanky boy, whilst he felt a reassuring nudge on his back.
Everyone laughed.
Winston smirked at the prize.
That night, he stamped on the tallest poppy resting on his windowsill and with that let the cluster of memories sieve out of his porous mind, which allowed him to forget that he had chosen the crowd. Forget that the boy was not indeed a loser.
***
Cold wind pierced his leathery skin as he unzipped his adidas bag and tied a black rope across his checkered apron.
Monstrous buildings towered above him and the green poster with the once frazzled boy neatly arranged in a suit. The end of his golden chain was like a phantom limb weighing down his chest with guilt. He caressed the simmering medallion It was heavy, consumed of success, overwhelming Winston with the guilty burden. He brushed a hand through his sweaty curls, plastered onto his forehead, wrinkled with years of stress.
“You’re late again Winston, make me a chai latte, skim milk and two sugars and deliver It to block 37! Pronto!” Reynolds glared at him with slate grey beady eyes.
Car horns honked furiously, pushing and heaving the heavy traffic like viscous honey. Passers by chugged coffee, gulping like savage animals. Women in tight dresses clicked their heels onto the asphalt. Their hair was tucked perfectly in symmetrical buns and the men had theirs gelled in sharp jarring angles.
A cacophony of posters polluted the streets in herds and the banners decorated the streets, dripping with green.
“Vote green. Save our world. Vote for a brighter future and vote Forest!” The jungle of clones protested in front of the voting centre in a rhythmic march.
A pamphlet slid into Winston’s hands and once a whimper, the grin stretched across the page preserving the insults he had once tortured the boy with. Buildings towered menacingly above him, puncturing the happiness from the clouds and absorbing the sun’s silver rays. They leered like spectators with ravenous hunger as early morning commuters trudged behind robotically. Their faces were encrusted with decade-old grime and suffocated between a thick blanketing haze. Winston threw the pamphlet in the recycling bin. His stocky frame blended with the harsh lines of the angry city.
Winston watched him enter the centre. Bitter bile clogged his throat.
Everything was muted, the auditorium silencing in his presence. He approached a microphone and a confident voice escaped his thin lips, crushing Winston’s dreams with every heavy step he took.
And in an instant as if seeing it all again, Winston’s mind raced back to a time in where he was nineteen. The same brown hair in a modern comb over stared back at him. A line was shaved in his part. His suit was handsomely pressed. The boy next to him also had his shirt ironed, and the same line was shaved in his part. And despite the artificial smile attached to his face, a quiver escaped his small lips. And Winston drowned. He drowned in the sea of clones surrounding him.
But a lanky boy stood out amidst the sea of sheep.
Winston looked at him, his chest constricted, his forehead damp.
The tattered jeans and outdated shag reflected in the shiny metal made it ridiculous for anyone to believe he was even associated with his man in a different time.
Clutching his sides Winston gulped for breath after sprinting out of the centre.
He tried to piece together how this could be, how such a…a loser could become something better than him. Now he didn’t have anything but the plain shards of its memory stabbing at him like a dull knife. He couldn’t recall why he had become the loser he had been trying to avoid his entire life.
The crowd of green drones followed George like unfed pets begging for attention. George’s voice droned on in the background, a slight whisper caressing him.
“Good morning my loyal supporters,
I am George Forest and, electing me will lead to drastic change in your city. I’d like to build a green wall along Sydney tower and let us Sydney-siders salvage our dying nation. I will make your health a priority, and monitor air quality readings daily.”
“We want green!” Cheered the supporters.
George rushed out of the centre heedless of the clutching hands and questioning voices, parting the sea of heads with his outstretched arms.
Hot brown liquid splashed onto Winston’s arm leaving a scalding reminder of George’s burning eyes as he was pushed over by the buzzing crowd.
“Get off me,” George sneered and the once perfect smile scowled into a bitter grimace. “And by the way don’t forget to vote for me of course,” he chuckled sardonically.
The giant billboard mocked him, and like a vicious cancer burgeoning through the city its gaze burnt Winston’s pride. But what was the use of this pride if it was going to isolate him?
Winston refused to keep such a demeaning object. He snapped the medal in his fingers and shards of yellow plastic scattered surrounding him.
Outside the voting centre red poppies emerged through the soil and their deep, rich-red petals coloured the grass.
George left as Winston observed a single green note escape his briefcase, gently landing on the tallest poppy.
Comments
- The first section, it is a little unclear what is happening. I think that's the intention, but even then, it's a bit too disorienting for my taste. Perhaps some description of the setting could help there?
- Some really cool imagery and word choice as the creative progresses, setting a really nice tone to the story. You have a cool writing style!
- Further, you do a really good job of portraying the emotional state of your protagonist. I'm inside their head, which is awesome! However, I'm still a TAD confused as to the exact specifics of what is happening by the middle. I get it, but I feel like I'm working a tad too hard to get it if you catch me. Be sure your plot is clear!
- The speech given by George is a little forced. It's not how a political speech would read, not a huge deal
- Not 100% sure of the significance of the Poppy motif
I think you are a really fantastic writer; I'll start with that. You've got some cool use of language here and you create a fantastic tone really quickly. You've got your style and it works really well for you! Really my biggest comment is that I'm not really getting a Discovery concept out of this. Be sure that when you head in tomorrow, you are actively thinking, "What do I want to say about Discovery?" That will inevitably get you thinking about it throughout, and that will translate into the concept being more obvious in your story! I know it is there now, but I'm looking for it to shine through a bit more :)
Don't be!! I think this is really great, if you just really keep Discovery in your head when you write it tomorrow, then the concept will naturally be stronger, which is the only really big suggestion I'd make. You will smash it! Good luck :)
The discovery is a rediscovery of an old rival friend and the persona doesn't want to deal with them as they were envious of their success. Then they discover that success is not measurable by their outward appearance but about their personality. The poppies symbolise egalitarianism or "tall poppy syndrome" where society doesn't want anyone to rise above the rest and become successful :/ hopefully my story isn't too confusing. Thank you so much for the help :P
Post by: Blissfulmelodii on October 13, 2016, 05:55:06 pm
2 exams down and 7 to go!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 13, 2016, 05:57:52 pm
So now that that torture is over, i guess this discussion thread won't be needed at least for another year hahahaha But it was great while it lasted. Thank you to all the lecturers who edited and checked stories/essays; you guys were the true heroes of the HSC :) :) :)
2 exams down and 7 to go!
You are welcome Blissful! So happy to have been of help! We'll enjoy a little breather before we have the next cohort submitting their stuff for their first assessment tasks; we absolutely loved helping you all out. We hope you guys hang around during exams for your other subjects and even afterwards to let us know what you get up to in the future! AN is a community and a family, lots of love from us ;D
Post by: anotherworld2b on October 14, 2016, 09:30:48 pm
I was wondering does anyone have any tips on how to write a good narrative within a time limit? It took me a while to write this practise essay.
I was also wondering if I could get an indicator on how well I fulfilled the marking criteria. A particular comment I received is that is I need to work on this particular aspect: Presents a fluent, readable narrative that demonstrates control of grammar, vocabulary, spelling and punctuation acceptable for a first draft. However, I am not sure how to do this?
Spoiler
Task: Construct an opinion piece or a narrative to position an audience to respond in a particular way to the image below.
The image: pictures two monochromatic people, one male and one female back to back
Statement of intent:
Audience: Adults
Purpose: To evoke sympathy towards the pain of divorce
Context: A couple have separated and all that is left to finalise their divorce is the husband’s signature.
Title: Divorce
The office was cold, and outside the ethereal rays of light from the dipping sun into the horizon shone gently on the grass and flowers covered glistening night dew. His fingertips gently glided over the smooth paper as he looked at the numerous scribbles and daunting numbers on the last page of the document. The movement of his calloused fingers halted, hovering over the straight line next to the daunting and bold word ‘Signature’ once again. A familiar blur and sting fill his eyes as he closed his eyes engraving waves of lines into his forehead.
Now out beyond him were the vibrant red roses, tulips and peonies he loved arranged neatly in the flower beds. The nostalgic gentle breeze of spring blew her golden hair astray as she tended to her precious flowers with great care. A familiar gentle arch appeared on his face as he slowly approached her from behind. She let out a gasp of surprise and a melodious laugh as he enveloped her tightly in his grasp with loud laughter of his own. At night, the prickling sensation of grass would brush against his neck as he intertwined his fingers with hers gazing up at the vast and open night sky. He would teach her the names of constellations with passion as she looked at him with a wide eyed smile on her face. The vast darkness and stillness of the night would bask them in comfortable silence despite no words being spoken.
He could feel more tears trailing down his face dripping onto the white paper and the cold surface of his mahogany desk seeping through his silk shirt. The sound of laughter and noise was replaced by silence and the loud ticking of a clock. He took a deep breath and reached towards a pen with hesitation his muscular arm shaking like leaf in the wind. He peered through the window. The window was ajar, bringing in a cold draft of wind. It made him to realise it was no longer spring. An familiar uncomfortable pain rose up from his chest. He calmed down his breathing or at least he tried tightly clutching over the space of his heart. It was aching, the raw wounds of his heart were being ripped open. His tight hold on the pen turned his knuckles turned white as he signed the document with his signature with desperation and desperation finalising their separation.
Marking key:
Description
Marks
CONTENT
Skilful shaping of complex ideas and language in the creation of an interesting original narrative.
1 - 6
STRUCTURE AND COHERENCE
Effective, skilful and coherent shaping of text using narrative conventions.
1 - 6
EXPRESSION AND LANGUAGE MECHANICS
Presents a fluent, readable narrative that demonstrates control of grammar, vocabulary, spelling and punctuation acceptable for a first draft.
1 - 6
GENRE
Genre of story is suited to the purpose, audience and context
1- 3
The image: pictures two monochromatic people, one male and one female back to back
Statement of intent:
Audience: Adults
Purpose: To evoke sympathy towards the pain of divorce
Context: A couple have separated and all that is left to finalise their divorce is the husband’s signature.
Title: Divorce
The office was cold, and outside the ethereal rays of light from the dipping sun into the horizon shone gently on the grass and flowers covered glistening night dew. His fingertips gently glided over the smooth paper as he looked at the numerous scribbles and daunting numbers on the last page of the document. The movement of his calloused fingers halted, hovering over the straight line next to the daunting and bold word ‘Signature’ once again. A familiar blur and sting fill his eyes as he closed his eyes engraving waves of lines into his forehead.
Now out beyond him were the vibrant red roses, tulips and peonies he loved arranged neatly in the flower beds. The nostalgic gentle breeze of spring blew her golden hair astray as she tended to her precious flowers with great care. A familiar gentle arch appeared on his face as he slowly approached her from behind. She let out a gasp of surprise and a melodious laugh as he enveloped her tightly in his grasp with loud laughter of his own. At night, the prickling sensation of grass would brush against his neck as he intertwined his fingers with hers gazing up at the vast and open night sky. He would teach her the names of constellations with passion as she looked at him with a wide eyed smile on her face. The vast darkness and stillness of the night would bask them in comfortable silence despite no words being spoken.
He could feel more tears trailing down his face dripping onto the white paper and the cold surface of his mahogany desk seeping through his silk shirt. The sound of laughter and noise was replaced by silence and the loud ticking of a clock. He took a deep breath and reached towards a pen with hesitation his muscular arm shaking like leaf in the wind. He peered through the window. The window was ajar, bringing in a cold draft of wind. It made him to realise it was no longer spring. An familiar uncomfortable pain rose up from his chest. He calmed down his breathing or at least he tried tightly clutching over the space of his heart. It was aching, the raw wounds of his heart were being ripped open. His tight hold on the pen turned his knuckles turned white as he signed the document with his signature with desperation and desperation finalising their separation.
Marking key:
Description
Marks
CONTENT
Skilful shaping of complex ideas and language in the creation of an interesting original narrative.
1 - 6
STRUCTURE AND COHERENCE
Effective, skilful and coherent shaping of text using narrative conventions.
1 - 6
EXPRESSION AND LANGUAGE MECHANICS
Presents a fluent, readable narrative that demonstrates control of grammar, vocabulary, spelling and punctuation acceptable for a first draft.
1 - 6
GENRE
Genre of story is suited to the purpose, audience and context
1- 3
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 15, 2016, 04:21:18 pm
Hi I'm back with an edited version of my narrative.
I was wondering does anyone have any tips on how to write a good narrative within a time limit? It took me a while to write this practise essay.
I was also wondering if I could get an indicator on how well I fulfilled the marking criteria. A particular comment I received is that is I need to work on this particular aspect: Presents a fluent, readable narrative that demonstrates control of grammar, vocabulary, spelling and punctuation acceptable for a first draft. However, I am not sure how to do this?
Hey! I'll pop some comments throughout this new version, focusing on fluency:
Spoiler
Task: Construct an opinion piece or a narrative to position an audience to respond in a particular way to the image below.
The image: pictures two monochromatic people, one male and one female back to back
Statement of intent:
Audience: Adults
Purpose: To evoke sympathy towards the pain of divorce
Context: A couple have separated and all that is left to finalise their divorce is the husband’s signature.
Title: Divorce
The office was cold, and outside the ethereal rays of light from the dipping sun into the horizon shone gently on the grass and flowers covered glistening night dew. That sentence had more than one conjunction; it needs to be split up. His fingertips gently glided over the smooth paper as he looked at the numerous scribbles and daunting numbers on the last page of the document. The movement of his calloused fingers halted, hovering over the straight line next to the daunting and bold word ‘Signature’ once again. A familiar blur and sting fill his eyes as he closed his eyes, engraving waves of lines into his forehead. Some nice imagery here, you set a nice tone very quickly, works really well. Some word choices and syntax were a bit off; I've highlighted those.
Now out beyond him were the vibrant red roses, tulips and peonies he loved arranged neatly in the flower beds. Needs a pause. The nostalgic gentle breeze of spring blew her golden hair astray as she tended to her precious flowers with great care. Did we just have a gender switch? You've swapped from 'him' to 'her,' and I know it is intended, but it is very disorienting for the reader. Give a stronger indication that you're now describing something he is seeing. A familiar gentle arch appeared on his face as he slowly approached her from behind. She let out a gasp of surprise and a melodious laugh as he enveloped her tightly in his grasp with loud laughter of his own. At night, the prickling sensation of grass would brush against his neck as he intertwined his fingers with hers gazing up at the vast and open night sky. He would teach her the names of constellations with passion as she looked at him with a wide eyed smile on her face. The vast darkness and stillness of the night would bask them in comfortable silence despite no words being spoken. Comfortable silence despite no words being spoken doesn't quite make sense.
He could feel more tears trailing down his face dripping onto the white paper and the cold surface of his mahogany desk seeping through his silk shirt. Some pausing needed in here as well; don't be afraid to use commas! Several sections in your story could benefit from them greatly. The sound of laughter and noise was replaced by silence and the loud ticking of a clock. He took a deep breath and reached towards a pen with hesitation, his muscular arm shaking like a leaf in the wind. He peered through the window. The window was ajar, bringing in a cold draft of wind. It made him to realise it was no longer spring. An familiar uncomfortable pain rose up from his chest. He calmed down his breathing or at least he tried tightly clutching over the space of his heart. Needs pauses for that phrase in the middle there, "or at least he tried," to break up the flow of thought. It was aching, the raw wounds of his heart were being ripped open. Good. His tight hold on the pen turned his knuckles turned white as he signed the document with his signature with desperation and desperation finalising their separation. Signed the document with his signature -> unnecessary words there. What else would he sign with? You could do something more creative here.
The image: pictures two monochromatic people, one male and one female back to back
Statement of intent:
Audience: Adults
Purpose: To evoke sympathy towards the pain of divorce
Context: A couple have separated and all that is left to finalise their divorce is the husband’s signature.
Title: Divorce
The office was cold, and outside the ethereal rays of light from the dipping sun into the horizon shone gently on the grass and flowers covered glistening night dew. That sentence had more than one conjunction; it needs to be split up. His fingertips gently glided over the smooth paper as he looked at the numerous scribbles and daunting numbers on the last page of the document. The movement of his calloused fingers halted, hovering over the straight line next to the daunting and bold word ‘Signature’ once again. A familiar blur and sting fill his eyes as he closed his eyes, engraving waves of lines into his forehead. Some nice imagery here, you set a nice tone very quickly, works really well. Some word choices and syntax were a bit off; I've highlighted those.
Now out beyond him were the vibrant red roses, tulips and peonies he loved arranged neatly in the flower beds. Needs a pause. The nostalgic gentle breeze of spring blew her golden hair astray as she tended to her precious flowers with great care. Did we just have a gender switch? You've swapped from 'him' to 'her,' and I know it is intended, but it is very disorienting for the reader. Give a stronger indication that you're now describing something he is seeing. A familiar gentle arch appeared on his face as he slowly approached her from behind. She let out a gasp of surprise and a melodious laugh as he enveloped her tightly in his grasp with loud laughter of his own. At night, the prickling sensation of grass would brush against his neck as he intertwined his fingers with hers gazing up at the vast and open night sky. He would teach her the names of constellations with passion as she looked at him with a wide eyed smile on her face. The vast darkness and stillness of the night would bask them in comfortable silence despite no words being spoken. Comfortable silence despite no words being spoken doesn't quite make sense.
He could feel more tears trailing down his face dripping onto the white paper and the cold surface of his mahogany desk seeping through his silk shirt. Some pausing needed in here as well; don't be afraid to use commas! Several sections in your story could benefit from them greatly. The sound of laughter and noise was replaced by silence and the loud ticking of a clock. He took a deep breath and reached towards a pen with hesitation, his muscular arm shaking like a leaf in the wind. He peered through the window. The window was ajar, bringing in a cold draft of wind. It made him to realise it was no longer spring. An familiar uncomfortable pain rose up from his chest. He calmed down his breathing or at least he tried tightly clutching over the space of his heart. Needs pauses for that phrase in the middle there, "or at least he tried," to break up the flow of thought. It was aching, the raw wounds of his heart were being ripped open. Good. His tight hold on the pen turned his knuckles turned white as he signed the document with his signature with desperation and desperation finalising their separation. Signed the document with his signature -> unnecessary words there. What else would he sign with? You could do something more creative here.
Marking key:
CONTENT
Skilful shaping of complex ideas and language in the creation of an interesting original narrative.
Mark=3. This story has a good premise and good style; I like the idea of a very introspective piece about a man reflecting on his marriage. However, there isn't enough depth. Unless your word limit requires it, I feel you need to add much more to this story to truly develop the concept. Perhaps add a flashback to a point where they were arguing a little, then a lot, slowly show the decline of the relationship? You could also do more with language to bring this out; you've got some great descriptive abilities and style, but something a little trickier would be welcome too.
STRUCTURE AND COHERENCE
Effective, skilful and coherent shaping of text using narrative conventions.
Mark=3 You've got an orientation and conclusion, but not much of a complication. Again, you need to give me a bit more of a transition, the conclusion felt a bit rushed and out of nowhere! Use of flashback is effective, but more is needed.
EXPRESSION AND LANGUAGE MECHANICS
Presents a fluent, readable narrative that demonstrates control of grammar, vocabulary, spelling and punctuation acceptable for a first draft.
Mark=3. Your control of mechanics is okay, you could make it much better by using commas. Frequently, I'm looking for a pause in your sentences, to break up your ideas and give me a chance to absorb what I've read. See how I just did it? The best way to get this right is to read your story aloud and listen to where the pauses naturally fall; that indicates where commas/full stops should sit. Spelling was fine, watch for proper syntax and word choice in certain sections.
GENRE
Genre of story is suited to the purpose, audience and context
Mark=3. The reflective nature of your piece suits the purpose and audience, I think this wrks well to this regard.
Marks are rough, and I can summarise my feedback in two points:
1 - Give me more of a complication, SHOW me the transition
2 - Use commas to break up your ideas
I hope this helps! :)
Post by: otto.khoo on October 16, 2016, 02:35:05 pm
------------
Waking up in a hangover on a Sunday afternoon isn’t the ideal lifestyle of a fifty- one year old land mammal. Arguably, it doesn’t seem like it should be the lifestyle of any animal, young or old. Yet on this very special day, Todd, braindead, in a struggle to even find the ground, threw up a conglomeration of mushed olives, Nobby’s lightly salted peanuts, and Chef Bob’s legendary ten dollar half kilo catfish, all concocted into a broth by about a litre of expired goon. A second round was surefire to burst at any moment but the sudden clicking of small gears and the thudding of small footsteps, followed by larger footsteps poured into the-
“Daddy, what’s Uncle Todd doing?” The high pitched noise was enough to cause the second wave of pungent spew to hit the deck- but it wasn’t sea sickness Todd was suffering from, nor was it taking place on a deck. Next to Todd, loomed a deformed crib, on the verge of collapse, due to the excessive application of a weight five times the recommended limit. Around Todd, lay an assortment of children’s toys- a zebra that sung lullabies if yanked hard enough, a plastic train, far from its rails, and a Peekaboo bear that had since recently been coloured a light blue.
“You gotta be kidding me… All over our brand new carp- Sandra!”
“Coming darling,”
“Could you get Emmie.” Dan stood in the doorway of the baby- pink room that was once meant to serve much more purpose than for a homeless brother’s palette. There was little else that the poor man could do but gape at the appalling mess.
“Look Mum! Peakaboo has got fish on him!” A set of light- blue eyes peeped into the room momentarily before responding with the same shocked face.
“Come on Emmie… We have to… leave.”
A set of perpetrating brown eyes remained, glaring down at the mess.
“On my bloody birthda- Jesus! Is that fish?” There was a sigh, that had been motivated by somewhat more intention than to release air. “Look Todd, I’m sorry- but it’s just too much… and, our girl’s also just getting too old, she needs her own room now. We need her own room now.” They both knew what that meant. A drip of saliva and a solitary tear also added to the mess. Todd didn’t know what else to do but to avoid his brother’s eyes and blubber in shame.
Sun and saltwater. Todd didn’t like what was reflected- an old, cold man with peeling skin, and long greasy hair, doubled- Todd was yet to recover from the night. There was silence, except of course for the thrashing of waves and the scuttling of a petrified crab caught in a net beneath him. But suddenly- a creaking. Not just, the creaking of the jetty. Not just, the creaking of approaching footsteps. But, the creaking, of a newfound passion, set alight in Todd’s heart.
“Ya’ don’t mind if I sit here mate?” The stranger asked. Attached to his back were a set of rods and a bucket.
“Nyesh”
This resulted in a frown, but nonethless, the man planted his bag on the jetty and spent a moment attaching some bait before throwing out the line. About twenty minutes passed, and there was not one tug. Meanwhile Todd glared into the sea. He could even see the fish.
“Would ya’ be able to hold ma’ rod for a sec’ while I just grab my crabs mate?” Todd did so much as to nod, and the companion passed the rod, and walked down the jetty momentarily to fish out a buoy and heave up a net.
As soon as the man had left, Todd felt a violent vibrating in his shoulder.
“Feeeeesh! Feeeeeesh! ‘Hot shoooood I doooooo!” Becoming more fierce, Todd staggered upwards, his feet spreading, grinding into the edge of the jetty.
“Feeeeeeeeeeesh! Feeeeeeeeeeesh! Hilppppppppp!” Dissatisfied with the lone crab, Todd’s companion had thrown the net back in the sea. It took a moment before the man’s mouth drooped wide open, before he began hollering ecstatically as he sprinted towards Todd. Slamming Todd backwards with intense force- the fish plummeted far beyond the water, eventually shattering the wooden surface of the jetty into splinters.
Behold, the ten foot, five hundred kilo catfish! Todd's companion stood on the deck yodelling, while Todd, lay on the jetty, winded, incapable of any form of movement, and unaware of what his life was to become.
Waking up in a hangover on a Sunday afternoon isn’t the ideal lifestyle of a fifty- two year old land mammal. Arguably, Todd wasn’t really a land mammal anymore. He spent most of his time inhabiting the seas. Nor did Todd really wake up.
On this special day, Dan, Sandra, and not so little Emmie, and all their relatives, friends, friend’s relatives, and relative’s friends, celebrated atop of the world’s finest four- story fishing boat. Two decks for parties and functions, and two decks just for fishing- with fishing nets, that stretched further then any jetty, and a crab net the size of Emmie’s room- not her old one, the one in Dan’s new house. There was a chinking on a wine glass announcing a speech.
“Cheers to the new year. A year more prosperous than ever.
I would have never dreamed of living in such an amazing abode.
Nor setting sail in the actual Titanic but for fish.
Nor spending my Sunday afternoons with all a thousand of you”
There was a rowdy applause, as if one were to announce that they had won a million dollars. Dan chinked the wine glass again. He cleared his throat:
“To my brother, Todd- thank you!” The party resumed.
Amidst all the dancing, and clapping and screaming, Dan peered over at his brother, who lay motionless, with dark shades on. His long, greasy hair was slicked back, and his head suspended backwards. Dan chuckled and turned away to talk to his wife’s great aunt’s uncle’s best mate from high school. Meanwhile, Todd remained at his arm chair. He in fact, was not drunk, nor hungover, nor braindead- he was simply, dead.
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 17, 2016, 01:19:43 pm
Hi :) Just a random creative piece I wrote:
Hey Otto.Khoo! Welcome to the forums :) Are you in the 2017 graduating class?
Post by: kb123 on October 20, 2016, 04:58:38 pm
Is the requirement for marking English essays/creatives back down to 15 yet?
:)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 20, 2016, 05:02:39 pm
Hi!
Is the requirement for marking English essays/creatives back down to 15 yet?
:)
It definitely is! English rush is over so definitely back down to 15 now :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 21, 2016, 03:14:38 pm
Here is my second draft of my creative writing short story for discovery. After handing in my first draft, my teacher said that the discovery is not obvious enough... In my opinion the physical discovery of metal in the pyramids is obvious and the impact that discovery can invoke on the world, but maybe I could write more on the emotional discovery closer to the end of the story... She also said i needed an extended metaphor- any tips what do do for that?What do you think? Any other advice on how to improve the story and maybe areas I could cut out or change to maximise marks?
Thanks for your time in advance, here it is:
Heya! I'll take a little look at this one now for you :)
Spoiler
Placing the florescent fluorescent* lamp onto the rocky earth, Vitaly slipped his back pack, full of tools, off his tense shoulders. His muscles let out a cry of relief as they relaxed. His lungs however, did not cooperate with the hot, humid air around him while his back screamed in protest to the metre-high limestone tunnel he had duck-walked through in order reach his destination. Thank God he wasn’t a tall man, his spine would have ripped apart from the constant strain. His clothes and hazel hair were ruffled and the airborne dust mixed with the sticky sweat on his skin, painting his face and limbs a light brown. He didn’t care to wipe it away – he was finally there. His many months of planning were at last put to action – he could now uncover what lay underneath the 6.5-million-ton pyramid that had stood still, unchanged for thousands of years. This is just the right amount of imagery. I wouldn't go any more or else it seems verbose and a little too complicated, it's right on the borderline right now, and it really works!
Taking out a small stone pick axe, he commenced chipping away at the walls around him. The stone crumbled away like dry cookies, building up small mountains of sand granules near his booted feet. Vitaly had never felt so peaceful in his life – he was away from the auditorium, hundreds of kilometres away from his foolish American colleagues… Colleagues that never even tried to consider his theories.
He could taste anger starting to form on his tongue. I like this!
Evidence! Egyptians built electric circuits? They lived in the stone age!!! In your dreams. EVIDENCE! Russians and their crazy ideas…
“Just you all wait until I come back with the proof.” Vitaly hissed under his breath, slamming the pick into the wall with all his strength.
He had stopped arguing with those idiots long ago. They would have only dragged him down to their level and won over him with experience. How could they compare to him? They were only historians. They didn’t have a PhD in engineering as well like himself – they couldn’t comprehend his extraordinary theories.
He continued to hammer at the rock, particles of dust scratching at his nostrils as he breathed. The sound of metal grinding against the stone filled his ears, while the tendons in his arm pulsed with exhaustion.
Krrrgh… Krrgh… Krrgh-
Vitaly’s pick did not budge after the final blow. For a few seconds, he stopped breathing as a waterfall of adrenalin flooded his body. Leaning closer towards the rock, he observed the pick – it had a thick, thread-like object constraining its movement. His fingers caressed the surface of the cable- it was smooth, as though Vitaly was stroking a thick copper wire.
This was it. He had found it. The evidence he needed to prove his theory that the pyramids were used as electric circuits by the “primeval” Egyptians.
“DAAAAA!” he yelled, his voice sending echoes through the tunnel. “Nakonetsto*!”
At double the speed, he hacked away at the stone. He could no longer feel any pain in his worn-out body, as though he had taken a robust pain killer. Chiselling more and more of the rock away, he uncovered a vast web of metal wires that interwove between the slabs of sandstone like veins in the human body. oooh, this is great.
Vitaly snorted, the sides of his mouth creeping up his cheeks. Haha! Those Americans… They think they are so cool, they can’t even consider that Egyptians could have had technology such as this. But then he guessed it’s easier to quote the history books, than have the courage to say something original. His discovery was going to turn Egyptian history as we know on trial.
Placing the pick down, he took out a camera from his back pack and took a myriad of photos.
“Here’s your evidence, ubliudki*” Vitaly chuckled as he began to pack up and make his trip back into the outside world. You've created a really strong voice for Vitaly at this point: determined, somewhat self-superior, excited, and again, determined.
***
“Evidence? Hmmm…” questioned the Head of the History department, a man in a black suit that looked as though it would rip apart any second, his sausages of fingers stroking a granite model of a pyramid as he sat at an archaic mahogany desk. The office was bordered with shelves upon shelves of antique history books, their titles obscured by a haze of grey smoke. An owl resided in a tarnished silver cage in the corner of the room. Its wide eyes were rimmed with glistening sadness - it looked as if the bird was weeping. Incredibly imagery!
The fat man’s head cocked to one side as he ran through the photos on Vitaly’s camera, a glowing cigarette bobbing up and down in his mouth. Vitaly could see that the man still didn’t believe him through the way his eyebrows rose and lips tightened. How many times he had seen that look, he had lost count. Vitaly’s teeth grinded against each other, creating a repulsive screech - if the man knew how much Vitaly hated him, he’d love him for holding it in.
“Show it to______??? they might be interested.” A quite cackle escaped the man’s thick-lipped mouth as he slid back Vitaly’s camera along the desk.
His cheeks burning with fury, Vitaly snatched his camera and stomped out of the office.
He couldn’t believe it…
…yet he had seen it coming.
The apprehension that no mainstream historian would ever consider his theories had soaked into his brain like water through a sponge. His theories, if developed, would put an army of historians to shame. Who would want that? Change is not something humans favour. Nor being told they are wrong. Vitaly let out a sigh of disgust.
“Their conventional views protect them from the painful job of thinking.” Vitaly thought to himself, trying to make himself feel better.
Humans… Why are you so stubborn?
Vitaly realised he was being hypocritical. Nevertheless, it pained him to learn that no one would even consider his views, sweeping them away like dust under a carpet.
People are like the pyramids… They stand still in on their foundations, resisting any movement from their footing.
Taking out a small stone pick axe, he commenced chipping away at the walls around him. The stone crumbled away like dry cookies, building up small mountains of sand granules near his booted feet. Vitaly had never felt so peaceful in his life – he was away from the auditorium, hundreds of kilometres away from his foolish American colleagues… Colleagues that never even tried to consider his theories.
He could taste anger starting to form on his tongue. I like this!
Evidence! Egyptians built electric circuits? They lived in the stone age!!! In your dreams. EVIDENCE! Russians and their crazy ideas…
“Just you all wait until I come back with the proof.” Vitaly hissed under his breath, slamming the pick into the wall with all his strength.
He had stopped arguing with those idiots long ago. They would have only dragged him down to their level and won over him with experience. How could they compare to him? They were only historians. They didn’t have a PhD in engineering as well like himself – they couldn’t comprehend his extraordinary theories.
He continued to hammer at the rock, particles of dust scratching at his nostrils as he breathed. The sound of metal grinding against the stone filled his ears, while the tendons in his arm pulsed with exhaustion.
Krrrgh… Krrgh… Krrgh-
Vitaly’s pick did not budge after the final blow. For a few seconds, he stopped breathing as a waterfall of adrenalin flooded his body. Leaning closer towards the rock, he observed the pick – it had a thick, thread-like object constraining its movement. His fingers caressed the surface of the cable- it was smooth, as though Vitaly was stroking a thick copper wire.
This was it. He had found it. The evidence he needed to prove his theory that the pyramids were used as electric circuits by the “primeval” Egyptians.
“DAAAAA!” he yelled, his voice sending echoes through the tunnel. “Nakonetsto*!”
At double the speed, he hacked away at the stone. He could no longer feel any pain in his worn-out body, as though he had taken a robust pain killer. Chiselling more and more of the rock away, he uncovered a vast web of metal wires that interwove between the slabs of sandstone like veins in the human body. oooh, this is great.
Vitaly snorted, the sides of his mouth creeping up his cheeks. Haha! Those Americans… They think they are so cool, they can’t even consider that Egyptians could have had technology such as this. But then he guessed it’s easier to quote the history books, than have the courage to say something original. His discovery was going to turn Egyptian history as we know on trial.
Placing the pick down, he took out a camera from his back pack and took a myriad of photos.
“Here’s your evidence, ubliudki*” Vitaly chuckled as he began to pack up and make his trip back into the outside world. You've created a really strong voice for Vitaly at this point: determined, somewhat self-superior, excited, and again, determined.
***
“Evidence? Hmmm…” questioned the Head of the History department, a man in a black suit that looked as though it would rip apart any second, his sausages of fingers stroking a granite model of a pyramid as he sat at an archaic mahogany desk. The office was bordered with shelves upon shelves of antique history books, their titles obscured by a haze of grey smoke. An owl resided in a tarnished silver cage in the corner of the room. Its wide eyes were rimmed with glistening sadness - it looked as if the bird was weeping. Incredibly imagery!
The fat man’s head cocked to one side as he ran through the photos on Vitaly’s camera, a glowing cigarette bobbing up and down in his mouth. Vitaly could see that the man still didn’t believe him through the way his eyebrows rose and lips tightened. How many times he had seen that look, he had lost count. Vitaly’s teeth grinded against each other, creating a repulsive screech - if the man knew how much Vitaly hated him, he’d love him for holding it in.
“Show it to______??? they might be interested.” A quite cackle escaped the man’s thick-lipped mouth as he slid back Vitaly’s camera along the desk.
His cheeks burning with fury, Vitaly snatched his camera and stomped out of the office.
He couldn’t believe it…
…yet he had seen it coming.
The apprehension that no mainstream historian would ever consider his theories had soaked into his brain like water through a sponge. His theories, if developed, would put an army of historians to shame. Who would want that? Change is not something humans favour. Nor being told they are wrong. Vitaly let out a sigh of disgust.
“Their conventional views protect them from the painful job of thinking.” Vitaly thought to himself, trying to make himself feel better.
Humans… Why are you so stubborn?
Vitaly realised he was being hypocritical. Nevertheless, it pained him to learn that no one would even consider his views, sweeping them away like dust under a carpet.
People are like the pyramids… They stand still in on their foundations, resisting any movement from their footing.
The physical discovery is clear and wonderful - so that's great. If you were going to do the extended metaphor thing, I think you just need a littttttle bit more prevalence on the pyramids throughout, and that could be your vehicle for metaphor. Perhaps it could be that he admires the pyramids for their stability all this time, and then at the end, he realises what he loves in the pyramids, he hates in people. Their lack of change. This could work really well. It's about building up the admiration for the pyramids, only to have it dropped at the end. That'll impact the intellectual discovery, as well as even the emotional discovery, I think! I really think that your teacher is on the money with the extended metaphor. The pyramids become a motif for both stability and emotion, and the perspective of Vitaly on both of those things will alter throughout, thus indicating his discovery! What do you think?
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 22, 2016, 05:18:56 pm
Thank you so much for your feedback!!! It is wonderful!!!
I'll work on integrating your fab idea regarding the pyramids into my story ASAP and will get back to you after I finish it off!
Thanks so much again!
I'm super keen to see it! Out of curiosity, are you in the 2017 class? If so, you're doing a mighty fine job getting ahead on the creative!!
Post by: kb123 on October 22, 2016, 06:36:55 pm
I'm super keen to see it! Out of curiosity, are you in the 2017 class? If so, you're doing a mighty fine job getting ahead on the creative!!
Yep, I'm in the 2017 class :) My goal is to get in the top 3 ranks for Advanced English in my school, so I'm trying to get my creative nailed down asap, plus our exam in week 5 is the creative.
Just a quick question - posting the same creative again will cost me another 15 of my posts right?
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 23, 2016, 01:50:00 am
Yep, I'm in the 2017 class :) My goal is to get in the top 3 ranks for Advanced English in my school, so I'm trying to get my creative nailed down asap, plus our exam in week 5 is the creative.
Just a quick question - posting the same creative again will cost me another 15 of my posts right?
That's right! So you're best to take it away and really think about the feedback, do a nice bit of work on it to make that next 15 worthwhile ;D
Post by: kb123 on October 23, 2016, 03:12:08 pm
That's right! So you're best to take it away and really think about the feedback, do a nice bit of work on it to make that next 15 worthwhile ;D
ok dokey thanks for the warning :)
Post by: kb123 on October 23, 2016, 04:14:47 pm
Heya! I'll take a little look at this one now for you :)SpoilerPlacing the florescent fluorescent* lamp onto the rocky earth, Vitaly slipped his back pack, full of tools, off his tense shoulders. His muscles let out a cry of relief as they relaxed. His lungs however, did not cooperate with the hot, humid air around him while his back screamed in protest to the metre-high limestone tunnel he had duck-walked through in order reach his destination. Thank God he wasn’t a tall man, his spine would have ripped apart from the constant strain. His clothes and hazel hair were ruffled and the airborne dust mixed with the sticky sweat on his skin, painting his face and limbs a light brown. He didn’t care to wipe it away – he was finally there. His many months of planning were at last put to action – he could now uncover what lay underneath the 6.5-million-ton pyramid that had stood still, unchanged for thousands of years. This is just the right amount of imagery. I wouldn't go any more or else it seems verbose and a little too complicated, it's right on the borderline right now, and it really works!
Taking out a small stone pick axe, he commenced chipping away at the walls around him. The stone crumbled away like dry cookies, building up small mountains of sand granules near his booted feet. Vitaly had never felt so peaceful in his life – he was away from the auditorium, hundreds of kilometres away from his foolish American colleagues… Colleagues that never even tried to consider his theories.
He could taste anger starting to form on his tongue. I like this!
Evidence! Egyptians built electric circuits? They lived in the stone age!!! In your dreams. EVIDENCE! Russians and their crazy ideas…
“Just you all wait until I come back with the proof.” Vitaly hissed under his breath, slamming the pick into the wall with all his strength.
He had stopped arguing with those idiots long ago. They would have only dragged him down to their level and won over him with experience. How could they compare to him? They were only historians. They didn’t have a PhD in engineering as well like himself – they couldn’t comprehend his extraordinary theories.
He continued to hammer at the rock, particles of dust scratching at his nostrils as he breathed. The sound of metal grinding against the stone filled his ears, while the tendons in his arm pulsed with exhaustion.
Krrrgh… Krrgh… Krrgh-
Vitaly’s pick did not budge after the final blow. For a few seconds, he stopped breathing as a waterfall of adrenalin flooded his body. Leaning closer towards the rock, he observed the pick – it had a thick, thread-like object constraining its movement. His fingers caressed the surface of the cable- it was smooth, as though Vitaly was stroking a thick copper wire.
This was it. He had found it. The evidence he needed to prove his theory that the pyramids were used as electric circuits by the “primeval” Egyptians.
“DAAAAA!” he yelled, his voice sending echoes through the tunnel. “Nakonetsto*!”
At double the speed, he hacked away at the stone. He could no longer feel any pain in his worn-out body, as though he had taken a robust pain killer. Chiselling more and more of the rock away, he uncovered a vast web of metal wires that interwove between the slabs of sandstone like veins in the human body. oooh, this is great.
Vitaly snorted, the sides of his mouth creeping up his cheeks. Haha! Those Americans… They think they are so cool, they can’t even consider that Egyptians could have had technology such as this. But then he guessed it’s easier to quote the history books, than have the courage to say something original. His discovery was going to turn Egyptian history as we know on trial.
Placing the pick down, he took out a camera from his back pack and took a myriad of photos.
“Here’s your evidence, ubliudki*” Vitaly chuckled as he began to pack up and make his trip back into the outside world. You've created a really strong voice for Vitaly at this point: determined, somewhat self-superior, excited, and again, determined.
***
“Evidence? Hmmm…” questioned the Head of the History department, a man in a black suit that looked as though it would rip apart any second, his sausages of fingers stroking a granite model of a pyramid as he sat at an archaic mahogany desk. The office was bordered with shelves upon shelves of antique history books, their titles obscured by a haze of grey smoke. An owl resided in a tarnished silver cage in the corner of the room. Its wide eyes were rimmed with glistening sadness - it looked as if the bird was weeping. Incredibly imagery!
The fat man’s head cocked to one side as he ran through the photos on Vitaly’s camera, a glowing cigarette bobbing up and down in his mouth. Vitaly could see that the man still didn’t believe him through the way his eyebrows rose and lips tightened. How many times he had seen that look, he had lost count. Vitaly’s teeth grinded against each other, creating a repulsive screech - if the man knew how much Vitaly hated him, he’d love him for holding it in.
“Show it to______??? they might be interested.” A quite cackle escaped the man’s thick-lipped mouth as he slid back Vitaly’s camera along the desk.
His cheeks burning with fury, Vitaly snatched his camera and stomped out of the office.
He couldn’t believe it…
…yet he had seen it coming.
The apprehension that no mainstream historian would ever consider his theories had soaked into his brain like water through a sponge. His theories, if developed, would put an army of historians to shame. Who would want that? Change is not something humans favour. Nor being told they are wrong. Vitaly let out a sigh of disgust.
“Their conventional views protect them from the painful job of thinking.” Vitaly thought to himself, trying to make himself feel better.
Humans… Why are you so stubborn?
Vitaly realised he was being hypocritical. Nevertheless, it pained him to learn that no one would even consider his views, sweeping them away like dust under a carpet.
People are like the pyramids… They stand still in on their foundations, resisting any movement from their footing.
The physical discovery is clear and wonderful - so that's great. If you were going to do the extended metaphor thing, I think you just need a littttttle bit more prevalence on the pyramids throughout, and that could be your vehicle for metaphor. Perhaps it could be that he admires the pyramids for their stability all this time, and then at the end, he realises what he loves in the pyramids, he hates in people. Their lack of change. This could work really well. It's about building up the admiration for the pyramids, only to have it dropped at the end. That'll impact the intellectual discovery, as well as even the emotional discovery, I think! I really think that your teacher is on the money with the extended metaphor. The pyramids become a motif for both stability and emotion, and the perspective of Vitaly on both of those things will alter throughout, thus indicating his discovery! What do you think?
Hi again -
Is it ok for you to delete my story off the forum just to reduce any risk of plagiarism? I just don't want to have my idea stolen...
Thanks :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 23, 2016, 11:58:48 pm
Hi again -
Is it ok for you to delete my story off the forum just to reduce any risk of plagiarism? I just don't want to have my idea stolen...
Thanks :)
The rationale behind these threads is to develop a collection of student works and feedback. Students like you who submit their work get personalised feedback (that hopefully helps you improve your results, yay!); and other students get the benefit of having a read of what other people are doing, and seeing what works and what doesn't. Kind of like a collection of exemplars, only we have a portfolio of responses that cover a variety of performance ranges :)
For this reason, we don't delete the pieces once the feedback has been given. That's part of the idea. We've never had any issues with plagiarism in the NSW forums though, so you don't have to worry! You can send me a personal message if you want to chat about this further though, I'd be happy to, just click on my profile name and click "Send PM" underneath my picture :)
Post by: kb123 on October 24, 2016, 02:09:30 pm
The rationale behind these threads is to develop a collection of student works and feedback. Students like you who submit their work get personalised feedback (that hopefully helps you improve your results, yay!); and other students get the benefit of having a read of what other people are doing, and seeing what works and what doesn't. Kind of like a collection of exemplars, only we have a portfolio of responses that cover a variety of performance ranges :)
For this reason, we don't delete the pieces once the feedback has been given. That's part of the idea. We've never had any issues with plagiarism in the NSW forums though, so you don't have to worry! You can send me a personal message if you want to chat about this further though, I'd be happy to, just click on my profile name and click "Send PM" underneath my picture :)
Ok, all good.
Post by: asd987 on October 30, 2016, 12:00:44 pm
Any suggestions?
Thanks
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 30, 2016, 02:30:32 pm
hi, how would I describe finding a briefcase containing secrets?
Any suggestions?
Thanks
Ooh, it depends what kind of secrets? Was the person looking for them? Did they stumble across them? Mm... I'd maybe describe the brief case in its actuality, and then metaphorical describe the secrets inside. If they're written on paper, give them more of a mystical understanding. I don't think it works well to metaphorically describe both - it needs to be one or the other to make a contrast. What are you considering?
Post by: asd987 on October 30, 2016, 10:05:55 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 30, 2016, 10:26:04 pm
How can I describe finding an old letter?
Perhaps you could have a go at this yourself and Elyse/myself could give you some feedback as to whether you are achieving what you want to achieve? You improve through practice ;D
Post by: StockoTheDucko on November 09, 2016, 12:24:56 pm
Faulty Umbrella
The sound of rain lightly tapping the window beckons me from my deep thought. I open my eyes to a dull unlit room and lumber to the window, only to see the sight of deep grey of the overcast day. Fog hinders the view past the fence. Lone rays of sunlight break through the clouds only to be covered up again by the passing clouds. Branches from the tree at the back droop towards the ground, in a submissive, yet depressing way. It’s on it’s last legs. I look off into the fog while my mind broods over the similarities between me and the seemingly sunless day.
My hand grasps my trusty umbrella, fingers curled around the handle tightly, like it would provide some sort of protection, both physical and mental. I trudge down the footpath, my eyes towards the ground. I look up the path, seeing my 3 friends standing with another group of people. I slow the movement of my heavy feet, to see who else is there. A face becomes visible, that I recognise as the one person I never wish to see. The main cause of my insecurities, the main cause of my problems with trust. This individual used to be my friend, the one I would trust with everything. He gave up on me in my time of need, and became my enemy. He wasn't there when I needed him most, and now these friends were doing the same. They were what Id call faulty; works fine at first, but at the first sign of hard times, it falls apart. I come to the realisation that I would now be alone again, to sit in silence at the boulevard of broken hopes and dreams, school.
I enter the corner store as I do every morning. I walk to the back slowly, scanning the shelves as I trudge past. Music subtly plays over the morning silence. I recognise the song quickly as Better Days by Pete Murray, and realise the dark irony implanted in the lyrics; “… I needed my friends there, I just turned around, they were gone without a trace…” Again, I’m grasping my umbrella for a feeling of security as I pick up the item I buy every morning.
“Morning Liam, just this today?” “Yes thanks.”
“Thats $2.50,” says the store clerk brightly.
“Oh… Im sorry, I’ve forgotten my wallet… I’ll put this back,” I mumble back in disappointment.
“Liam, don’t worry about it. Take it. I’ll pay. You come in every morning, Ill do this as a favour.” “Thank you…”
“Liam, you alright there?” He sounds concerned. I wonder whether I should tell him the truth, the betrayal that has come my way. I decide against it.
“Yeah I’m fine thanks, just a lot of stuff on my mind.”
“Alright, see you tomorrow.” The store clerk sounds unconvinced.
I saunter out of the small shop and begin on my journey to school. I stare at the ground in front of me, my fingers still wrapped tightly around the handle of the umbrella. I move my eyes from the ground to the worn, aged handle of the umbrella. I examine it thoroughly. The clear lacquer finish is worn off in a hand-like shape. There are cracks in the handle and chips off the curved edge. I’ve had this umbrella for a few years, no wonder it looks so rugged. Its damaged, gone through events it wasn't built for. This thought reminds me of my past. The dark memories. I shake my head, as if to shake them out, but they remain, festering. I have a growing sense of dread with every step, as if the ground I’m waking on is cursed, and the school the centre of it. I take my attention away from the umbrella just in time to see Her run into me.
“Liam, I’m so sorry, I wasn't paying attention. Are you ok?”
“Yeah I’m fine, it’s my fault.” I reply back quickly. Too quickly. I blush a deep red and take my eyes away from Her face. I can see Her facial expression in the corner of my eye, although I can’t recognise it. Its as if she's concerned but glad this happened.
“Liam, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Do you mind if we meet up here after school?” My mind jumps to all sorts of crazy conclusions, I try to keep my excitement hidden.
“Yeah sure, what’s it about?” I ask curiously, yet quietly.
“Don’t worry about it now, after school ok? Here at 10 past 3.” She blurts it out quickly, like she's hiding something. My mind wanders, thinking about it, about Her.
“Ok Ill see you this afternoon. Have a good day.” I turn away, finding difficulty in hiding my smile and walk away. Thoughts of Her surge through my mind, immediately lifting my mood. There is now a light spring in my step and a smile on my face, a smile thats usually as scarce as a hen’s teeth. I walk briskly through the school gates and through the maze of corridors and hallways. The door looms at the end of the hallway, and the smile that was on my face disappears without a trace. I take my seat in the quiet, empty room. It’s well lit, but the atmosphere pensive, desolate and bereft of positivity. The bell rings for class, the loudness and severity of it reminds me of a bell before a boxing match, or a siren before an air raid. I rest my head on the desk and prepare myself for the 6 hour torment and abuse that was about to begin.
The austere sound of the bell rings through the room. Everyone around me is in a mad dash, swiping books, pencil cases into bags. I slowly pack up my things, like I have all the time in the world. By the time I’m done, the room is empty except for me and the teacher. She just sits at her desk looking at papers. I can see her eyes furiously scanning the pages through the vast lenses of her glasses. My eyes lock onto the clock; 5 past 3. If I don’t hurry Ill be late. I bolt out the door, down the corridor and into the open. I dodge the last few people left in the yard and out the towering school gate. She’s already there, arms crossed, looking around. I stop running and catch my breath, before I begin walking towards Her. She sees me and smiles, I smile back, probably with too much enthusiasm. “Hey Liam, I thought you weren’t going to turn up for a second there.”
“Nah I just got caught up in class, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” The last part I mumble quickly, half hoping she noticed, half hoping she didn’t hear it. She looks at me puzzlingly, as if she's trying to figure something out.
“Anyway, about what I needed to tell you. Walk with me to my place and we’ll talk on the way.” She seems eager to get moving, so I start walking the way she’s facing, up the road.
“Uh Liam, where do you think your going? My house is this way.” She looks at me laughingly. I go red with embarrassment. “Yeah I knew that, I was seeing if you were paying attention.” I say back, trying to cover up my embarrassment. “Oh so you’ve been following me home have you Liam?” She has a big smirk on her face, I can see she loves to watch me squirm in discomfort.
“No not at all…” I look at the ground, trying to hide my embarrassment, much to her enjoyment.
“Come on then, you want to know don’t you?” Her face changes from amused to warm-hearted and sympathetic. I start walking quickly beside her to show my eagerness. “So Liam about what I was going to talk to you about. Iv’e seen you everyday and you always looks so… Depressed I guess. Are you ok?” She sounds quite concerned. I contemplate on whether I should trust her and tell her everything. “Do you mind if we talk about it when we get to your place?”
“Yeah sure, whatever your comfortable with.” She smiles at me with such warmth and kindness, and we walk down the road, towards her house, and for once, a smile is on my face, no longer a facade.
Post by: Nialllovespie on November 09, 2016, 07:52:46 pm
This is my creative, it needs ALOT of improvement but I don't really know where to start...
THANKYOU so so so much for all ur help!! :D
“You see my darling, life is like an elevator. Let me explain to you”
***
The shiny silver elevator doors, silently slid open smoothly revealing a petite middle aged lady, my mother, standing profoundly with her husband, my father. For she had been standing in the elevator previously, it was evident that there were floors below, yet those numbers did not show up on the elevator key pad due to the lack of possibility of going down floors. As the lady bent over to pick me up, the action of being lifted into the air held up by the arms of the her made me dependable on trusting her as she passed me to my father to cuddle me. Observing my surroundings, I can't help but notice the fresh paint scent accompanying the newly fitted carpet. A lightbulb hanging promptly from the roof of the elevator shines bright. A “ding” noise sounds in sync with the closing of the doors as the elevator. Gently ascending to a slow hault at the second level where the doors creep open. My mother picks up a small bundle of blankets covering a newly born baby boy. As I support myself standing holding on to my fathers leg, it is disclosed that the baby boy is my brother. The doors slam shut as the vroom of the elevator jolts upwards.
Bracing to a stop at level 5, a joyful young girl, neatly dressed in fresh school uniformed danced around the play equipment, playing tag with two others. Her green wide-brimmed hat attached with a string around her chin proudly displayed her school logo.
At level 17 a room full of zombie exam students, institutionalised to the exam protocol. The silence permeating the room emphasised the invigorators loud thumps of her high heeled boots as she walked through the classroom delivering papers. The urge to peak at my exam paper flooded me with curiosity but I didn't let the temptation get the better of me. Scribbling my student number and other miscellaneous details on the front cover as instructed the invigorators voice booms through the room.
“You may begin now”
The adrenaline rush floods through me synchronised with the weak breeze produced from the rapid A4 movement. My corneas are covered with a thick layer of secreted water, covering my desert surfaced eyes, obscuring my vision.
At level 22 the elevator doors open to a university lecture room. I watch as a tanned young adult, with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes strolls in the direction of the elevator, my eyes following his every move. A toothy grin plasters his face as he enters. He wraps a muscular arm around me pulling me close as I sink into the warmth of his embrace.
While stopping at level 28, the elevator doors slide open. We gaze as the white tipped waves crash along the shoreline spreading like a fine lace across the sand. I observe myself in a long white beautiful dress, strolling along the shore, my brown hair wavy with intricate flowers placed carefully on it. Holding the hand of my husband, with his tousled sandy hair, well dressed in a suit, the photographers scatter around them capturing their moment surrounded by a picturesque beach view. They stop and pose while kissing, the lady flashing her chunky diamond sitting neatly on her ring finger on her left hand, the wedding guests cheer and clap for joy.
At level 31 the elevator stops and the doors open. I reach out and grab the cradle sitting on the carpet. I bring it inside and place it in my husbands arms. Hidden under the blankets a small hand creeps out curling its fingers around my pinky. Her brand new eyes glisten eagerly scanning her surroundings of the elevator.
The elevator grinded to a halt at level 34 as the doors strike open uncovering a deadly car crash between a car and a truck. My brother alights from the elevator as I watch the paramedics lift a deceased body, covered in a white blanket, onto the ambulance bed, shutting the doors behind them. The doors close unexpectedly, signifying there is no more to see, or perhaps no more I should see for my own good. I desperately press the level 33 button as it begins to fade. My need and desire to go back and appreciate previous time I spent with my brother flooded through me. A noise of declination is sounded and I am reminded that the elevator is on a one way journey upwards.
The flickering of the elevator light illuminates level 40, the doors opening to the hallway of a retirement home. My mother steps out and waves a goodbye to us with a solemn smile covering her face. Without much to say or do a seconds pause is allowed before the elevator prepares for its long ascent. The doors slammed shut and the lift whizzed up with a echoing brrroiing.
At level 79 the elevator stops. The faded paint on the wall begins peeling away like bark off a tree. The doors jam halfway through opening, requiring the combined effort of everyone in the elevator to forcefully pull the doors open. A community hospital room is plastered across the walls of the elevator. My husband steps out while doctors and nurses rush to the bed he lay upon, supporting him in his lasts breathes, I hold tightly to his hand as his final seconds are consumed. The thundering crash of the doors closing alerts everyone before the elevator ascends once again.
By level 82, the worn carpet is patchy and the light flickering is so faint, requiring everyone's phone flashlights to illuminate the elevator. The paint on the inside walls of the elevator is mostly on the floor. A musty stale odor lingers, signifying its use and age. At level 82, my departure from the elevator has come. I wave goodbye to my loved ones as they watch the screen I will shortly appear on. I step out of the elevator and watch as the doors close behind me, carrying the others on the journey they have yet to come.
Notes about my story just incase it doesn't make sense...
The elevators life is symbolism and parallel to the protagonists. At the start the elevator is nice and new and everything is working but as its life progresses it begins malfunctioning, the carpet is worn, the light stops working. The purpose of the other elevator members is to show that during the end of your life you have to rely on others to help you get through. Also at level 34 the protagonist discovers to appreciate what they have whole they have it because once someone is gone, you can't get them back.
Post by: elysepopplewell on November 10, 2016, 06:12:18 pm
In the HSC, how many marks would this Discovery story receive, at the point it is at now?
Hey StockoTheDucko! I'll give you a few quick thoughts on this creative shortly - but just so you know, we give full feedback for every fifteen posts you make on the site. So I'll give you some pointers shortly, but just know that if you hang around you'll be able to get pieces marked when it's really essential for you :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on November 10, 2016, 06:29:06 pm
Hi elyse,
This is my creative, it needs ALOT of improvement but I don't really know where to start...
THANKYOU so so so much for all ur help!! :D
Hey there! You're so kind :) My thoughts are in bold font below..
Spoiler
“You see my darling, life is like an elevator. Let me explain to you”
***
The shiny silver elevator doors, no need for a comma here :) silently slid open smoothly revealing a petite middle aged lady, my mother, standing profoundly with her husband, my father.For she This high formal register sounds a bit funny here, especially after such a dense description in the first sentence, the tone is juxtaposed a little abruptly. had been standing in the elevator previously, it was evident that there were floors below, yet those numbers did not show up on the elevator key pad due to the lack of possibility of going down floors. This bit here sounds very calculated, clinical. Without this last segment, the sentence still makes sense. As the lady bent over to pick me up, the action Another example of clinical language - actually identifying the events as an action. This is your option to either take it out, or play with the language so it's more playful, smooth. of being lifted into the air held up by the arms of the her made me dependable on trusting her Another example of the language, you're telling, instead of showing, but also telling these things that aren't totally necessary to the story. Obviously you need to trust someone who is holding you above the ground, but what a reader does want to know is how the person being picked up feels. Awkward? Happy? like a toy? as she passed me to my father to cuddle me. Observing my surroundings, I can't help but notice the fresh paint scent accompanying the newly fitted carpet. A lightbulb hanging promptly from the roof of the elevator shines bright. A “ding” noise sounds in sync with the closing of the doors as the elevator. Gently ascending to a slow hault at the second level where the doors creep open. My mother picks up a small bundle of blankets covering a newly born baby boy. As I support myself standing holding awkward wording :) on to my fathers leg, it is disclosed that the baby boy is my brother. The doors slam shut as the vroom of the elevator jolts upwards. Love "vroom" - that's great!
Bracing to a stop at level 5, a joyful young girl, neatly dressed in fresh school uniformed danced around the play equipment, playing tag with two others. Her green wide-brimmed hat attached with a string around her chin proudly displayed her school logo.
At level 17 a room full of zombie-like exam students, institutionalised to the exam protocol. The silence permeating the room emphasised the invigorators loud thumps of her high heeled boots as she walked through the classroom delivering papers. The urge to peak at my exam paper flooded me with curiosity but I didn't let the temptation get the better of me. Scribbling my student number and other miscellaneous details on the front cover as instructed the invigorators voice booms through the room.
“You may begin now”
The adrenaline rush floods through me synchronised with the weak breeze produced from the rapid A4 movement. My corneas are covered with a thick layer of secreted water, covering my desert surfaced eyes, obscuring my vision. There's a lot of imagery at once here, and I think it detracts from the poignant significance of the piece, and clouds it a little bit. I like each bit individually, but together it creates a cacophony.
At level 22 the elevator doors open to a university lecture room. I watch as a tanned young adult, with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes strolls in the direction of the elevator, my eyes following his every move. A toothy grin plasters his face as he enters. He wraps a muscular arm around me pulling me close as I sink into the warmth of his embrace.
While stopping at level 28, the elevator doors slide open. We gaze as the white tipped waves crash along the shoreline spreading like a fine lace across the sand. I observe myself in a long white beautiful dress, strolling along the shore, my brown hair wavy with intricate flowers placed carefully on it. Holding the hand of my husband, with his tousled sandy hair, well dressed in a suit, the photographers scatter around them capturing their moment surrounded by a picturesque beach view. They Did we just change from first to second person? I'm not sure who the bride is anymore. stop and pose while kissing, the lady flashing her chunky diamond sitting neatly on her ring finger on her left hand, the wedding guests cheer and clap for joy.
At level 31 the elevator stops and the doors open. I reach out and grab the cradle sitting on the carpet. I bring it inside and place it in my husbands arms. Hidden under the blankets a small hand creeps out curling its fingers around my pinky. Her brand new eyes glisten eagerly scanning her surroundings of the elevator.
The elevator grinded to a halt at level 34 as the doors strike open uncovering a deadly car crash between a car and a truck. My brother alights from the elevator as I watch the paramedics lift a deceased body, covered in a white blanket, onto the ambulance bed, shutting the doors behind them. The doors close unexpectedly, signifying there is no more to see, or perhaps no more I should see for my own good. I desperately press the level 33 button as it begins to fade. My need and desire to go back and appreciate previous time I spent with my brother flooded through me. A noise of declination is sounded and I am reminded that the elevator is on a one way journey upwards. I love the idea of pressing the level 33 button - trying to go back. And the word choice of "fades" links wonderfully with the earlier statement that you can't see buttons below. Clever thinking! :)
The flickering of the elevator light illuminates level 40, the doors opening to the hallway of a retirement home. My mother steps out and waves a goodbye to us with a solemn smile covering her face. Without much to say or do a seconds pause is allowed before the elevator prepares for its long ascent. The doors slammed shut and the lift whizzed up with a echoing brrroiing.
At level 79 the elevator stops. The faded paint on the wall begins peeling away like bark off atree a eucalyptus, perhaps? Simply identifying the tree brings so much more vivid imagery. . The doors jam halfway through opening, requiring the combined effort of everyone in the elevator to forcefully pull the doors open. A community hospital room is plastered across the walls of the elevator. My husband steps out while doctors and nurses rush to the bed he lay upon, supporting him in his lasts breathes, I hold tightly to his hand as his final seconds are consumed. The thundering crash of the doors closing alerts everyone before the elevator ascends once again.
By level 82, the worn carpet is patchy and the light flickering is so faint, requiring everyone's phone flashlights to illuminate the elevator. The paint on the inside walls of the elevator is mostly on the floor. A musty stale odour lingers, signifying its use and age. At level 82, my departure from the elevator has come. I wave goodbye to my loved ones as they watch the screen I will shortly appear on. I step out of the elevator and watch as the doors close behind me, carrying the others on the journey they have yet to come.
Notes about my story just incase it doesn't make sense...
The elevators life is symbolism and parallel to the protagonists. At the start the elevator is nice and new and everything is working but as its life progresses it begins malfunctioning, the carpet is worn, the light stops working. The purpose of the other elevator members is to show that during the end of your life you have to rely on others to help you get through. Also at level 34 the protagonist discovers to appreciate what they have whole they have it because once someone is gone, you can't get them back.
***
The shiny silver elevator doors, no need for a comma here :) silently slid open smoothly revealing a petite middle aged lady, my mother, standing profoundly with her husband, my father.
Bracing to a stop at level 5, a joyful young girl, neatly dressed in fresh school uniform
At level 17 a room full of zombie-like exam students, institutionalised to the exam protocol. The silence permeating the room emphasised the invigorators loud thumps of her high heeled boots as she walked through the classroom delivering papers. The urge to peak at my exam paper flooded me with curiosity but I didn't let the temptation get the better of me. Scribbling my student number and other miscellaneous details on the front cover as instructed the invigorators voice booms through the room.
“You may begin now”
The adrenaline rush floods through me synchronised with the weak breeze produced from the rapid A4 movement. My corneas are covered with a thick layer of secreted water, covering my desert surfaced eyes, obscuring my vision. There's a lot of imagery at once here, and I think it detracts from the poignant significance of the piece, and clouds it a little bit. I like each bit individually, but together it creates a cacophony.
At level 22 the elevator doors open to a university lecture room. I watch as a tanned young adult, with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes strolls in the direction of the elevator, my eyes following his every move. A toothy grin plasters his face as he enters. He wraps a muscular arm around me pulling me close as I sink into the warmth of his embrace.
While stopping at level 28, the elevator doors slide open. We gaze as the white tipped waves crash along the shoreline spreading like a fine lace across the sand. I observe myself in a long white beautiful dress, strolling along the shore, my brown hair wavy with intricate flowers placed carefully on it. Holding the hand of my husband, with his tousled sandy hair, well dressed in a suit, the photographers scatter around them capturing their moment surrounded by a picturesque beach view. They Did we just change from first to second person? I'm not sure who the bride is anymore. stop and pose while kissing, the lady flashing her chunky diamond sitting neatly on her ring finger on her left hand, the wedding guests cheer and clap for joy.
At level 31 the elevator stops and the doors open. I reach out and grab the cradle sitting on the carpet. I bring it inside and place it in my husbands arms. Hidden under the blankets a small hand creeps out curling its fingers around my pinky. Her brand new eyes glisten eagerly scanning her surroundings of the elevator.
The elevator grinded to a halt at level 34 as the doors strike open uncovering a deadly car crash between a car and a truck. My brother alights from the elevator as I watch the paramedics lift a deceased body, covered in a white blanket, onto the ambulance bed, shutting the doors behind them. The doors close unexpectedly, signifying there is no more to see, or perhaps no more I should see for my own good. I desperately press the level 33 button as it begins to fade. My need and desire to go back and appreciate previous time I spent with my brother flooded through me. A noise of declination is sounded and I am reminded that the elevator is on a one way journey upwards. I love the idea of pressing the level 33 button - trying to go back. And the word choice of "fades" links wonderfully with the earlier statement that you can't see buttons below. Clever thinking! :)
The flickering of the elevator light illuminates level 40, the doors opening to the hallway of a retirement home. My mother steps out and waves a goodbye to us with a solemn smile covering her face. Without much to say or do a seconds pause is allowed before the elevator prepares for its long ascent. The doors slammed shut and the lift whizzed up with a echoing brrroiing.
At level 79 the elevator stops. The faded paint on the wall begins peeling away like bark off a
By level 82, the worn carpet is patchy and the light flickering is so faint, requiring everyone's phone flashlights to illuminate the elevator. The paint on the inside walls of the elevator is mostly on the floor. A musty stale odour lingers, signifying its use and age. At level 82, my departure from the elevator has come. I wave goodbye to my loved ones as they watch the screen I will shortly appear on. I step out of the elevator and watch as the doors close behind me, carrying the others on the journey they have yet to come.
Notes about my story just incase it doesn't make sense...
The elevators life is symbolism and parallel to the protagonists. At the start the elevator is nice and new and everything is working but as its life progresses it begins malfunctioning, the carpet is worn, the light stops working. The purpose of the other elevator members is to show that during the end of your life you have to rely on others to help you get through. Also at level 34 the protagonist discovers to appreciate what they have whole they have it because once someone is gone, you can't get them back.
I think this is a very clever concept. There are a few things to tweak, and I think that the beauty of having such a conceptually rich story early on is that you can keep twisting and turning it to get it wonderful! Right now, there are some "voice" things to work on, creating an authentic voice. Similarly, the expression of some sentences needs some tweaking so that it really sounds like the voice of the protagonist at different stages of life, and not a narrator. I've suggested some ways towards the beginning, but please clarify if you aren't sure if it makes sense.
I understood the elevator concept without your explanation at the end! So that's great! I liked having little realisations throughout the piece. I'm wondering if the very first sentence is needed? I just don't know if it gives too much away too soon? And we don't find out who says it? What's your thoughts on this?
Also, I think we could add a slightly different layer. Potentially, at the beginning, the protagonist expresses how much he or she wants to get to the top, to the balcony. So that kind of desire to grow up is proven to be not so ideal after all, I think this adds another level of discovery, which is great, but it also adds a little more complexity without much hassle for you.
This is a great piece and you should be really proud of what you've come up with!
Let me know what you think about my suggestions...happy to flesh things out more :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on November 11, 2016, 02:55:26 pm
In the HSC, how many marks would this Discovery story receive, at the point it is at now?
I don't quite feel comfortable giving this marks just yet, but rather I can comment on the narrative. You've got the foundations of a really good story here, that's the beauty of having a completed piece so early on in the year. I think at the moment, it lacks in discovery, but it can easily be emphasised. So, the ending is a nice moment of a facade coming down, it's a nice relief, it's a joy to read. The way that we emphasise that as an important moment of discovery is by having more of an internal shift earlier on. Currently, the plot is very action/narrative based, it follows the sequence of the events and focuses more on physicality than emotion. I'll suggest the idea of building up what this girl wants as being ulterior? It means shifting your protagonist's perspective a bit, but it means that you'd emphasise discovery. Perhaps the protagonist is very skeptical of the girl, perhaps the girl is despised for being too clever, or too loud. Or maybe, that loud idea is the way to go - and we build up the girl to be loud and boisterous and sometimes irritating. Then, when she asks if everything is ok, we discover the way a person may not match their exterior, we discover my perspectives and attitudes, and we discovery transformed perspectives.
This is just one idea...
Hopefully this makes some kind of sense to you? Of course, you could disregard my suggestion all together, but I definitely think that you should consider the way that we build up a discovery throughout the story, so that the current ending ties it all in together. Your aim should be to tick as many discovery boxes as you can, and still maintain a very engaging story. I think you've got the foundations there, the plot exists. It's just about twisting little bits and pieces until we really emphasise more discovery aspects. :)
Post by: reenashainz on November 15, 2016, 02:10:15 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on November 16, 2016, 11:54:20 am
Could you please give me feedback on my creative?
We require 15 posts in order to give feedback for a piece of work (essay or creative). In the quiet period, we have been able to give feedback to students with less than the required amount of posts. However, the quiet period is quickly ending as the assessments for the first term of HSC are coming in.
Here is your creative:
Spoiler
Soft linen scrunches tenfolds between her youthful, delicate fingers. Waking up and finding herself swimming in her sunken bedroom
sheets. She lays peacefully beside her parents as the sun is yet to escalate. As the sun rays reflect off her glimmering eyes, her small
feet buoyantly just started springing across the worn out, wooden floors. She joyously sings good morning, with all the strength and
volume she has in her voice box to wake them up. Her toes click musically as she runs across the room to the window sill. She looks
outside the window and starts to sway her body like the yellow daffodils and tulips dancing with the wind outside.
“BURRING BURRING!” The doorbell rings unanticipated. Mia tries to raise herself self up by tippy-toeing on her two bare feet to
open the door and struggles as she tries all over again. She thought she opened the door for once. Until her father comes silently
maneuvering behind her and unexpectedly lifts her up to help her open the door. A carton of milk sits on the welcome home rug
outside. Mia spots a piece of paper attached to the carton. It seemed to be some kind of propaganda with an unfamiliar British man
pointing at you. Her father snatches the note off with his eyes barely getting off it; deeply staring at it with jingoistic and patriotic
heartfelt.
The wind of spring’s day drives through the trees all day. Mia is outside picking flowers on the cracked pavements and mumbles
words to a christmas song. From a distance, Mia becomes alerted as her father boisterously calls her name out. With his arms open
wide, he drops all his bags and is overwhelmed with happiness as he awaits his daughter’s embrace. Her cheeks flourish with
pinkness as she skips over the vibrant grass. She abundantly leaps into her father’s arms with the biggest smile reaching to the edges
of her cheek dimples on her freckled pink face. She looks into his large hazel eyes and meekly questions him, ‘where are you going?’.
Her father’s eyes start to suffuse with redness as he is about to overflow with a rainfall of tears. Holding it all back for his daughter, he
instinctively brings her little body back into his arms grasping her tightly and shakily saying, ‘I’ll be back, I promise Mia.’
’ ZZZZ ZZZZ!’ static sounds echo from the kitchen. She tries to twist the dusty knob on the vintage radio soundlessly but does it with
utter clumsiness. Mia tunes the knob ever so slightly to one frequency figuring out herself, and hears one man shout ‘Britons want
you! Join your country’s army!’ and abruptly changes to another man demandingly clamoring, ‘Women of Britain says Go!’. She
places one hand on the tuner and the other on the edge of the dusty kitchen shelf as she slowly positions her ears right next to the
speakers of the radio. Her ears vibrate as the men’s enthusiastic voices amplify right into her eardrums. She tilts her head eagerly with
her hands scratching her head while she seems intrigued and fascinated by how the sounds are possibly impending out of that old
little device.
Someone forcefully knocks the door as he repeatedly exclaims, ‘Mail is here!, Mail is here!’. It seems to be the mail-man. Bizarre, that
he didn’t ring the doorbell. Mia’s mother starts running to the door and opens it. It’s not the mail-man. For a swift second, Mia
thought it was her father and got overly excited. But, he was just wearing a similar green-brown uniform as what her father was
wearing when he left to go somewhere. Elaine starts frantically asking questions, ‘How is he? Did something happen? Why hasn’t he
been writing back?’ Her palms begin to permeate with fluctuated sweat as lines as she frowns with distress. Mia goes back to her
room. Elaine rips the envelope open gently and starts reading the letter. One phrase that stood amongst the most is that he is
missing in action. They can’t find him, his missing in action ever since the first 5 days in the trenches.
Mia starts to inquisitively question ‘Is daddy coming back home? Who is that man?’ Her mother looks her into her aqua-green eyes
and hopelessly affirms her that her father will be home soon, before christmas. Then after that, Mia’s mother tells her that her dad is a
war hero. That he is resilient and strong just like Mia was, she told her to stay strong even if her father might be gone. Mia starts to
bind up the bits of unravelled puzzles and pieces in her mind and figures out why he had to leave. To save our country. It makes her
even weary, as this new revelation has made her miss her father even more. She’s now full of questions and becomes eager to know
about war and all the rescue stories her father has achieved.
Time has passed so mercilessly. So she stood and waited. Time and hope ticked away little by little, masticating every bit of her
conserved optimism. The frost outside grows a little along the window panes. Inside, her own warmth began to culminate foggy
residue, she draws a picture of the moment he left and promised, locking her into a dragging world of her own. She clenches an
ancient locket necklace on the window sill everyday; that final tick in which promises long made were becoming broken by the
inevitable march of time.
The doorbell rings, not once but several times. Disquieted, she quietly mumbles under her breath, murmuring who it is behind that
frozen door. Mia’s mother begins to slide the door open when…
It was him. “I promised I’d be back, remember?”
sheets. She lays peacefully beside her parents as the sun is yet to escalate. As the sun rays reflect off her glimmering eyes, her small
feet buoyantly just started springing across the worn out, wooden floors. She joyously sings good morning, with all the strength and
volume she has in her voice box to wake them up. Her toes click musically as she runs across the room to the window sill. She looks
outside the window and starts to sway her body like the yellow daffodils and tulips dancing with the wind outside.
“BURRING BURRING!” The doorbell rings unanticipated. Mia tries to raise herself self up by tippy-toeing on her two bare feet to
open the door and struggles as she tries all over again. She thought she opened the door for once. Until her father comes silently
maneuvering behind her and unexpectedly lifts her up to help her open the door. A carton of milk sits on the welcome home rug
outside. Mia spots a piece of paper attached to the carton. It seemed to be some kind of propaganda with an unfamiliar British man
pointing at you. Her father snatches the note off with his eyes barely getting off it; deeply staring at it with jingoistic and patriotic
heartfelt.
The wind of spring’s day drives through the trees all day. Mia is outside picking flowers on the cracked pavements and mumbles
words to a christmas song. From a distance, Mia becomes alerted as her father boisterously calls her name out. With his arms open
wide, he drops all his bags and is overwhelmed with happiness as he awaits his daughter’s embrace. Her cheeks flourish with
pinkness as she skips over the vibrant grass. She abundantly leaps into her father’s arms with the biggest smile reaching to the edges
of her cheek dimples on her freckled pink face. She looks into his large hazel eyes and meekly questions him, ‘where are you going?’.
Her father’s eyes start to suffuse with redness as he is about to overflow with a rainfall of tears. Holding it all back for his daughter, he
instinctively brings her little body back into his arms grasping her tightly and shakily saying, ‘I’ll be back, I promise Mia.’
’ ZZZZ ZZZZ!’ static sounds echo from the kitchen. She tries to twist the dusty knob on the vintage radio soundlessly but does it with
utter clumsiness. Mia tunes the knob ever so slightly to one frequency figuring out herself, and hears one man shout ‘Britons want
you! Join your country’s army!’ and abruptly changes to another man demandingly clamoring, ‘Women of Britain says Go!’. She
places one hand on the tuner and the other on the edge of the dusty kitchen shelf as she slowly positions her ears right next to the
speakers of the radio. Her ears vibrate as the men’s enthusiastic voices amplify right into her eardrums. She tilts her head eagerly with
her hands scratching her head while she seems intrigued and fascinated by how the sounds are possibly impending out of that old
little device.
Someone forcefully knocks the door as he repeatedly exclaims, ‘Mail is here!, Mail is here!’. It seems to be the mail-man. Bizarre, that
he didn’t ring the doorbell. Mia’s mother starts running to the door and opens it. It’s not the mail-man. For a swift second, Mia
thought it was her father and got overly excited. But, he was just wearing a similar green-brown uniform as what her father was
wearing when he left to go somewhere. Elaine starts frantically asking questions, ‘How is he? Did something happen? Why hasn’t he
been writing back?’ Her palms begin to permeate with fluctuated sweat as lines as she frowns with distress. Mia goes back to her
room. Elaine rips the envelope open gently and starts reading the letter. One phrase that stood amongst the most is that he is
missing in action. They can’t find him, his missing in action ever since the first 5 days in the trenches.
Mia starts to inquisitively question ‘Is daddy coming back home? Who is that man?’ Her mother looks her into her aqua-green eyes
and hopelessly affirms her that her father will be home soon, before christmas. Then after that, Mia’s mother tells her that her dad is a
war hero. That he is resilient and strong just like Mia was, she told her to stay strong even if her father might be gone. Mia starts to
bind up the bits of unravelled puzzles and pieces in her mind and figures out why he had to leave. To save our country. It makes her
even weary, as this new revelation has made her miss her father even more. She’s now full of questions and becomes eager to know
about war and all the rescue stories her father has achieved.
Time has passed so mercilessly. So she stood and waited. Time and hope ticked away little by little, masticating every bit of her
conserved optimism. The frost outside grows a little along the window panes. Inside, her own warmth began to culminate foggy
residue, she draws a picture of the moment he left and promised, locking her into a dragging world of her own. She clenches an
ancient locket necklace on the window sill everyday; that final tick in which promises long made were becoming broken by the
inevitable march of time.
The doorbell rings, not once but several times. Disquieted, she quietly mumbles under her breath, murmuring who it is behind that
frozen door. Mia’s mother begins to slide the door open when…
It was him. “I promised I’d be back, remember?”
The creative is smooth, it flows well and is easy to follow. As a reader, we don't learn a lot. At the end of the story, I don't feel as though I've been moved in any particular type of discovery. I've just got a fuzzy feeling at the end (which is credits to you for making me feel that!) but it won't tick discovery boxes from a marker just yet. I think there needs to be a more sinister level to this story in order for it to be great. The Story of an Hour is a quick short story that might display to you a good example of how you can add a sinister level to a one-dimensioned story.
Her cheeks flourish with pinkness as she skips over the vibrant grass. She abundantly leaps into her father’s arms with the biggest smile reaching to the edges of her cheek dimples on her freckled pink face. This writing is a little verbose, there's lots of happy imagery packed into the one spot, but there's no deep emotion - it's all surface value. So digging deeper into her thoughts might be the best way in to creating a deeper level of discovery.
Post by: SSSS on November 20, 2016, 10:21:17 am
Thanks!! :D
Her hand raised from behind her, soaring through the icy air before splashing back into the water. Her other arm followed, while her face remained underwater blowing numerous bubbles. After a few strokes, Emma’s head would turn towards a random side, leaning her head onto her arm for a brief moment, attempting to grasp the air back into her empty lungs. Reluctantly, she would place her head back into the water, forcing her arms on either side to move.
Nearly reaching the end of the pool, Emma raised her head from the water. Her arms lay beside her legs, as she walked towards the end of the pool.
Leaning her back onto the wall, Emma noticed the small movements of the water edging towards her because of the other swimmers reaching the end.
Yet Emma focused onto her breathing. She removed her delicate goggles and placed them around her neck. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she lowered her hands and closed her eyes. Leaning onto the wall of the pool once again, the movements of the water reminded her of the crashing waves onto the shore.
Home. Emma recalled the beach shack. The scent of the salty water would make her brothers eyes sting. Her mother would laugh, a rich chuckle erupting from her small frame.
“Emma!” the smile on Emma’s face vanished as her eyes vividly opened. She turned towards the other side, noticing James, a past friend.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. Still hitting pools, are you?” his emerald eyes glistened under the fluorescent lights, while his dried lips tugged at the end of his face.
“Yeah. Mum really wants me to do well for the next competition I have so I’ve been practising a lot. What are you doing here? Thought you hated the pools,” Emma bit her lip, attempting to stop a chuckle from erupting from her mouth.
“Go on, that was such a while ago,” even James couldn’t hold his smile as his usual smirk appeared. Emma’s shoulders shook from her laughter, where nearby swimmers looked towards them with disapproving looks.
“Oh James. You were so confident you could swim in the deep pool, and then your mum came running after you. And her face. She knew you would do something like that,” Emma’s laugh began to die out.
“I know, you’re all jealous. Being a risk taker is quite a skill. Anyways, I won’t take up too much of your time. Good luck for your next competition, but I know you’ll ace it,” Emma noticed that even though James usual smile was plastered onto his face, his emerald eyes looked towards Emma with something different.
“Just keep swimming, just keep swimming,” with a wave, he turned towards the exit, probably looking for the bathroom.
Emma wondered what had just happened, yet she couldn’t pinpoint what had made him say that.
Looking towards the large clock, Emma noticed she only had a short time before having to leave. She began to place her goggles back onto her face, when she realised that they weren’t hers. It was her brothers. The knots attempting to fix the broken goggles reassured her it wasn’t hers, yet she couldn’t believe that her brothers goggles were still kept from such a while ago.
Sam, Emma’s brother, had stopped swimming for a while. Emma pondered onto her childhood, remembering that she always saw her older brother as ambitious and had something that she wanted to be. The support he had from his mum and his friends made Emma more determined to be a good swimmer.
Yet, he stopped swimming a while ago. It wasn’t a hobby anymore for him, but apparently something “vicious”.
Emma still could not comprehend how laid back he had became these days, as she took a deep breath before plunging into the water to swim another lap.
Her arms barely moved along either sides of her body. Emma thoughts pondered onto the long hours she would sleep these days. Emma turned towards the right, with her eyebrows knotted together in confusion. She wondered why she was so tired. Placing her face back into the pool, she realised it wasn’t only today she felt like this but a long time. Yet she had slept more than enough.
Yet the lethargic feeling within her body remained, which was quite irregular. She reasoned it was probably the swimming getting to her.
Yet as she pushed herself through the water, she warily swam. Numerously either hand extended, attempting to touch the end of the pool. Yet it never came.
Amber raised herself, noticing she was only halfway. Her eyes squinted, as she began to go back to her swimming routine where her thoughts led her back to ocean.
Emma recalled the regular picnics her family had on the beach. The light sandwiches along with the apple juices, yet Emma and her brother eagerly looked towards the ocean. Their smiles were painted onto their face, as they couldn’t wait to enter the wide ocean. Once they had finished, they couldn’t wait as they would run towards the shore, with their mum treading behind him. Looking towards each other, they would place their toes into the water, jerking back with a scream as the iciness of the water reached them.
Yet nothing would stop them. They would eagerly then place their feet, followed by their knees, till their whole bodies were wet with their smiles still plastered onto their faces.
Emma stood up, her hand banging onto her chest. With her head bowed down and her eyebrows knotted together, she barely could grasp any air. Choking on any remains, she finally was able to take deep breaths. Pushing her chest and releasing helped Emma, as she pondered onto the happiness her brother had shared with her.
Yet as she looked up towards the end of the pool, there was no more fun and games.
Before plunging into the water, Emma reminded herself “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming”.
Post by: elysepopplewell on November 21, 2016, 08:40:02 am
Hey!! SO my creative is due in four days!! It has a huge weighting in terms of my internal assessment and I would appreciate any feedback. My main issue with it is that I feel the discovery isn't very clear.
Thanks!! :D
Hey there! My thoughts are in bold font in the spoiler below :)
Spoiler
Her hand raised from behind her, soaring through the icy air before splashing back into the water. Her other arm followed, while her face remained underwater blowing numerous This quantifying word seems a little too calculated for the sentence, and that's simply because it was a numerical sound to its name. Infinite, maybe? I'm being picky, though! This is subjective. bubbles. After a few strokes, Emma’s head would turn towards a random side, leaning her head onto her arm for a brief moment, attempting to grasp the air back into her empty lungs. Reluctantly, she would place her head back into the water, forcing her arms on either side to move.
Nearly reaching the end of the pool, Emma raised her head from the water. Her arms lay beside her legs, as she walked towards the end of the pool. I've underlined where you can see the repetition used in a way that doesn't scream creative. As she walked towards the edge? As she walked towards the shallow end? I'm also wondering if waded is better than walked - with walked I get this "Jesus talking on water" vibe and I don't think that accurately represents what is happening.
Leaning her back onto the wall, Emma noticed the small movements of the water edging towards her because of the other swimmers reaching the end.
Yet Emma focused onto her breathing. She removed her delicate goggles and placed them around her neck. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she lowered her hands and closed her eyes. Leaning onto the wall of the pool once again, the movements of the water reminded her of the crashing waves onto the shore.
Home. Emma recalled the beach shack. The scent of the salty water would make her brothers eyes sting. Her mother would laugh, a rich chuckle erupting from her small frame.
“Emma!” the smile on Emma’s face vanished as her eyes vividly opened. She turned towards the other side, noticing James, a past friend.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. Still hitting pools, are you?” his emerald eyes glistened under the fluorescent lights, while his dried lips tugged at the end of his face. I really like the imagery of the lips!
“Yeah. Mum really wants me to do well for the next competition I have so I’ve been practising a lot. What are you doing here? Thought you hated the pools,” Emma bit her lip, attempting to stop a chuckle from erupting from her mouth.
“Go on, that was such a while ago,” even James couldn’t hold his smile as his usual smirk appeared. Emma’s shoulders shook from her laughter, where nearby swimmers looked towards them with disapproving looks.
“Oh James. You were so confident you could swim in the deep pool, and then your mum came running after you. And her face. She knew you would do something like that,” Emma’s laugh began to die out.
“I know, you’re all jealous. Being a risk taker is quite a skill. Anyways, I won’t take up too much of your time. Good luck for your next competition, but I know you’ll ace it,” Emma noticed that even though James usual smile was plastered onto his face, his emerald eyes looked towards Emma with something different.
“Just keep swimming, just keep swimming,” with a wave, he turned towards the exit, probably looking for the bathroom.
Emma wondered what had just happened, yet she couldn’t pinpoint what had made him say that.
Looking towards the large clock, Emma noticed she only had a short time before having to leave. She began to place her goggles back onto her face, when she realised that they weren’t hers. It was her brothers. We just went from they to it - and it sounds a bit awkward. Be consistent here, just because it's in such close succession. The knots attempting to fix the broken goggles Are the knots trying to fix the broken goggles? Rephrase this, it doesn't quite make sense. reassured her it wasn’t hers, yet she couldn’t believe that her brothers goggles were still kept from such a while ago.
Sam, Emma’s brother, had stopped swimming for a while. Emma pondered onto her childhood, remembering that she always saw her older brother as ambitious and had something that she wanted to be. The support he had from his mum and his friends made Emma more determined to be a good swimmer.
Yet, he stopped swimming a while ago. It wasn’t a hobby anymore for him, but apparently something “vicious”.
Emma still could not comprehend how laid back he had became these days, I'd split this into two sentences and get rid of "as" - it sounds more pensive in two. as she took a deep breath before plunging into the water to swim another lap.
Her arms barely moved along either sides of her body. Here would be a nice spot for imagery, perhaps about how she glides through the water? Like a torpedo or like a tortoise? Emma thoughts pondered onto the long hours she would sleep these days. Emma turned towards the right, with her eyebrows knotted together in confusion. She wondered why she was so tired. Placing her face back into the pool, she realised it wasn’t only today she felt like this but a long time. Yet she had slept more than enough.
Yet the lethargic feeling within her body remained, which was quite irregular. She reasoned it was probably the swimming getting to her. The long hours of swimming? The motion of swimming? The exercise? Currently it sounds like swimming is a vicious act to her - we need to identify the source of these feelings in order for it to be meaningful.
Yet as she pushed herself through the water, she warily swam.Numerously This doesn't make sense - perhaps, alternating? I don't even think it needs a word here.either hand extended, attempting to touch the end of the pool. Yet it never came.
Amber raised herself, noticing she was only halfway. Her eyes squinted, as she began to go back to her swimming routine where her thoughts led her back to ocean.
Emma recalled the regular picnics her family had on the beach. The light sandwiches along with the apple juices, yet Emma and her brother eagerly looked towards the ocean. Their smiles were painted onto their face, as they couldn’t wait to enter the wide ocean. Once they had finished, they couldn’t wait as they would run towards the shore, with their mum treading behind him. Looking towards each other, they would place their toes into the water, jerking back with a scream as the iciness of the water reached them.
Yet nothing would stop them. They would eagerly then place their feet, followed by their knees, till their whole bodies were wet with their smiles still plastered onto their faces.
Emma stood up, her hand banging onto her chest. With her head bowed down and hereyebrows knotted together, Second time using this - change it up for optimum effect :) she barely could grasp any air. Choking on any remains, she finally was able to take deep breaths. Pushing her chest and releasing helped Emma, as she pondered onto the happiness her brother had shared with her.
Yet as she looked up towards the end of the pool, there was no more fun and games.
Before plunging into the water, Emma reminded herself “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming”.
Nearly reaching the end of the pool, Emma raised her head from the water. Her arms lay beside her legs, as she walked towards the end of the pool. I've underlined where you can see the repetition used in a way that doesn't scream creative. As she walked towards the edge? As she walked towards the shallow end? I'm also wondering if waded is better than walked - with walked I get this "Jesus talking on water" vibe and I don't think that accurately represents what is happening.
Leaning her back onto the wall, Emma noticed the small movements of the water edging towards her because of the other swimmers reaching the end.
Yet Emma focused onto her breathing. She removed her delicate goggles and placed them around her neck. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she lowered her hands and closed her eyes. Leaning onto the wall of the pool once again, the movements of the water reminded her of the crashing waves onto the shore.
Home. Emma recalled the beach shack. The scent of the salty water would make her brothers eyes sting. Her mother would laugh, a rich chuckle erupting from her small frame.
“Emma!” the smile on Emma’s face vanished as her eyes vividly opened. She turned towards the other side, noticing James, a past friend.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. Still hitting pools, are you?” his emerald eyes glistened under the fluorescent lights, while his dried lips tugged at the end of his face. I really like the imagery of the lips!
“Yeah. Mum really wants me to do well for the next competition
“Go on, that was such a while ago,” even James couldn’t hold his smile as his usual smirk appeared. Emma’s shoulders shook from her laughter, where nearby swimmers looked towards them with disapproving looks.
“Oh James. You were so confident you could swim in the deep pool, and then your mum came running after you. And her face. She knew you would do something like that,” Emma’s laugh began to die out.
“I know, you’re all jealous. Being a risk taker is quite a skill. Anyways, I won’t take up too much of your time. Good luck for your next competition, but I know you’ll ace it,” Emma noticed that even though James usual smile was plastered onto his face, his emerald eyes looked towards Emma with something different.
“Just keep swimming, just keep swimming,” with a wave, he turned towards the exit, probably looking for the bathroom.
Emma wondered what had just happened, yet she couldn’t pinpoint what had made him say that.
Looking towards the large clock, Emma noticed she only had a short time before having to leave. She began to place her goggles back onto her face, when she realised that they weren’t hers. It was her brothers. We just went from they to it - and it sounds a bit awkward. Be consistent here, just because it's in such close succession. The knots attempting to fix the broken goggles Are the knots trying to fix the broken goggles? Rephrase this, it doesn't quite make sense. reassured her it wasn’t hers, yet she couldn’t believe that her brothers goggles were still kept from such a while ago.
Sam, Emma’s brother, had stopped swimming for a while. Emma pondered onto her childhood, remembering that she always saw her older brother as ambitious and had something that she wanted to be. The support he had from his mum and his friends made Emma more determined to be a good swimmer.
Yet, he stopped swimming a while ago. It wasn’t a hobby anymore for him, but apparently something “vicious”.
Emma still could not comprehend how laid back he had became these days, I'd split this into two sentences and get rid of "as" - it sounds more pensive in two. as she took a deep breath before plunging into the water to swim another lap.
Her arms barely moved along either sides of her body. Here would be a nice spot for imagery, perhaps about how she glides through the water? Like a torpedo or like a tortoise? Emma thoughts pondered onto the long hours she would sleep these days. Emma turned towards the right, with her eyebrows knotted together in confusion. She wondered why she was so tired. Placing her face back into the pool, she realised it wasn’t only today she felt like this but a long time. Yet she had slept more than enough.
Yet as she pushed herself through the water, she warily swam.
Amber raised herself, noticing she was only halfway. Her eyes squinted, as she began to go back to her swimming routine where her thoughts led her back to ocean.
Emma recalled the regular picnics her family had on the beach. The light sandwiches along with the apple juices, yet Emma and her brother eagerly looked towards the ocean. Their smiles were painted onto their face, as they couldn’t wait to enter the wide ocean. Once they had finished, they couldn’t wait as they would run towards the shore, with their mum treading behind him. Looking towards each other, they would place their toes into the water, jerking back with a scream as the iciness of the water reached them.
Yet nothing would stop them. They would eagerly then place their feet, followed by their knees, till their whole bodies were wet with their smiles still plastered onto their faces.
Emma stood up, her hand banging onto her chest. With her head bowed down and her
Yet as she looked up towards the end of the pool, there was no more fun and games.
Before plunging into the water, Emma reminded herself “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming”.
You've called it right - the discovery needs some work. The writing could do with some more refining, and I've suggested where. It's just about making your word choices really meaningful - like every word is an opportunity to evoke meaning and reveal discovery. This is a process every single creative in the state will need to go through, of course, so you're following the expected course of action :)
For discovery, it isn't clear to me. A lot happens in this pool, but at the same time, not a lot happens in the pool? The entire story is set in the pool and I don't feel as though the protagonist has developed from the start to finish. I see that the brother is a strong influence - I just can't make the connection to the significance of the goggles? It could be because that bit was written a bit unclearly, which I've mentioned above. But I want to know more about the brother, why have his opinions on swimming changed? Why did they both begin swimming in the first place? What makes her continue? Why are the mum's hopes so important? All of these things come into play when we inject the story with meaning. For the discovery to be meaningful, the reader needs to feel some kind of journey with the protagonist from start to finish...the reader needs to feel the growth as significant.
Feel free to tell me your hopes and aspirations for the story - what kind of discovery are you hoping to tackle? What's your desired effect on the reader? and I can give you my thoughts, if you'd like :)
Post by: SSSS on November 21, 2016, 05:16:47 pm
By the way, for the creative I read your feedback and I feel that the converstaion with her friend doesn't add meaning [does it?]. SO would it be smart to have her swimming and have the flashbacks to her childhood, that she realises she yearns because of the freedom and joy it filled her with in contrast to her reality.
Thanks so much!!
Post by: elysepopplewell on November 21, 2016, 05:44:34 pm
Hey. Thanks so much for the feedback! The discovery is that ultimately she realises how serious her life is, and she longs for her childhood. For instance, when shes tired, its meant to be symbolic of how shes tired of her life and the responsibilities she has. For the swimming, her and her brother swam as they found it fun when they were younger but as they grew, it seemed more like something they had to do for others as their mum pushes them to do well. Do you think if I work on your creative and work on the discovery I could at least get 12? Or do you guys not give marks?
By the way, for the creative I read your feedback and I feel that the converstaion with her friend doesn't add meaning [does it?]. SO would it be smart to have her swimming and have the flashbacks to her childhood, that she realises she yearns because of the freedom and joy it filled her with in contrast to her reality.
Thanks so much!!
Okay! I'm following your mind set a bit more here. I do think that there still needs to be some structural adjustments made to emphasise the discovery. Currently, I'm reading this: She's swimming to train for a competition, her brother and her used to swim a lot, she meets an old friend who can't believe she's still swimming after all this time, she suddenly has her brother's goggles on, she's swimming, feeling tired again because she wants to go back to when she was young.
I think there are two main areas for improvement in the structure: Describing the younger days more, and giving her a very intense purposeful awakening towards the end.
You're explaining to me that the younger days were full of freedom, but that doesn't come through to me in the story. In the story I'm seeing that the brother and sister used to swim together, but I don't really know why - I don't know if it was playful in a backyard, at the beach, or was it swimming laps with an instructor? I can't connect to that time before because I don't know enough about it, which is stopping me from appreciating the discovery at the end.
As for the second suggestion - I think at the end she needs to have an awakening that is very clear. The "just keep swimming" (reminds me of Dory) doesn't elucidate a big shift in mindset, it actually suggests continuing the mindset. I'll throw some suggestions out, but of course you should only take what you think is useful. So, she could get to the end and realise that she's only swimming because she's good at it, it's part of her identity, and because people expect it of her...and when she meets her old friend she realises how stagnant she is even though everyone else has changed. To me, this idea of changing all but her would be emphasised better with the adjustment at the start of the story to kind of fertilise the discovery.
I see what you're doing with your story, I just don't think that it's all adding up coherently. Your story is on the verge of getting another layer of meaning, which is exciting. At present, the discovery is a bit weak, but simply by tweaking what you have, rather than changing it all together, we can manipulate new meaning. :)
Post by: SSSS on November 21, 2016, 05:50:52 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on November 21, 2016, 06:00:14 pm
You do not understand how amazing your feedback was!! I wish a teacher would break it down the way you did. I am going to work on my creative based on your feedback, it all makes sense. When you split the story into sections, it made sense that it is not cohesive. So I will work on that, thanks so much!! ;D
Woohoo! So glad to hear this. I'm glad it makes sense :) Feel free to drop back any time if you have questions. Go well, good luck! ;D
Post by: SSSS on November 22, 2016, 11:26:55 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on November 22, 2016, 11:54:13 pm
Hey! So my creative is due on thursday! Anyways, I wanted to ask that with my narrative, I feel like I have fixed the main issues that you have highlighted and the discovery has improved. Yet I don't think the creative is strong. But the problem is when I try to edit, I am not doing much. What should I do?
A bit of a crazy idea, write it again! Meaning put your current draft aside and write the story again on the spot!! Try not to just rewrite your current draft either ;D
The reason I suggest this is that it will force you to break the cyclic pattern of changing a word here, a phrase there, etc. It will generate new ideas, and ultimately get you to look at things in a different light, perhaps figure out why you aren't quite liking your current version :) you might do something in the new one you love and you can integrate it!
The point being, try to get yourself away from your current version, generate some new ideas, look at things a little differently! :)
Post by: SSSS on November 23, 2016, 07:06:39 am
Her hand raised from behind her, soaring through the icy air before splashing back into the water. Her other arm followed, while her face remained underwater blowing infinite bubbles. After a few strokes, Emma’s head would turn towards a random side, leaning her head onto her arm for a brief moment, attempting to grasp the air back into her empty lungs. Reluctantly, she would place her head back into the water, forcing her arms on either side to move.
Reaching the edge of the pool, Emma leaned her back onto the cold wall. Closing her eyes, Emma focused onto her breathing. She felt small movements of the water edging towards her, because of the other swimmers reaching the end of the lane.
The image of the crashing waves onto the glossy shore filled Emma’s mind.
Home.
Emma recalled the small beach shack she had lived in every summer. It was so close to the beach, that the scent of the salty water would make her brothers eyes sting. A rich chuckle would erupt from her mother’s small frame every morning at the sight of her brothers red eyes. Apparently it reminded her of her father and how sensitive he was to anything.
“Emma!” turning towards the other side, Emma noticed James, a past friend from years ago.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. Still hitting the pools, are you?” his emerald eyes glistened under the fluorescent lights, while his dried lips tugged at the end of his face.
“Yeah, like the old days,” Emma’s lips slightly turned at the words she had uttered.
“Oh yeah, I remember. How’s it been?” Emma nodded in response.
“Well, while you compete with your razor arms spiralling against the water, I’ll be in the outdoor pools with my mates having fun. I’d tell you to come but I’m assuming your busy,” James innocent smirk began to seem like a smile plastered onto his face, as he wiped his sweaty hands onto his board shorts.
“Oh, you know me so well. See you,” Emma looked towards James, who gave a half smile before exiting the indoor pool with his head rolled forward.
Emma’s lips etched onto the sides of her face, her eyes sparkling at the presence of an old friend. Emma pushed herself through the water, her thoughts pondering onto the memories she had shared with James.
At a young age, Emma and her brother, along with their mother, would be at the beach on a regular basis with other friends including James. The beach was a place that was special for each one of them. The children would giggle over the continuous waves splashing onto the shore, while the parents relaxed under the illuminating sunlight and soft sand under their feet.
Emma turned towards her right, she inhaled with her moth wide open before placing her head back into the water. She attempted to focus onto her task, but the faint memory of her with James and her brother distracted her.
Emma recollected her memories of that one day, where it was only Emma’s family along with James who had went to the beach in order to escape the heat. The moment they were at the beach, Emma, her brother and James ran towards the shore with Emma’s mum treading behind them.
Looking towards each other, they would place their toes into the water, jerking back with a scream as the iciness of the water reached them.
Yet nothing would stop them. They would eagerly walk further into the ocean, where their feet were wet, followed by their knees, till their whole bodies were soaked with their smiles still painted onto their youthful faces.
Touching the cold wall at the end of the lane, Emma waddled in the pool. She pondered onto her conversation with James, that evoked an uneasy feeling within her.
Pinpointing what it was, her eyes widened. The way James shoulders swayed along with his smirk onto his face, reminded Emma of the passion he had towards swimming blurred where his social life seemed more interesting. Her brother had also stopped a while ago, Emma realised. He had begun to focus onto other things in his life.
Emma’s arms crossed over each other, wrapping themselves in a defensive manner. Her thoughts spiralled in her mind. She thought about James and her brother, and the changes they had gone through. Unable to grasp with her realisation, her trembling hands attempted to wipe away the blonde, baby hairs nearing her face. Her wide eyes looked into the distance. With her blue lips parted, all that went through her head was the world around her.
Yet, she questioned herself, why am I swimming?
It didn’t provide her with anything. Her arms yelled in agony, completing the forceful acts of stroking through the water day after day.
But Emma knew. Swimming was something that she had since she was young. Her life had spiralled around her, from different people, homes and schools.
And as she had clinged onto something she didn’t want, Emma realised. Everyone had moved on. Everyone, but her.
Post by: elysepopplewell on November 23, 2016, 06:24:52 pm
Hey!! SO I took tour advice and wrote it again, and there is a major difference in my creative!! Thanks so much!! I would really like some feedback onto it, as today is the last time I can work on it before handing it in. Thanks guys for the advice and feedback whenever I'm stuck, much appreciated ! ;D
Hey! So glad that you're seeing a difference! Sorry that I didn't see this earlier today, but hopefully you've still got some time this afternoon :)
Spoiler
Her hand raised from behind her, soaring through the icy air before splashing back into the water. Her other arm followed, while her face remained underwater blowing infinite bubbles. After a few strokes, Emma’s head would turn towards a random side, leaning her head onto her arm for a brief moment, attempting to grasp the air back into her empty lungs. Reluctantly, she would place her head back into the water, forcing her arms on either side to move. Nice!
Reaching the edge of the pool, Emma leaned her back onto the cold wall. Closing her eyes,Emma she focused onto her breathing. She felt small movements of the water edging towards her, because of the other swimmers reaching the end of the lane.
The image of the crashing waves onto the glossy shore filled Emma’s mind.
Home.
Emma recalled the small beach shack she had lived in every summer. It was so close to the beach, that the scent of the salty water would make her brothers eyes sting. A rich chuckle would erupt from her mother’s small frame every morning at the sight of her brothers red eyes. Apparently it reminded her of her father and how sensitive he was to anything. I really like this, it gives more depth! Something for a reader to look at with fondness.
“Emma!” turning towards the other side, Emma noticed James, a past friend from years ago. He crouched down at the pool's edge with a grin while Emma swam over. <<Something like this just puts the pieces back together again after the flashback.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. Still hitting the pools, are you?” his emerald eyes glistened under the fluorescent lights, I just realised that I assumed she was outside doing laps this entire time. I think you should establish where the pool is earlier, only because we talk about the beach as well and it makes for some confusing imagery. If it's indoors, I don't think you can avoid talking about the smell of chlorine, if it's anything like my local pool.while his dried lips tugged at the end of his face.
“Yeah, like the old days,” Emma’s lips slightly turned at the words she had uttered.
“Oh yeah, I remember. How’s it been?” Emma nodded in response.
“Well, while you compete with your razor arms spiralling against the water, I’ll be in the outdoor pools with my mates having fun. I’d tell you to come but I’m assuming your busy,” This comes across as a little salty from James, is this your intention? "You're more than welcome to come, but I'm sure you're busy" is less condescending in tone, if you'd prefer to make James like that, but it's up to you! James innocent smirk began to seem like a smile plastered onto his face, as he wiped his sweaty hands onto his board shorts. This bit is super important though - James has so much more importance now in the story, he's now become an integral piece, whereas previously he was a mysterious floating character.
“Oh, you know me so well. See you,” Emma looked towards James, who gave a half smile before exiting the indoor pool with his head rolled forward.
Emma’s lips etched onto the sides of her face, her eyes sparkling at the presence of an old friend. Emma pushed herself through the water, her thoughts pondering onto the memories she had shared with James.
At a young age, Emma and her brother, along with their mother, would be at the beach on a regular basis with other friends including James. The beach was a place that was special for each one of them. The children would giggle over the continuous waves splashing onto the shore, while the parents relaxed under the illuminating sunlight and soft sand under their feet.
Emma turned towards her right, she inhaled with her moth wide open beforeplacing plunging...I don't know why but I feel like plunging works best here. Placing is a bit too graceful, when I think plunging represents some kind of heaviness of her situation as the discovery sets in early. her head back into the water. She attempted to focus onto her task, stroke? but the faint memory of her with James and her brother distracted her.
Emma recollected her memories of that one day, where it was only Emma’s family along with James who had went to the beach in order to escape the heat. The moment they were at the beach, Emma, her brother and James ran towards the shore with Emma’s mum treading behind them.
Looking towards each other, they would place their toes into the water, jerking back with a scream as the iciness of the water reached them.
Yet nothing would stop them. They would eagerly walk further into the ocean, where their feet were wet, followed by their knees, till their whole bodies were soaked with their smiles still painted onto their youthful faces.
Touching the cold wall at the end of the lane, Emma waddled in the pool. She pondered onto her conversation with James, that evoked an uneasy feeling within her.
Pinpointing what it was, her eyes widened. I can't imagine eyes widening without chlorine getting all up in there...maybe this is a spot for a tiny bit of imagery? The way James shoulders swayed along with his smirk onto his face, reminded Emma of the passion he had towards swimming blurred where his social life seemed more interesting. Her brother had also stopped a while ago, Emma realised. He had begun to focus onto other things in his life.
Emma’s arms crossed over each other, wrapping themselves in a defensive manner. Her thoughts spiralled in her mind. She thought about James and her brother, and the changes they had gone through. Unable to grasp with her realisation, her trembling hands attempted to wipe away the blonde, baby hairs nearing her face. Her wide eyes looked into the distance. With her blue lips parted, all that went through her head was the world around her.
Yet, she questioned herself, why am I swimming?
It didn’t provide her with anything. Her arms yelled in agony, completing the forceful acts of stroking through the water day after day.
But Emma knew. Swimming was something that she had since she was young. Her life had spiralled around her, from different people, homes and schools.
And as she had clinged onto something she didn’t want, Emma realised. Everyone had moved on. Everyone, but her.
Reaching the edge of the pool, Emma leaned her back onto the cold wall. Closing her eyes,
The image of the crashing waves onto the glossy shore filled Emma’s mind.
Home.
Emma recalled the small beach shack she had lived in every summer. It was so close to the beach, that the scent of the salty water would make her brothers eyes sting. A rich chuckle would erupt from her mother’s small frame every morning at the sight of her brothers red eyes. Apparently it reminded her of her father and how sensitive he was to anything. I really like this, it gives more depth! Something for a reader to look at with fondness.
“Emma!” turning towards the other side, Emma noticed James, a past friend from years ago. He crouched down at the pool's edge with a grin while Emma swam over. <<Something like this just puts the pieces back together again after the flashback.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. Still hitting the pools, are you?” his emerald eyes glistened under the fluorescent lights, I just realised that I assumed she was outside doing laps this entire time. I think you should establish where the pool is earlier, only because we talk about the beach as well and it makes for some confusing imagery. If it's indoors, I don't think you can avoid talking about the smell of chlorine, if it's anything like my local pool.while his dried lips tugged at the end of his face.
“Yeah, like the old days,” Emma’s lips slightly turned at the words she had uttered.
“Oh yeah, I remember. How’s it been?” Emma nodded in response.
“Well, while you compete with your razor arms spiralling against the water, I’ll be in the outdoor pools with my mates having fun. I’d tell you to come but I’m assuming your busy,” This comes across as a little salty from James, is this your intention? "You're more than welcome to come, but I'm sure you're busy" is less condescending in tone, if you'd prefer to make James like that, but it's up to you! James innocent smirk began to seem like a smile plastered onto his face, as he wiped his sweaty hands onto his board shorts. This bit is super important though - James has so much more importance now in the story, he's now become an integral piece, whereas previously he was a mysterious floating character.
“Oh, you know me so well. See you,” Emma looked towards James, who gave a half smile before exiting the indoor pool with his head rolled forward.
Emma’s lips etched onto the sides of her face, her eyes sparkling at the presence of an old friend. Emma pushed herself through the water, her thoughts pondering onto the memories she had shared with James.
At a young age, Emma and her brother, along with their mother, would be at the beach on a regular basis with other friends including James. The beach was a place that was special for each one of them. The children would giggle over the continuous waves splashing onto the shore, while the parents relaxed under the illuminating sunlight and soft sand under their feet.
Emma turned towards her right, she inhaled with her moth wide open before
Emma recollected her memories of that one day, where it was only Emma’s family along with James who had went to the beach in order to escape the heat. The moment they were at the beach, Emma, her brother and James ran towards the shore with Emma’s mum treading behind them.
Looking towards each other, they would place their toes into the water, jerking back with a scream as the iciness of the water reached them.
Yet nothing would stop them. They would eagerly walk further into the ocean, where their feet were wet, followed by their knees, till their whole bodies were soaked with their smiles still painted onto their youthful faces.
Touching the cold wall at the end of the lane, Emma waddled in the pool. She pondered onto her conversation with James, that evoked an uneasy feeling within her.
Pinpointing what it was, her eyes widened. I can't imagine eyes widening without chlorine getting all up in there...maybe this is a spot for a tiny bit of imagery? The way James shoulders swayed along with his smirk onto his face, reminded Emma of the passion he had towards swimming blurred where his social life seemed more interesting. Her brother had also stopped a while ago, Emma realised. He had begun to focus onto other things in his life.
Emma’s arms crossed over each other, wrapping themselves in a defensive manner. Her thoughts spiralled in her mind. She thought about James and her brother, and the changes they had gone through. Unable to grasp with her realisation, her trembling hands attempted to wipe away the blonde, baby hairs nearing her face. Her wide eyes looked into the distance. With her blue lips parted, all that went through her head was the world around her.
Yet, she questioned herself, why am I swimming?
It didn’t provide her with anything. Her arms yelled in agony, completing the forceful acts of stroking through the water day after day.
But Emma knew. Swimming was something that she had since she was young. Her life had spiralled around her, from different people, homes and schools.
And as she had clinged onto something she didn’t want, Emma realised. Everyone had moved on. Everyone, but her.
Bravo! Wonderfullllll! The ending is so much more wholesome now, it all feels tied together wonderfully! The discovery is so much clearer. I think that you've set yourself in a brilliant position to keep coming back to this story and tweaking it as new ideas come about. Right now, there's not a lot of feedback from me, but I'm really keen to know what your teacher thinks! Then we can go from there, a new perspective to consider, and then we can keep developing the story before half yearlies, trials, and eventually, HSC! You're in a really good spot here because so many students won't have a good creative until half yearlies, but you've got a good one now, and it's just a matter of small tweaks to keep updating it as you get more ideas...more perspective...etc :) You should be proud of this, you've worked so hard on it! :)
Post by: SSSS on November 23, 2016, 07:43:04 pm
Hey! So glad that you're seeing a difference! Sorry that I didn't see this earlier today, but hopefully you've still got some time this afternoon :)SpoilerHer hand raised from behind her, soaring through the icy air before splashing back into the water. Her other arm followed, while her face remained underwater blowing infinite bubbles. After a few strokes, Emma’s head would turn towards a random side, leaning her head onto her arm for a brief moment, attempting to grasp the air back into her empty lungs. Reluctantly, she would place her head back into the water, forcing her arms on either side to move. Nice!
Reaching the edge of the pool, Emma leaned her back onto the cold wall. Closing her eyes,Emmashe focused ontoher breathing. She felt small movements of the water edging towards her, because of the other swimmers reaching the end of the lane.
The image of the crashing waves onto the glossy shore filled Emma’s mind.
Home.
Emma recalled the small beach shack she had lived in every summer. It was so close to the beach, that the scent of the salty water would make her brothers eyes sting. A rich chuckle would erupt from her mother’s small frame every morning at the sight of her brothers red eyes. Apparently it reminded her of her father and how sensitive he was to anything. I really like this, it gives more depth! Something for a reader to look at with fondness.
“Emma!” turning towards the other side, Emma noticed James, a past friend from years ago. He crouched down at the pool's edge with a grin while Emma swam over. <<Something like this just puts the pieces back together again after the flashback.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. Still hitting the pools, are you?” his emerald eyes glistened under the fluorescent lights, I just realised that I assumed she was outside doing laps this entire time. I think you should establish where the pool is earlier, only because we talk about the beach as well and it makes for some confusing imagery. If it's indoors, I don't think you can avoid talking about the smell of chlorine, if it's anything like my local pool.while his dried lips tugged at the end of his face.
“Yeah, like the old days,” Emma’s lips slightly turned at the words she had uttered.
“Oh yeah, I remember. How’s it been?” Emma nodded in response.
“Well, while you compete with your razor arms spiralling against the water, I’ll be in the outdoor pools with my mates having fun. I’d tell you to come but I’m assuming your busy,” This comes across as a little salty from James, is this your intention? "You're more than welcome to come, but I'm sure you're busy" is less condescending in tone, if you'd prefer to make James like that, but it's up to you! James innocent smirk began to seem like a smile plastered onto his face, as he wiped his sweaty hands onto his board shorts. This bit is super important though - James has so much more importance now in the story, he's now become an integral piece, whereas previously he was a mysterious floating character.
“Oh, you know me so well. See you,” Emma looked towards James, who gave a half smile before exiting the indoor pool with his head rolled forward.
Emma’s lips etched onto the sides of her face, her eyes sparkling at the presence of an old friend. Emma pushed herself through the water, her thoughts pondering onto the memories she had shared with James.
At a young age, Emma and her brother, along with their mother, would be at the beach on a regular basis with other friends including James. The beach was a place that was special for each one of them. The children would giggle over the continuous waves splashing onto the shore, while the parents relaxed under the illuminating sunlight and soft sand under their feet.
Emma turned towards her right, she inhaled with her moth wide open beforeplacingplunging...I don't know why but I feel like plunging works best here. Placing is a bit too graceful, when I think plunging represents some kind of heaviness of her situation as the discovery sets in early. her head back into the water. She attempted to focus onto her task,stroke? but the faint memory of her with James and her brother distracted her.
Emma recollected her memories of that one day, where it was only Emma’s family along with James who had went to the beach in order to escape the heat. The moment they were at the beach, Emma, her brother and James ran towards the shore with Emma’s mum treading behind them.
Looking towards each other, they would place their toes into the water, jerking back with a scream as the iciness of the water reached them.
Yet nothing would stop them. They would eagerly walk further into the ocean, where their feet were wet, followed by their knees, till their whole bodies were soaked with their smiles still painted onto their youthful faces.
Touching the cold wall at the end of the lane, Emma waddled in the pool. She pondered onto her conversation with James, that evoked an uneasy feeling within her.
Pinpointing what it was, her eyes widened. I can't imagine eyes widening without chlorine getting all up in there...maybe this is a spot for a tiny bit of imagery? The way James shoulders swayed along with his smirk onto his face, reminded Emma of the passion he had towards swimming blurred where his social life seemed more interesting. Her brother had also stopped a while ago, Emma realised. He had begun to focus onto other things in his life.
Emma’s arms crossed over each other, wrapping themselves in a defensive manner. Her thoughts spiralled in her mind. She thought about James and her brother, and the changes they had gone through. Unable to grasp with her realisation, her trembling hands attempted to wipe away the blonde, baby hairs nearing her face. Her wide eyes looked into the distance. With her blue lips parted, all that went through her head was the world around her.
Yet, she questioned herself, why am I swimming?
It didn’t provide her with anything. Her arms yelled in agony, completing the forceful acts of stroking through the water day after day.
But Emma knew. Swimming was something that she had since she was young. Her life had spiralled around her, from different people, homes and schools.
And as she had clinged onto something she didn’t want, Emma realised. Everyone had moved on. Everyone, but her.
Bravo! Wonderfullllll! The ending is so much more wholesome now, it all feels tied together wonderfully! The discovery is so much clearer. I think that you've set yourself in a brilliant position to keep coming back to this story and tweaking it as new ideas come about. Right now, there's not a lot of feedback from me, but I'm really keen to know what your teacher thinks! Then we can go from there, a new perspective to consider, and then we can keep developing the story before half yearlies, trials, and eventually, HSC! You're in a really good spot here because so many students won't have a good creative until half yearlies, but you've got a good one now, and it's just a matter of small tweaks to keep updating it as you get more ideas...more perspective...etc :) You should be proud of this, you've worked so hard on it! :)
Oh my god!! I was jumping because of your feedback!! I was stressing but now I am more relaxed as I didn't think it was good. Thank you SO MUCH for the continious feedback as my creative wouldn't be what it was without your incredible help! I'll work on the feedback and print off for tomorrow!! THANK YOU!
Post by: elysepopplewell on November 23, 2016, 08:19:33 pm
Oh my god!! I was jumping because of your feedback!! I was stressing but now I am more relaxed as I didn't think it was good. Thank you SO MUCH for the continious feedback as my creative wouldn't be what it was without your incredible help! I'll work on the feedback and print off for tomorrow!! THANK YOU!
Woohoo! I'm so glad I could help :) I'm really keen to know what your teacher thinks of it! Again...it's early days. Which is what makes this so good, if this is just the beginning, it's going to go great places! :)
Post by: deanna.chamanaev on December 13, 2016, 05:24:07 pm
Creative
“I’m sorry, the results indicate you won’t be able to have a child.”
You would expect in this moment some heartbreaking emotional display right? Whether that be the classic ‘waterfall’ of tears, as the doctor tries to calm your blubbering with the prepared offer of Aloe Vera infused tissues. Or perhaps the stuttering of speech as you try to grasp what you just heard, hoping its just a very sick sense of humour. However it wasn’t my face that held a look of surprise and bewilderment that fine day, but instead Doctor Williams’, the poor man not knowing what to do with his newly bought box of tissues.
For the sound that filled that canary-coloured room, was laughter.
~~~~
I remember my seventh birthday party. I remember the array of coloured balloons strewn across the backyard. I remember the bedazzled crown I got to wear as I smiled a proud smile though my two front teeth were missing. I remember the sprinkled fairy bread I ate and the marshmallows that charred over the fire pit and the squeaky boing the trampoline made when it was given attention. But mostly I remember the amount of dolls I got gifted. From the modern Malibu Barbie in her pink beach attire to a vintage Victorian doll dressed in white satin and a lace bonnet to cover her brunette curls. And while young me was grateful for these new possessions, I hadn’t a clue to what they were for. I couldn't fathom how they could bring anyone entertainment until I let our Rottweiler Pup use Barbie as a chew toy. I was later told these dolls were supposed to be my children and me their mother that would care and lavish them with a variety of garments. Unfortunately for my plastic children, their dresses didn't quite fit their gnawed figures.
~~~~
In high school, I used to waste the sweltering summer days consumed with thoughts of my future. My friend, Mary, would drag me to the park where we would lay with our backs on a blanket of grass and our eyes transfixed to the subtle movement of the clouds, planning out the entire life of our hypothetical children. From their favourite snacks for a Saturday soccer game to their choice of hairstyle as they went through their rebellious years. There was one day, where the shade had provided little comfort against the hot wind and the clouds had whittled away along with the desire to be outside, that the playing of this game became as unwanted as lukewarm water. Yet I endured, the grass like itchy wool to bare limbs, throwing out names and bedroom colours and outfits while other kids my age threw their Frisbees and run around and lived out the punk phase of my imaginary teens. I became so engrossed in this game of pretend I forget about home, meaning by the time I sprinted through the maze of shortcuts and climbed the mini Everest’s to the withered rose garden of my secluded house, the Sun’s dial had turned down a notch to ‘Slight Sauna Sensation’, but I was already toast. The frustrated gruffs from my mother as she attempted to keep the gas stove on without faltering indicated a lengthy lecture ahead of me. The rose print tea towel and ladle became an extension of her gestures, for dramatic flair of course, while her fierce eyes dared me to answer the accusations of my whereabouts. It was as if she on stage, her character melodiously and melodramatically venting to character two: The Uncooked Chicken. And there, in the final scene of mother’s pointed attack and the daunting question ‘what are you doing with your life’, I could only think of my plan to start a Tambourine trio with my hypothetical triplets.
~~~~
We were strolling along the paved pathways of the park towards the pop up stalls, when I begun to quicken my pace as soon as Mother brought up the topic. Hoping some sugary strawberry sweetness would curb her mind’s curious appetite; I blurted out an order for two Ice-cream Dreams, my panting breath warranting an exasperated sigh from her. The stall lady with a spirited smile, created soft swirls that towered greater than an ice cream cone was designed for. And as much as I tried to prolong the ice-cream licking process, nature was not in my favour as the heat left little sticky trails of vanilla all over my hands, the drizzle venturing from my gold ring to the tips of my fingers. It was once we were sitting on bench, the ice creams gone, that the rapid-fire interrogation began. And her question ‘when are you going to give me grandchildren’ loomed over me, for I wasn’t sure what to reply.
~~~~
“Mrs Childs, are you sure you’re okay?”
A genuine smile rose across my face. That simple piece of news from Doctor Williams confirmed my doubts about wanting children that I held all along. In that moment it seemed ridiculous I considered it in the first place, the thought of some kind of Brady Bunch life. The severity of his tone was hysterical when to me, motherhood was always just a game.
My life’s purpose is not to conceive more life. I am all the life I will need. I am Julia Childs without a child.
But you can just call me Julia.
You would expect in this moment some heartbreaking emotional display right? Whether that be the classic ‘waterfall’ of tears, as the doctor tries to calm your blubbering with the prepared offer of Aloe Vera infused tissues. Or perhaps the stuttering of speech as you try to grasp what you just heard, hoping its just a very sick sense of humour. However it wasn’t my face that held a look of surprise and bewilderment that fine day, but instead Doctor Williams’, the poor man not knowing what to do with his newly bought box of tissues.
For the sound that filled that canary-coloured room, was laughter.
~~~~
I remember my seventh birthday party. I remember the array of coloured balloons strewn across the backyard. I remember the bedazzled crown I got to wear as I smiled a proud smile though my two front teeth were missing. I remember the sprinkled fairy bread I ate and the marshmallows that charred over the fire pit and the squeaky boing the trampoline made when it was given attention. But mostly I remember the amount of dolls I got gifted. From the modern Malibu Barbie in her pink beach attire to a vintage Victorian doll dressed in white satin and a lace bonnet to cover her brunette curls. And while young me was grateful for these new possessions, I hadn’t a clue to what they were for. I couldn't fathom how they could bring anyone entertainment until I let our Rottweiler Pup use Barbie as a chew toy. I was later told these dolls were supposed to be my children and me their mother that would care and lavish them with a variety of garments. Unfortunately for my plastic children, their dresses didn't quite fit their gnawed figures.
~~~~
In high school, I used to waste the sweltering summer days consumed with thoughts of my future. My friend, Mary, would drag me to the park where we would lay with our backs on a blanket of grass and our eyes transfixed to the subtle movement of the clouds, planning out the entire life of our hypothetical children. From their favourite snacks for a Saturday soccer game to their choice of hairstyle as they went through their rebellious years. There was one day, where the shade had provided little comfort against the hot wind and the clouds had whittled away along with the desire to be outside, that the playing of this game became as unwanted as lukewarm water. Yet I endured, the grass like itchy wool to bare limbs, throwing out names and bedroom colours and outfits while other kids my age threw their Frisbees and run around and lived out the punk phase of my imaginary teens. I became so engrossed in this game of pretend I forget about home, meaning by the time I sprinted through the maze of shortcuts and climbed the mini Everest’s to the withered rose garden of my secluded house, the Sun’s dial had turned down a notch to ‘Slight Sauna Sensation’, but I was already toast. The frustrated gruffs from my mother as she attempted to keep the gas stove on without faltering indicated a lengthy lecture ahead of me. The rose print tea towel and ladle became an extension of her gestures, for dramatic flair of course, while her fierce eyes dared me to answer the accusations of my whereabouts. It was as if she on stage, her character melodiously and melodramatically venting to character two: The Uncooked Chicken. And there, in the final scene of mother’s pointed attack and the daunting question ‘what are you doing with your life’, I could only think of my plan to start a Tambourine trio with my hypothetical triplets.
~~~~
We were strolling along the paved pathways of the park towards the pop up stalls, when I begun to quicken my pace as soon as Mother brought up the topic. Hoping some sugary strawberry sweetness would curb her mind’s curious appetite; I blurted out an order for two Ice-cream Dreams, my panting breath warranting an exasperated sigh from her. The stall lady with a spirited smile, created soft swirls that towered greater than an ice cream cone was designed for. And as much as I tried to prolong the ice-cream licking process, nature was not in my favour as the heat left little sticky trails of vanilla all over my hands, the drizzle venturing from my gold ring to the tips of my fingers. It was once we were sitting on bench, the ice creams gone, that the rapid-fire interrogation began. And her question ‘when are you going to give me grandchildren’ loomed over me, for I wasn’t sure what to reply.
~~~~
“Mrs Childs, are you sure you’re okay?”
A genuine smile rose across my face. That simple piece of news from Doctor Williams confirmed my doubts about wanting children that I held all along. In that moment it seemed ridiculous I considered it in the first place, the thought of some kind of Brady Bunch life. The severity of his tone was hysterical when to me, motherhood was always just a game.
My life’s purpose is not to conceive more life. I am all the life I will need. I am Julia Childs without a child.
But you can just call me Julia.
Mod Edit: Added spoiler :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on December 14, 2016, 09:25:25 am
Hey Hey can you please check if it makes sense?? I have had no feedback from my teacher please help a girl out. Thankyou so much!!
Hey Deanna! Welcome to the forums! ;D super happy to have you around :)
So to get detailed feedback on your creative, you need 15 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay. This is to ensure that the service remains attainable for the markers, and that it doesn't become too clogged. So if you hang around the site for a bit and ask a few questions, you will get those really quick ;D
That said, I did have a skim of your creative last night (I went to Coldplay and couldn't sleep, haha!) and I really really like it. You've got a great tone in your writing and some excellent use of literary technique. The story idea is fantastic and I love the way you've started at the end and then backtracked, that sets up a sense of intrigue expertly and that interest carries through the piece. Simply wonderful, definitely makes sense ;D
One note, is the name Julia Child supposed to be a reference to the famous chef? Any reason for it?
On that read, I think the one big piece of feedback I'd offer is to not use techniques just for the sake of using them. In places there were techniques that felt out of place, weird word choices that seemed to be for the purposes of including alliteration/assonance, and verbose language that didn't really suit. Places felt awkward, and I think that is coming from being over-active in your use of techniques (or maybe not). It should just be natural; include similes/analogies when it is natural to do so!
Basically, tone back on the techniques/verbosity in some places, just a tad, it reads like you are trying a bit too hard :) that said, excellent work! As I said, if you hang around and rack up those 15 posts, I'd be happy to give some detailed feedback ;D
Post by: kb123 on December 15, 2016, 10:13:51 am
Any tips for a more solid ending? Any other feedback in general?
Carefully placing the fluorescent lamp onto the rocky earth of the 6.5-million-ton Egyptian pyramid, Vitaly slipped his back pack full of tools off his tense shoulders. His muscles let out a cry of relief as they relaxed. However, his lungs did not cooperate with the hot, humid air around him and his back screamed in protest to the metre-high limestone tunnel he had squirmed through in order to reach his destination. Thank God he wasn’t a tall man, his spine would have suffered from the constant strain. His clothes and hazel hair were ruffled and the airborne dust mixed with the sticky sweat on his skin, painting his face a light brown. But it didn’t bother Vitaly - his many months of planning were at last being put into action. He could now uncover what lay underneath the pyramid that had stood still, unchanged for thousands of years.
Taking out a small chisel, he commenced cautiously chipping away at the wall in front of him. The stone crumbled away like dry cookies, building up small mountains of sand granules near his booted feet. It pained him to hurt the pyramid like this, breaking apart the stone that had stood unaltered for eons, but nevertheless, Vitaly felt at peace – he was away from the University auditorium, away from the foolish Head of the History Department Mr Stiff (what Vitaly liked to call him), who ignored his opinion towards the true purpose of the pyramids, rooted in the century-old view of them as tombs. Every time Vitaly brought it up, Stiff told him to just give up, that nobody would ever believe him without decisive evidence…
He could taste anger starting to form on his tongue.
Evidence! Egyptians used their pyramids as observatories? You and your crazy ideas…
“Just you wait until I come back with the proof.” Vitaly hissed under his breath, slamming the tool into the wall with all his strength.
He had stopped arguing with his boss long ago – the man would only have dragged Vitaly down to his level. Stiff was only a historian – he didn’t have a PhD in astronomy like Vitaly. He couldn’t comprehend his extraordinary theories.
Continuing to hammer at the rock, Vitaly struggled to avoid inhaling the particles of dust that scratched at his throat, yet the fact that he was breathing in the pyramid, gaining its power of resistance he worshipped like a god, made it bearable. The fury soon drained out of him as the sound of metal grinding against the stone filled his ears.
Krrrgh… Krrgh… Krrgh-
Ching!
The unusual chime knocked his breath out of him as a waterfall of adrenalin flooded his body. He observed the area he had just hit - a transparent lense-like object was embedded within the rock. Vitaly leaned close, bringing his eye right against the circular glass.
His vision was instantly enveloped with an artistic display of sparkling silver studs against a pitch black backdrop. He stumbled onto his back, astounded by what he had just seen.
This was it! He had found it! The evidence he needed to prove his theory that the pyramids were observatories. It was unquestionable!
“YES!” he yelled, his voice sending echoes through the tunnel. “Finally!”
At double the speed, he chiselled the rock away, uncovering a thick, metallic tube that pointed upwards, as though it was connected to outer space.
“Here’s your evidence, bastard.” Vitaly snorted, the sides of his mouth creeping up his cheeks as he took a myriad of photos. Haha Mr Stiff! You think you are so omnipotent that you can’t even consider that Egyptians could have technology such as this. But then he guessed it’s easier to quote the history books, than have the courage to say something original. His revelation was going to challenge Stiff’s views towards the pyramids in a deadly duel. Vitaly visualised himself stuffing the pictures of his excavation into the man’s dumbfounded face.
Packing his things up, Vitaly said his goodbyes to the pyramid that would stand its ground for millennia to come. (if time: the pyramid that would make him famous)
***
“Hmmm…” questioned Stiff as he skimmed through the photos on Vitaly’s camera, his large face scrunched up into a sarcastic expression. Dressed in a wrinkled suit, he sat slumped at an archaic mahogany desk. The office was bordered with shelves upon shelves of antique history books and an owl resided in a filthy, rusted cage adjacent to the desk, its immense eyes rimmed with glistening sadness.
“You think your extraordinary discovery challenges current views on what the pyramids were used for?” Stiff threw his arms up towards the Ancient Egyptian History textbooks covering the walls of the room. “Nice try, but I don’t think the greatest historians on Earth were complete idiots!” The man’s widened eyes mocked Vitaly. “What did I tell you?! Just give up already!”
Vitaly’s teeth grinded against each other, creating a repulsive screech. His cheeks burning with rage, he stomped out of the office.
He wouldn’t believe it…
Then it hit Vitaly like a vigorous punch to his face. His concepts, if developed, would threaten all present understandings of history - who would want that? It’s too hard for people to even consider that everything they trust could be one big fallacy - the apprehension had soaked into his brain like water through a sponge.
Vitaly let out a sigh of disgust. It infuriated him to learn that Stiff wouldn’t even acknowledge the potential of his ideas, sweeping them away like dust under a carpet. He clenched his fist until his veins started to throb.
WE ARE NOT PYRAMIDS!!! Immutability is not an asset for us!!! We must evolve our ideas to advance… We must change our views in order to develop!!!
Vitaly felt like a pebble travelling with the forceful current of the river of thought, unable to alter its direction.
He felt a sudden empathy towards Stiff… Maybe the man had given up on his own dreams in the overwhelming brightness of his own voicelessness.
He glanced back at his boss in the office: his head was in his hands, his tired eyes staring into the emptiness of his desk.
996 words
Post by: deanna.chamanaev on December 16, 2016, 10:57:45 am
Post by: jamonwindeyer on December 16, 2016, 11:01:17 am
Thank you so much!!! I didn't make any reference to the chef that's just a coincidence ahaha. And honestly when it comes to English I am always trying to hard ahahaha thanks :)
Ahaha how funny! I was reading it and I'm like, I knew I had heard this name before!! ;D seriously a great piece, well done, as the year goes on you should pick away at it, add little bits of cut and polish, but if this is what you are starting with then I'm seriously excited to see it progress :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on December 17, 2016, 12:35:49 am
Hi! I got 14/15 for this piece of creative writing - I lost a mark for the fact that the story's "ending does not satisfy the reader" / "no resolution".....
Any tips for a more solid ending? Any other feedback in general?
Hello! Thanks for posting :) I'll give special consideration to the ending... but my thoughts are in bold throughout :)
Spoiler
Carefully placing the fluorescent lamp onto the rocky earth of the 6.5-million-ton Egyptian pyramid, Vitaly slipped his back pack full of tools off his tense shoulders. His muscles let out a cry of relief as they relaxed. However, his lungs did not cooperate with the hot, humid air around him and his back screamed in protest to the metre-high limestone tunnel he had squirmed through in order to reach his destination. Thank God he wasn’t a tall man, his spine would have suffered from the constant strain. His clothes and hazel hair were ruffled and the airborne dust mixed with the sticky sweat on his skin, painting his face a light brown. But it didn’t bother Vitaly - his many months of planning were at last being put into action. He could now uncover what lay underneath the pyramid that had stood still, unchanged for thousands of years. I like everything about this paragraph except the first sentence - I just wish it was a little more crisp and less wordy. There's so much great imagery here!
Taking out a small chisel, Small chisel - this is the perfect kind of crispness I love to read. he commenced cautiously chipping away at the wall in front of him. The stone crumbled away like dry cookies, building up small mountains of sand granules near his booted feet. It pained him to hurt the pyramid like this, breaking apart the stone that had stood unaltered for eons, but nevertheless, Vitaly felt at peace – he was away from the University auditorium, away from the foolish Head of the History Department Mr Stiff (what Vitaly liked to call him), who ignored his opinion towards the true purpose of the pyramids, rooted in the century-old view of them as tombs. Every time Vitaly brought it up in conversation, Stiff told him to just give up, that nobody would ever believe him without decisive evidence…
He could taste anger starting to form on his tongue.
Evidence! Egyptians used their pyramids as observatories? You and your crazy ideas…
“Just you wait until I come back with the proof.” Vitaly hissed under his breath, slamming the tool into the wall with all his strength.
He had stopped arguing with his boss long ago – the man would only have dragged Vitaly down to his level. Stiff was only a historian – he didn’t have a PhD in astronomy like Vitaly. He couldn’t comprehend his extraordinary theories.
Continuing to hammer at the rock, Vitaly struggled to avoid inhaling the particles of dust that scratched at his throat, yet the fact that he was breathing in the pyramid, gaining its power of resistance he worshipped like a god, made it bearable. The fury soon drained out of him as the sound of metal grinding against the stone filled his ears. Yes...I love that he's breathing in the marvel!
Krrrgh… Krrgh… Krrgh-
Ching!
The unusual chime knocked his breath out of him as a waterfall of adrenalin flooded his body. He observed the area he had just hit - a transparent lense-like object was embedded within the rock. Vitaly leaned close, bringing his eye right against the circular glass.
His vision was instantly enveloped with an artistic display of sparkling silver studs against a pitch black backdrop. He stumbled onto his back, astounded by what he had just seen.
This was it! He had found it! The evidence he needed to prove his theory that the pyramids were observatories. It was unquestionable!
“YES!” he yelled, his voice sending echoes through the tunnel. “Finally!”
At double the speed, he chiselled the rock away, uncovering a thick, metallic tube that pointed upwards, as though it was connected to outer space.
“Here’s your evidence, bastard.” Vitaly snorted, the sides of his mouth creeping up his cheeks as he took a myriad of photos. Haha Mr Stiff! You think you are so omnipotent that you can’t even consider that Egyptians could have technology such as this. This is a funny little swap in narrator - suddenly we have "you" but it isn't in quotation. Then we slip back into third person. I think consistency is key here. But then he guessed it’s easier to quote the history books, than have the courage to say something original. His revelation was going to challenge Stiff’s views towards the pyramids in a deadly duel. Vitaly visualised himself stuffing the pictures of his excavation into the man’s dumbfounded face.
Packing his things up, Vitaly said his goodbyes to the pyramid that would stand its ground for millennia to come. (if time: the pyramid that would make him famous)
***
“Hmmm…” questioned Stiff as he skimmed through the photos on Vitaly’s camera, his large face scrunched up into a sarcastic expression. Dressed in a wrinkled suit, he sat slumped at an archaic mahogany desk. The office was bordered with shelves upon shelves of antique history books and an owl resided in a filthy, rusted cage adjacent to the desk, its immense eyes rimmed with glistening sadness.
“You think your extraordinary discovery challenges current views on what the pyramids were used for?” Stiff threw his arms up towards the Ancient Egyptian History textbooks covering the walls of the room. “Nice try, but I don’t think the greatest historians on Earth were complete idiots!” The man’s widened eyes mocked Vitaly. “What did I tell you?! Just give up already!”
Vitaly’s teeth grinded against each other, creating a repulsive screech. His cheeks burning with rage, he stomped out of the office.
He wouldn’t believe it…
Then it hit Vitaly like a vigorous punch to his face. His concepts, if developed, would threaten all present understandings of history - who would want that? It’s too hard for people to even consider that everything they trust could be one big fallacy - the apprehension had soaked into his brain like water through a sponge.
Vitaly let out a sigh of disgust. It infuriated him to learn that Stiff wouldn’t even acknowledge the potential of his ideas, sweeping them away like dust under a carpet. He clenched his fist until his veins started to throb.
WE ARE NOT PYRAMIDS!!! Immutability is not an asset for us!!! I think the capital letters, the exclamation marks, all in the third person narration, is a touch too personal and changes the voice of the story. We must evolve our ideas to advance… We must change our views in order to develop!!!
Vitaly felt like a pebble travelling with the forceful current of the river of thought, unable to alter its direction.
He felt a sudden empathy towards Stiff… Maybe the man had given up on his own dreams in the overwhelming brightness of his own voicelessness.
He glanced back at his boss in the office: his head was in his hands, his tired eyes staring into the emptiness of his desk.
Taking out a small chisel, Small chisel - this is the perfect kind of crispness I love to read. he commenced cautiously chipping away at the wall in front of him. The stone crumbled away like dry cookies, building up small mountains of sand granules near his booted feet. It pained him to hurt the pyramid like this, breaking apart the stone that had stood unaltered for eons, but nevertheless, Vitaly felt at peace – he was away from the University auditorium, away from the foolish Head of the History Department Mr Stiff (what Vitaly liked to call him), who ignored his opinion towards the true purpose of the pyramids, rooted in the century-old view of them as tombs. Every time Vitaly brought it up in conversation, Stiff told him to just give up, that nobody would ever believe him without decisive evidence…
He could taste anger starting to form on his tongue.
Evidence! Egyptians used their pyramids as observatories? You and your crazy ideas…
“Just you wait until I come back with the proof.” Vitaly hissed under his breath, slamming the tool into the wall with all his strength.
He had stopped arguing with his boss long ago – the man would only have dragged Vitaly down to his level. Stiff was only a historian – he didn’t have a PhD in astronomy like Vitaly. He couldn’t comprehend his extraordinary theories.
Continuing to hammer at the rock, Vitaly struggled to avoid inhaling the particles of dust that scratched at his throat, yet the fact that he was breathing in the pyramid, gaining its power of resistance he worshipped like a god, made it bearable. The fury soon drained out of him as the sound of metal grinding against the stone filled his ears. Yes...I love that he's breathing in the marvel!
Krrrgh… Krrgh… Krrgh-
Ching!
The unusual chime knocked his breath out of him as a waterfall of adrenalin flooded his body. He observed the area he had just hit - a transparent lense-like object was embedded within the rock. Vitaly leaned close, bringing his eye right against the circular glass.
His vision was instantly enveloped with an artistic display of sparkling silver studs against a pitch black backdrop. He stumbled onto his back, astounded by what he had just seen.
This was it! He had found it! The evidence he needed to prove his theory that the pyramids were observatories. It was unquestionable!
“YES!” he yelled, his voice sending echoes through the tunnel. “Finally!”
At double the speed, he chiselled the rock away, uncovering a thick, metallic tube that pointed upwards, as though it was connected to outer space.
“Here’s your evidence, bastard.” Vitaly snorted, the sides of his mouth creeping up his cheeks as he took a myriad of photos. Haha Mr Stiff! You think you are so omnipotent that you can’t even consider that Egyptians could have technology such as this. This is a funny little swap in narrator - suddenly we have "you" but it isn't in quotation. Then we slip back into third person. I think consistency is key here. But then he guessed it’s easier to quote the history books, than have the courage to say something original. His revelation was going to challenge Stiff’s views towards the pyramids in a deadly duel. Vitaly visualised himself stuffing the pictures of his excavation into the man’s dumbfounded face.
Packing his things up, Vitaly said his goodbyes to the pyramid that would stand its ground for millennia to come. (if time: the pyramid that would make him famous)
***
“Hmmm…” questioned Stiff as he skimmed through the photos on Vitaly’s camera, his large face scrunched up into a sarcastic expression. Dressed in a wrinkled suit, he sat slumped at an archaic mahogany desk. The office was bordered with shelves upon shelves of antique history books and an owl resided in a filthy, rusted cage adjacent to the desk, its immense eyes rimmed with glistening sadness.
“You think your extraordinary discovery challenges current views on what the pyramids were used for?” Stiff threw his arms up towards the Ancient Egyptian History textbooks covering the walls of the room. “Nice try, but I don’t think the greatest historians on Earth were complete idiots!” The man’s widened eyes mocked Vitaly. “What did I tell you?! Just give up already!”
Vitaly’s teeth grinded against each other, creating a repulsive screech. His cheeks burning with rage, he stomped out of the office.
He wouldn’t believe it…
Then it hit Vitaly like a vigorous punch to his face. His concepts, if developed, would threaten all present understandings of history - who would want that? It’s too hard for people to even consider that everything they trust could be one big fallacy - the apprehension had soaked into his brain like water through a sponge.
Vitaly let out a sigh of disgust. It infuriated him to learn that Stiff wouldn’t even acknowledge the potential of his ideas, sweeping them away like dust under a carpet. He clenched his fist until his veins started to throb.
WE ARE NOT PYRAMIDS!!! Immutability is not an asset for us!!! I think the capital letters, the exclamation marks, all in the third person narration, is a touch too personal and changes the voice of the story. We must evolve our ideas to advance… We must change our views in order to develop!!!
Vitaly felt like a pebble travelling with the forceful current of the river of thought, unable to alter its direction.
He felt a sudden empathy towards Stiff… Maybe the man had given up on his own dreams in the overwhelming brightness of his own voicelessness.
He glanced back at his boss in the office: his head was in his hands, his tired eyes staring into the emptiness of his desk.
I think that something that stops me from loving the ending is the inconsistency in sequence and narration. We discover that people do not want to change, then we still feel anger. I would have thought that because he felt anger before the discovery, that the discovery of the concept of humanity would lead him to feel a different way, we need to see a shift in perspective. This kind of shift takes the reader on a journey rather than leaving us on the outside as we watch Vitaly tear his hair out. I think we could tease out the idea of the discovery a bit more as well. Maybe Vitaly could have vivid memories of the thousands of books he's read in his time, and the hundreds of papers he's written, and the livelihood of everyone in Ancient history, and then realise that this discovery would rock ripples through the entire world, and people don't like that change. Which is when we should bring in the idea about people and pyramids being the same but different (which is a great idea). This kind of reflective process without the anger makes it more meaningful, so that we can see a clear shift.
I love that there is a physical, emotional, intellectual, creative, and somewhat spiritual discovery. It's just about giving each their own space, and the ending needs a little work. I would just adjust the ending there by focusing on the clarity of the voice, the sequence of the revelation, and then just twisting and tweaking them to fit each other beautifully. Your writing style is super clear, and I think that just kneading the ending around a little bit will bring out that last, unquestionable discovery. :)
Post by: kb123 on December 17, 2016, 11:46:58 am
Hello! Thanks for posting :) I'll give special consideration to the ending... but my thoughts are in bold throughout :)SpoilerCarefully placing the fluorescent lamp onto the rocky earth of the 6.5-million-ton Egyptian pyramid, Vitaly slipped his back pack full of tools off his tense shoulders. His muscles let out a cry of relief as they relaxed. However, his lungs did not cooperate with the hot, humid air around him and his back screamed in protest to the metre-high limestone tunnel he had squirmed through in order to reach his destination. Thank God he wasn’t a tall man, his spine would have suffered from the constant strain. His clothes and hazel hair were ruffled and the airborne dust mixed with the sticky sweat on his skin, painting his face a light brown. But it didn’t bother Vitaly - his many months of planning were at last being put into action. He could now uncover what lay underneath the pyramid that had stood still, unchanged for thousands of years. I like everything about this paragraph except the first sentence - I just wish it was a little more crisp and less wordy. There's so much great imagery here!
Taking out a small chisel, Small chisel - this is the perfect kind of crispness I love to read. he commenced cautiously chipping away at the wall in front of him. The stone crumbled away like dry cookies, building up small mountains of sand granules near his booted feet. It pained him to hurt the pyramid like this, breaking apart the stone that had stood unaltered for eons, but nevertheless, Vitaly felt at peace – he was away from the University auditorium, away from the foolish Head of the History Department Mr Stiff (what Vitaly liked to call him), who ignored his opinion towards the true purpose of the pyramids, rooted in the century-old view of them as tombs. Every time Vitaly brought it up in conversation, Stiff told him to just give up, that nobody would ever believe him without decisive evidence…
He could taste anger starting to form on his tongue.
Evidence! Egyptians used their pyramids as observatories? You and your crazy ideas…
“Just you wait until I come back with the proof.” Vitaly hissed under his breath, slamming the tool into the wall with all his strength.
He had stopped arguing with his boss long ago – the man would only have dragged Vitaly down to his level. Stiff was only a historian – he didn’t have a PhD in astronomy like Vitaly. He couldn’t comprehend his extraordinary theories.
Continuing to hammer at the rock, Vitaly struggled to avoid inhaling the particles of dust that scratched at his throat, yet the fact that he was breathing in the pyramid, gaining its power of resistance he worshipped like a god, made it bearable. The fury soon drained out of him as the sound of metal grinding against the stone filled his ears. Yes...I love that he's breathing in the marvel!
Krrrgh… Krrgh… Krrgh-
Ching!
The unusual chime knocked his breath out of him as a waterfall of adrenalin flooded his body. He observed the area he had just hit - a transparent lense-like object was embedded within the rock. Vitaly leaned close, bringing his eye right against the circular glass.
His vision was instantly enveloped with an artistic display of sparkling silver studs against a pitch black backdrop. He stumbled onto his back, astounded by what he had just seen.
This was it! He had found it! The evidence he needed to prove his theory that the pyramids were observatories. It was unquestionable!
“YES!” he yelled, his voice sending echoes through the tunnel. “Finally!”
At double the speed, he chiselled the rock away, uncovering a thick, metallic tube that pointed upwards, as though it was connected to outer space.
“Here’s your evidence, bastard.” Vitaly snorted, the sides of his mouth creeping up his cheeks as he took a myriad of photos. Haha Mr Stiff! You think you are so omnipotent that you can’t even consider that Egyptians could have technology such as this. This is a funny little swap in narrator - suddenly we have "you" but it isn't in quotation. Then we slip back into third person. I think consistency is key here. But then he guessed it’s easier to quote the history books, than have the courage to say something original. His revelation was going to challenge Stiff’s views towards the pyramids in a deadly duel. Vitaly visualised himself stuffing the pictures of his excavation into the man’s dumbfounded face.
Packing his things up, Vitaly said his goodbyes to the pyramid that would stand its ground for millennia to come. (if time: the pyramid that would make him famous)
***
“Hmmm…” questioned Stiff as he skimmed through the photos on Vitaly’s camera, his large face scrunched up into a sarcastic expression. Dressed in a wrinkled suit, he sat slumped at an archaic mahogany desk. The office was bordered with shelves upon shelves of antique history books and an owl resided in a filthy, rusted cage adjacent to the desk, its immense eyes rimmed with glistening sadness.
“You think your extraordinary discovery challenges current views on what the pyramids were used for?” Stiff threw his arms up towards the Ancient Egyptian History textbooks covering the walls of the room. “Nice try, but I don’t think the greatest historians on Earth were complete idiots!” The man’s widened eyes mocked Vitaly. “What did I tell you?! Just give up already!”
Vitaly’s teeth grinded against each other, creating a repulsive screech. His cheeks burning with rage, he stomped out of the office.
He wouldn’t believe it…
Then it hit Vitaly like a vigorous punch to his face. His concepts, if developed, would threaten all present understandings of history - who would want that? It’s too hard for people to even consider that everything they trust could be one big fallacy - the apprehension had soaked into his brain like water through a sponge.
Vitaly let out a sigh of disgust. It infuriated him to learn that Stiff wouldn’t even acknowledge the potential of his ideas, sweeping them away like dust under a carpet. He clenched his fist until his veins started to throb.
WE ARE NOT PYRAMIDS!!! Immutability is not an asset for us!!! I think the capital letters, the exclamation marks, all in the third person narration, is a touch too personal and changes the voice of the story. We must evolve our ideas to advance… We must change our views in order to develop!!!
Vitaly felt like a pebble travelling with the forceful current of the river of thought, unable to alter its direction.
He felt a sudden empathy towards Stiff… Maybe the man had given up on his own dreams in the overwhelming brightness of his own voicelessness.
He glanced back at his boss in the office: his head was in his hands, his tired eyes staring into the emptiness of his desk.
I think that something that stops me from loving the ending is the inconsistency in sequence and narration. We discover that people do not want to change, then we still feel anger. I would have thought that because he felt anger before the discovery, that the discovery of the concept of humanity would lead him to feel a different way, we need to see a shift in perspective. This kind of shift takes the reader on a journey rather than leaving us on the outside as we watch Vitaly tear his hair out. I think we could tease out the idea of the discovery a bit more as well. Maybe Vitaly could have vivid memories of the thousands of books he's read in his time, and the hundreds of papers he's written, and the livelihood of everyone in Ancient history, and then realise that this discovery would rock ripples through the entire world, and people don't like that change. Which is when we should bring in the idea about people and pyramids being the same but different (which is a great idea). This kind of reflective process without the anger makes it more meaningful, so that we can see a clear shift.
I love that there is a physical, emotional, intellectual, creative, and somewhat spiritual discovery. It's just about giving each their own space, and the ending needs a little work. I would just adjust the ending there by focusing on the clarity of the voice, the sequence of the revelation, and then just twisting and tweaking them to fit each other beautifully. Your writing style is super clear, and I think that just kneading the ending around a little bit will bring out that last, unquestionable discovery. :)
Thanks so much for the feedback!
I just have some further questions:
Carefully placing the fluorescent lamp onto the rocky earth of the Egyptian pyramid, Vitaly slipped his back pack full of tools off his tense shoulders.
-by less wordy, do you mean I should simply cut some words out? What do you suggest? Is taking out "6.5 million ton" enough?
WE ARE NOT PYRAMIDS!!! Immutability is not an asset for us!!! I think the capital letters, the exclamation marks, all in the third person narration, is a touch too personal and changes the voice of the story. We must evolve our ideas to advance… We must change our views in order to develop!!!
- how do you suggest I change this?
Thanks heaps again!
Post by: Musa on December 17, 2016, 08:08:03 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on December 18, 2016, 02:09:52 am
Can I use up my posts on this account to have someone else's paper marked If they need urgent help?
Unfortunately not Musa, would be too hard to track that sort of thing :P
Post by: dux99.95 on December 26, 2016, 01:01:29 am
I'm not comfortable sharing my creative online here - just IN CASE parts of it or it completely could get plagiarised or anything.
Could I message you? :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on December 26, 2016, 11:20:27 am
Hey!!
I'm not comfortable sharing my creative online here - just IN CASE parts of it or it completely could get plagiarised or anything.
Could I message you? :)
Hey! Unfortunately we can't; part of the benefit of this service is compiling a list of student works, with associated feedback, kind of like one of those collections you'd buy from BOSTES directly! Only its online, and its free ;) plus, if we did private feedback, it would be much harder to keep track of between the markers, and would just become a little too much to keep up with :P
We've never had any issues with plagiarism though; we did it for a whole year in 2016 and not one problem in any subject :)
Post by: kb123 on December 26, 2016, 08:18:40 pm
Hello! Thanks for posting :) I'll give special consideration to the ending... but my thoughts are in bold throughout :)SpoilerCarefully placing the fluorescent lamp onto the rocky earth of the 6.5-million-ton Egyptian pyramid, Vitaly slipped his back pack full of tools off his tense shoulders. His muscles let out a cry of relief as they relaxed. However, his lungs did not cooperate with the hot, humid air around him and his back screamed in protest to the metre-high limestone tunnel he had squirmed through in order to reach his destination. Thank God he wasn’t a tall man, his spine would have suffered from the constant strain. His clothes and hazel hair were ruffled and the airborne dust mixed with the sticky sweat on his skin, painting his face a light brown. But it didn’t bother Vitaly - his many months of planning were at last being put into action. He could now uncover what lay underneath the pyramid that had stood still, unchanged for thousands of years. I like everything about this paragraph except the first sentence - I just wish it was a little more crisp and less wordy. There's so much great imagery here!
Taking out a small chisel, Small chisel - this is the perfect kind of crispness I love to read. he commenced cautiously chipping away at the wall in front of him. The stone crumbled away like dry cookies, building up small mountains of sand granules near his booted feet. It pained him to hurt the pyramid like this, breaking apart the stone that had stood unaltered for eons, but nevertheless, Vitaly felt at peace – he was away from the University auditorium, away from the foolish Head of the History Department Mr Stiff (what Vitaly liked to call him), who ignored his opinion towards the true purpose of the pyramids, rooted in the century-old view of them as tombs. Every time Vitaly brought it up in conversation, Stiff told him to just give up, that nobody would ever believe him without decisive evidence…
He could taste anger starting to form on his tongue.
Evidence! Egyptians used their pyramids as observatories? You and your crazy ideas…
“Just you wait until I come back with the proof.” Vitaly hissed under his breath, slamming the tool into the wall with all his strength.
He had stopped arguing with his boss long ago – the man would only have dragged Vitaly down to his level. Stiff was only a historian – he didn’t have a PhD in astronomy like Vitaly. He couldn’t comprehend his extraordinary theories.
Continuing to hammer at the rock, Vitaly struggled to avoid inhaling the particles of dust that scratched at his throat, yet the fact that he was breathing in the pyramid, gaining its power of resistance he worshipped like a god, made it bearable. The fury soon drained out of him as the sound of metal grinding against the stone filled his ears. Yes...I love that he's breathing in the marvel!
Krrrgh… Krrgh… Krrgh-
Ching!
The unusual chime knocked his breath out of him as a waterfall of adrenalin flooded his body. He observed the area he had just hit - a transparent lense-like object was embedded within the rock. Vitaly leaned close, bringing his eye right against the circular glass.
His vision was instantly enveloped with an artistic display of sparkling silver studs against a pitch black backdrop. He stumbled onto his back, astounded by what he had just seen.
This was it! He had found it! The evidence he needed to prove his theory that the pyramids were observatories. It was unquestionable!
“YES!” he yelled, his voice sending echoes through the tunnel. “Finally!”
At double the speed, he chiselled the rock away, uncovering a thick, metallic tube that pointed upwards, as though it was connected to outer space.
“Here’s your evidence, bastard.” Vitaly snorted, the sides of his mouth creeping up his cheeks as he took a myriad of photos. Haha Mr Stiff! You think you are so omnipotent that you can’t even consider that Egyptians could have technology such as this. This is a funny little swap in narrator - suddenly we have "you" but it isn't in quotation. Then we slip back into third person. I think consistency is key here. But then he guessed it’s easier to quote the history books, than have the courage to say something original. His revelation was going to challenge Stiff’s views towards the pyramids in a deadly duel. Vitaly visualised himself stuffing the pictures of his excavation into the man’s dumbfounded face.
Packing his things up, Vitaly said his goodbyes to the pyramid that would stand its ground for millennia to come. (if time: the pyramid that would make him famous)
***
“Hmmm…” questioned Stiff as he skimmed through the photos on Vitaly’s camera, his large face scrunched up into a sarcastic expression. Dressed in a wrinkled suit, he sat slumped at an archaic mahogany desk. The office was bordered with shelves upon shelves of antique history books and an owl resided in a filthy, rusted cage adjacent to the desk, its immense eyes rimmed with glistening sadness.
“You think your extraordinary discovery challenges current views on what the pyramids were used for?” Stiff threw his arms up towards the Ancient Egyptian History textbooks covering the walls of the room. “Nice try, but I don’t think the greatest historians on Earth were complete idiots!” The man’s widened eyes mocked Vitaly. “What did I tell you?! Just give up already!”
Vitaly’s teeth grinded against each other, creating a repulsive screech. His cheeks burning with rage, he stomped out of the office.
He wouldn’t believe it…
Then it hit Vitaly like a vigorous punch to his face. His concepts, if developed, would threaten all present understandings of history - who would want that? It’s too hard for people to even consider that everything they trust could be one big fallacy - the apprehension had soaked into his brain like water through a sponge.
Vitaly let out a sigh of disgust. It infuriated him to learn that Stiff wouldn’t even acknowledge the potential of his ideas, sweeping them away like dust under a carpet. He clenched his fist until his veins started to throb.
WE ARE NOT PYRAMIDS!!! Immutability is not an asset for us!!! I think the capital letters, the exclamation marks, all in the third person narration, is a touch too personal and changes the voice of the story. We must evolve our ideas to advance… We must change our views in order to develop!!!
Vitaly felt like a pebble travelling with the forceful current of the river of thought, unable to alter its direction.
He felt a sudden empathy towards Stiff… Maybe the man had given up on his own dreams in the overwhelming brightness of his own voicelessness.
He glanced back at his boss in the office: his head was in his hands, his tired eyes staring into the emptiness of his desk.
I think that something that stops me from loving the ending is the inconsistency in sequence and narration. We discover that people do not want to change, then we still feel anger. I would have thought that because he felt anger before the discovery, that the discovery of the concept of humanity would lead him to feel a different way, we need to see a shift in perspective. This kind of shift takes the reader on a journey rather than leaving us on the outside as we watch Vitaly tear his hair out. I think we could tease out the idea of the discovery a bit more as well. Maybe Vitaly could have vivid memories of the thousands of books he's read in his time, and the hundreds of papers he's written, and the livelihood of everyone in Ancient history, and then realise that this discovery would rock ripples through the entire world, and people don't like that change. Which is when we should bring in the idea about people and pyramids being the same but different (which is a great idea). This kind of reflective process without the anger makes it more meaningful, so that we can see a clear shift.
I love that there is a physical, emotional, intellectual, creative, and somewhat spiritual discovery. It's just about giving each their own space, and the ending needs a little work. I would just adjust the ending there by focusing on the clarity of the voice, the sequence of the revelation, and then just twisting and tweaking them to fit each other beautifully. Your writing style is super clear, and I think that just kneading the ending around a little bit will bring out that last, unquestionable discovery. :)
Do you think I should just cut out the part when he actually meets Stiff and make him stop before going inside the office and showing the evidence, because he had the revelation that his discovery would bring to much change that people wouldn't want?
Post by: RuiAce on December 26, 2016, 09:23:15 pm
Hey!ATARnotes has a policy that you must have 15 posts for each long response to be marked. In the meantime, you may want to take it down.
The policy is linked to in the opening post.
Before posting, please read the essay marking rules/rationale here.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on December 26, 2016, 09:36:42 pm
Hey!
Heres the creative attached, ignore the personal notes, thats just for me :)
Rui's linked you to the marking policy, but you can definitely leave your essay posted until you reach the post count if you would like to! Or you can delete it and repost it later, totally up to you ;D to rack up the posts, just keep asking questions and poking around the site, lots to find! A dozen posts might seem like heaps, but if you do two a day you'll have enough by next year ;)
Post by: dux99.95 on December 26, 2016, 10:11:30 pm
I'll just leave it up, too much hassle to take it down then type up my concerns again haha.
How do I quote you btw?
Post by: RuiAce on December 26, 2016, 10:13:01 pm
Ah okay, thank you :)Try looking at the top right corner of a post, where the + and - signs are.
I'll just leave it up, too much hassle to take it down then type up my concerns again haha.
How do I quote you btw?
Beside it is the quote button
Post by: caitlin.villarruel on January 09, 2017, 11:25:11 am
Post by: jamonwindeyer on January 09, 2017, 11:39:09 am
Hi! I was wondering if it's possible to have too much dialogue in a creative?
Hi Caitlin! Welcome to the forums!
I would say it definitely is possible, depending on what your aims are and your style of writing. There is no blanket rule. That said, I like to think of dialogue as a literary technique (well it is, but we usually don't consider it that way). Compare it to using a metaphor - A metaphor is great provided it serves a purpose and works well in the context! But if you read a creative that just had one metaphor after another, it would get tiring, and the metaphor would become less 'special.' It's kind of like having your favourite dessert over and over again - It's awesome at first, but it gets old quick.
Try and use dialogue sparingly, because if you do, then when you do use it it will be powerful. If you need extended conversations (and some creatives flourish in that style) then the key is to make it realistic dialogue. An extended conversation with dialogue that sounds forced/unnatural will stick out like a sore thumb :)
I hope that helps a little! As I said, it totally depends on how you use it, but do be a little cautious :)
Post by: Rathin on January 15, 2017, 05:39:12 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on January 16, 2017, 08:41:25 pm
I was wondering if I could get my Creative Writing some feedback. I want to reduce the word count alot and improve it in general. Thank You :)
Hello! Happy to help :)
My comments will be in bold font throughout the text in the spoiler below:
Spoiler
In the hustle of the morning rush, a lethargic, sleep deprived crowd flooded the busy metro train station. As I got out of the main gate of Ahmedabad train station the rickshaws and other motor vehicles weaved in and out of traffic in a disorderly manner and their constant horning pierced through my ears causing a cacophony of noises causing a frustration within me. The searing summer heat mingled with my sanity and the stench of polluted air made me queasy. What is happening in this paragraph is a lot of relating cause and effect, and essentially showing and not telling. Here's an example: "constant horning pierced through my ears CAUSING a cacophony or noises CAUSING a frustration within me." Everything you're describing here is a chain of situations, rather than offering the reader the opportunity to make connections. A way of engaging the reader is by giving them the respect to follow the story themselves.
I had a coach waiting for me, the destination Rajasthan was a supposedly renowned place for its magnificent scenery and ancient architecture of palaces and temples. The trip to India had been miserable so far as I had (another example of relating the cause and effect - spelling it out just a little too much). a constant claustrophobia, an underlying paranoia that I was about to get robbed. I remembered the time when I was a young child, living in India and my Dad got pickpocketed so subtly when he was making payments at the bank that he didn’t even realised it until afterwards when his watch went missing.
The whole journey in the coach was a very unpleasant, the heat was even more unbearable within the clustered coach, as my clothes and hair were slick with perspiration and sweat rolled down my skin in thick, salty beads. Use of "coach" twice in quick succession isn't the best idea, particularly because the second time doesn't add anything exceptional to the first time.
As it appeared into view, constructed entirely of sandstone, the exterior of the palace gleamed like shiny panels of glass. A series of ornate cylindrical structures and balconies were carefully carved out of the rock. a sandstone block was the defining feature of the court yard, which was decorated in vibrant, intricate colours, with an intensity which reminded me of warmth felt wrapped in a blanket in winter. The façade consisted of a series of low lying arches. A huge mass of buildings makes up most of the palace, with wide gaps carved into the stone blocks, serving as windows. On the highest areas were decorative terraces. The living quarters were equally ostentatiously designed. The fort had large ramparts and a series of gates and cobbled paths, which overlooked an enormous lake, the source of the water supply for the local town. The place snaked between low foothills, a vast sea of pale, light colored houses whose colour mirrored the sky, their iridescence obscured by the afternoon haze a bizarre combination, but holding an unscathed beauty. The advance of man-made architecture is halted in its path by the towering foothills, which descend rather steeply.
The magnificent architecture had aspects to it that were so familiar as if I had an inherent connection with this place as it reminded me of the place my parents used to take me every morning for prayers. However there was also an equal sense of anonymity that made it almost incomprehensible to understand as I was used to the solitary confines in my house and have never ventured afar before. I used to yearn for such a lavish lifestyle, imagining myself as a prince living in the palace with my princess and having our very own ‘happily ever after’ ending. Yet as i walk through the countless empty corridors, the clicking of my footstep the only companion to my exploration, I felt a deeper solitude in this vast, empty, soulless space, even more than i had ever felt back in my noisy, sydney home. Perhaps this trip was about picking up the fragments of the parts of me that I have lost, or was it just about recovering those fragments that I had in my sub-consciousness?... I'll stop here and chat about your plot. I like that you've really transported us somewhere - and that becomes most evident when you mention Sydney and then I'm prompted to consider the contrast. That's really nicely done - you don't say "this is such a contrast from my life in Sydney" and instead you invite the reader to do that for themselves - which is really good. I have to say, the prince and princess thing seems like a cliche, especially when you quote happily ever after. I think it adds something too unoriginal to something currently so unique!
***
I walked down the corridor and opened the squeaky oak door to a torrential downpour. The feculent pathway outside had darkened because of the impending storm. I pulled my jacket towards my wearied body, hoping it would provide me some warmth. But the cold air merely mingled with the hollowness inside my body, making me feel emotionless and disoriented like a headless ghost.
The strong mint aroma of eucalyptus lightly cloaked the air, overdosing me with a sense of uneasiness. The smell of fresh dew made me tense a little while my body shivered through the four layers of thick clothing. As i turned the corner of Macquarie Street I came across my colleague, Mitul, who was waiting for the bus. We got on the bus and sat on the comfortable warm seats, completely in contrast to those in the buses in India.
Mitul asked bluntly, “did you come back from india with any illnesses? the last time i visited i caught Malaria and food poisoning from the street food. not going back anytime soon.” Remember to use capitals for the start of a sentence, even in dialogue.
I raised my eyebrows, “Maybe you didn’t vaccinate against these diseases. i didn’t contract any of those, if you call finding a new love in indian architecture and culture a disease, then i guess i have.”
Mitul continued skeptically “how did you realise you liked the culture?”
“It is hard to put into words, but i feel it in my heart and in my brain. It's like an invisible compass, it gives me a sense of purpose. I like the idea of the compass! hopefully you will be lucky enough to find such a compass yourself.”
I am still awestruck by the intricate beauty of the artefacts and architecture that i saw and experienced on my trip. the most mesmerizing and enchanting aspect, perhaps, was the depth and breadth of a culture that transcends centuries of chaos yet produces beauty that inspires and transforms.
***
As the afternoon progressed into evening we came to sit amongst a group of people sitting
around a bonfire chanting and the aroma of hot fast food wafted from down the street making me hungry. Colourful saris and dresses threaded and embroidered with gold and silver, complex designs, reminding me of the sari my mum used to wear, reinvigorating a part of my identity that I never fully appreciated before and which I only saw through the lens of stereotypes and assumptions. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was an ‘insider’ rather than an ‘outsider’, accepted by my culture, embraced by my family. I sat, nestled next to an old man wearing white traditional clothes known as ‘kurta’, watching him dance contently to the drum music. The wood fire crackled, its embers glowed with a deep orange hue. The embers would leap and twirl around each other, twinkling brightly before eventually dying down. There was an everlasting energy pulsating in the celebrative atmosphere, enchanting and mesmerizing. Maybe I have finally found a piece of myself that was missing, a cultural entity that I never knew I had, a place where I have found dreams shattered and my personality matured. The pursuit of happiness is very simple, and my pursuit was simply a beginning, not an end.
I had a coach waiting for me, the destination Rajasthan was a supposedly renowned place for its magnificent scenery and ancient architecture of palaces and temples. The trip to India had been miserable so far as I had (another example of relating the cause and effect - spelling it out just a little too much). a constant claustrophobia, an underlying paranoia that I was about to get robbed. I remembered the time when I was a young child, living in India and my Dad got pickpocketed so subtly when he was making payments at the bank that he didn’t even realised it until afterwards when his watch went missing.
The whole journey in the coach was a very unpleasant, the heat was even more unbearable within the clustered coach, as my clothes and hair were slick with perspiration and sweat rolled down my skin in thick, salty beads. Use of "coach" twice in quick succession isn't the best idea, particularly because the second time doesn't add anything exceptional to the first time.
As it appeared into view, constructed entirely of sandstone, the exterior of the palace gleamed like shiny panels of glass. A series of ornate cylindrical structures and balconies were carefully carved out of the rock. a sandstone block was the defining feature of the court yard, which was decorated in vibrant, intricate colours, with an intensity which reminded me of warmth felt wrapped in a blanket in winter. The façade consisted of a series of low lying arches. A huge mass of buildings makes up most of the palace, with wide gaps carved into the stone blocks, serving as windows. On the highest areas were decorative terraces. The living quarters were equally ostentatiously designed. The fort had large ramparts and a series of gates and cobbled paths, which overlooked an enormous lake, the source of the water supply for the local town. The place snaked between low foothills, a vast sea of pale, light colored houses whose colour mirrored the sky, their iridescence obscured by the afternoon haze a bizarre combination, but holding an unscathed beauty. The advance of man-made architecture is halted in its path by the towering foothills, which descend rather steeply.
The magnificent architecture had aspects to it that were so familiar as if I had an inherent connection with this place as it reminded me of the place my parents used to take me every morning for prayers. However there was also an equal sense of anonymity that made it almost incomprehensible to understand as I was used to the solitary confines in my house and have never ventured afar before. I used to yearn for such a lavish lifestyle, imagining myself as a prince living in the palace with my princess and having our very own ‘happily ever after’ ending. Yet as i walk through the countless empty corridors, the clicking of my footstep the only companion to my exploration, I felt a deeper solitude in this vast, empty, soulless space, even more than i had ever felt back in my noisy, sydney home. Perhaps this trip was about picking up the fragments of the parts of me that I have lost, or was it just about recovering those fragments that I had in my sub-consciousness?... I'll stop here and chat about your plot. I like that you've really transported us somewhere - and that becomes most evident when you mention Sydney and then I'm prompted to consider the contrast. That's really nicely done - you don't say "this is such a contrast from my life in Sydney" and instead you invite the reader to do that for themselves - which is really good. I have to say, the prince and princess thing seems like a cliche, especially when you quote happily ever after. I think it adds something too unoriginal to something currently so unique!
***
I walked down the corridor and opened the squeaky oak door to a torrential downpour. The feculent pathway outside had darkened because of the impending storm. I pulled my jacket towards my wearied body, hoping it would provide me some warmth. But the cold air merely mingled with the hollowness inside my body, making me feel emotionless and disoriented like a headless ghost.
The strong mint aroma of eucalyptus lightly cloaked the air, overdosing me with a sense of uneasiness. The smell of fresh dew made me tense a little while my body shivered through the four layers of thick clothing. As i turned the corner of Macquarie Street I came across my colleague, Mitul, who was waiting for the bus. We got on the bus and sat on the comfortable warm seats, completely in contrast to those in the buses in India.
Mitul asked bluntly, “did you come back from india with any illnesses? the last time i visited i caught Malaria and food poisoning from the street food. not going back anytime soon.” Remember to use capitals for the start of a sentence, even in dialogue.
I raised my eyebrows, “Maybe you didn’t vaccinate against these diseases. i didn’t contract any of those, if you call finding a new love in indian architecture and culture a disease, then i guess i have.”
Mitul continued skeptically “how did you realise you liked the culture?”
“It is hard to put into words, but i feel it in my heart and in my brain. It's like an invisible compass, it gives me a sense of purpose. I like the idea of the compass! hopefully you will be lucky enough to find such a compass yourself.”
I am still awestruck by the intricate beauty of the artefacts and architecture that i saw and experienced on my trip. the most mesmerizing and enchanting aspect, perhaps, was the depth and breadth of a culture that transcends centuries of chaos yet produces beauty that inspires and transforms.
***
As the afternoon progressed into evening we came to sit amongst a group of people sitting
around a bonfire chanting and the aroma of hot fast food wafted from down the street making me hungry. Colourful saris and dresses threaded and embroidered with gold and silver, complex designs, reminding me of the sari my mum used to wear, reinvigorating a part of my identity that I never fully appreciated before and which I only saw through the lens of stereotypes and assumptions. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was an ‘insider’ rather than an ‘outsider’, accepted by my culture, embraced by my family. I sat, nestled next to an old man wearing white traditional clothes known as ‘kurta’, watching him dance contently to the drum music. The wood fire crackled, its embers glowed with a deep orange hue. The embers would leap and twirl around each other, twinkling brightly before eventually dying down. There was an everlasting energy pulsating in the celebrative atmosphere, enchanting and mesmerizing. Maybe I have finally found a piece of myself that was missing, a cultural entity that I never knew I had, a place where I have found dreams shattered and my personality matured. The pursuit of happiness is very simple, and my pursuit was simply a beginning, not an end.
You've got the basis for a great story here - you've got a really strong vision of the setting which is just wonderful! I commented on your style of putting the pieces together a little too much - do consider this and review your sentence structure and I think you'll notice that you fall into the pattern, when variation is key!
I'd like to know a few more things about the atmosphere and less details of the actions - like the coach, the metro, etc. I want less of that and more about the smell and the sound. Saying there's a cacophony is a wasted opportunity to describe the voices, the music, the traffic and the rain. Together, they create a cacophony.
In terms of discovery, I'd like to propose an idea. I love your mention of the innate compass, I think it's really unique and really relevant. Consider using it as a motif more. The architecture is an important aspect of your story but it's always brushed over as being magnificent and we don't explore the brush strokes, the rough corners, the gold lining, etc. Looking into those things could prompt the compass as being a motif. Perhaps in the beginning you could say lightly that you'd packed just about everything for an adventure except a gold compass (as a joke), then your friend could say that they felt like they needed a GPS to get around, and you could say you didn't because you had an innate compass. Then you could talk about the compass in light and playful, yet deeply meaningful ways, throughout. The discovery of the innate compass is a discovery in itself! Obviously, the ways I'm suggesting you embed this is completely up to you in how you execute it, I'm just trying to prompt your thoughts towards adding something like a motif to string it all together and strengthen discovery.
Let me know what you think :)
Post by: claudiarosaliaa on January 25, 2017, 03:49:26 pm
QUESTION: Compose a piece of writing in which discovery is confronting and/or provocative.
I inhale. The bitter smell of coffee travels through my senses. My skin, sticky. The incessant pounding of rain is unexpectedly soothing, catapulting me into a nostalgic haze of hauntingly beautiful memories. Around one small table, family, laughter, joined by bread and wine.
I tear the opening off a sugar sachet, watching the sweet crystals pour out like a waterfall into the rounded glass. I glance at my shaken father. Completely focused. His eyes watch each drop of rain trickle slowly down the window, just like a child's tears. He has a drained expression on his handsome face, lifting the black cup towards his mouth, but refusing to take a sip, as if he too is clouded by those same memories. I place my small hand on his. Ice cold.
He takes a long, deep breath. Eyes still motionless. “I’m so glad I’m here,” he admits, his disjointed voice leaving his cracked lips in small increments. Words my father spoke so often. Words I've always yearned to understand. “I was building agricultural and industrial at the time,” he continues, “for a company called Olfa. I was a manager, working six days a week, sometimes for twelve hours”. He shook his head with revulsion. “Different… It was so different.”
He pauses for a moment, cup to his nose and breathes in. His mind elsewhere, hypnotised by the smell of burnt coffee. I want to tell him it’s okay, but the deep urge for knowledge tugs on my conscience. Thoughts of why I am here wash over me, like the rain. Realisation that this place I have always called ‘home’ didn't feel like home at all, but instead a foreign place unrecognisably, recognisable.
“I remember this one summer day, the air was humid and sticky... almost unbearable.” He pauses, his voice flat and absent. “My boss broke the news… said he couldn’t pay me, his debts were too high, that there was no money left.” His aggravated voice lifting in volume, snickering with disgust “He had the nerve to ask me to work harder. Told me patience was a virtue, promised my time would come.”
“I was working near the furnace, cutting metal. It smelt of burning metal and oil mixed with sweat. The dry heat filled me with every breath. I listened to the electric hum of the saw as I pulled the lever up. I glanced down at my rain soaked skin, and I could feel my pulse racing. I was trying to concentrate, but my mind kept reliving what he had told me earlier.”
A violent red circles his eyes. His hands, shaking. I can see his rage simmering to the surface. With his focus distant, he continues, “we were already struggling. I pulled the lever hard. The disk had disintegrated into pieces beneath my hands as metal fragments sprung up, peircing my naked eyes. . Everything happened so suddenly..”
“The ambulance arrived in a blur of red and blue light. The pain was indescribable. Although... my thoughts were elsewhere, trying to sort through the logistics. As the anxiety engulfed me, I felt useless. I prayed for things to fixed themselves, hoped for things to get better.”
I take a large gulp of coffee, no longer warm but slightly sweeter. I can see my reflection in his glassy green eyes. A small tear glides down my cheek, dropping onto my arm, like rain falling off a windowsill. He follows it with his eyes. Focused, completely.
“But things didn’t get better for three months. We were struggling with no income.” His voice is caught in his throat as he struggles to form the words. “Humiliated. Embarrassed. I feared for il mio bambi, you and your poor brother,” he choked.
Quiet. A silence so deafening, as he draws his breath, and lets it back out with a sigh. “It was then that I made the crucial decision to migrate here. Leave my mother, father, my entire life behind, in search for a better life for my family. A better future for you.”
I hear a rustle in the distance. I turn my head sharply and gazed out the foggy window. I stare at one particular droplet of rain. A looking glass into the once unrecognizable. Now clear, beautiful, simple.
I inhale. The sweet smell of coffee travels through my senses.
Post by: elysepopplewell on January 26, 2017, 08:56:38 pm
Hi! I need help with my creative writing. I'm having concerns regarding cliques, as well as the story clunky and not engaging. I'm also worried it might not directly relate to discovery. I really struggle with creative writing so any help is greatly appreciated. Thank you so much!
Hey! The way the forums works means that to have a full creative or essay marked comprehensively, you need 15 posts on the forums. Not so difficult at all, hang around, ask some questions, answer questions, you know how it is!
On a quick glance though, I notice that your story is quite short. I think that you have foundations for a great response, but they sit without being very engaging. This isn't so bad, because you've got some more words to play with still because you're on about 700. I think your writing style is good, you create a voice nicely. Remember to start a new line when a new person talks with dialogue! We haven't done that in the third paragraph. I like the circular structure, starting with the inhale and the coffee and ending it the same way, but I think we could add more to that there to show the difference of her perception changing. Perhaps she's irrational at first, only to be found very grateful at the very end. That will add to the discovery too!
Post by: asd987 on January 28, 2017, 11:18:34 pm
A Timeless Connection
Her wistful eyes were like jagged stones, grey as the shackles tethered around her.
Her breathing quickened as she waved her pallid hand around, the cobwebs billowing from the rafters. They were on the panes of the windows too, obscuring the little light that struggled through them. She ran her fingers over the old corrugated cardboard box, dust clinging on to her as she struggled to recall the last time she was in this room. As each flap unfolded, her heart felt butchered, bleeding her of the humanity she once had. It blanketed every other emotion, tainting all that could bring joy and respite.
Plumes of dust erupted from the old photograph, giving the air a musty smell. She clutched the feeble wooden frame tight in her hand, able to see an eerie reflection of her face in the thin sheen of glass that covered it. She looked past her own tedious eyes, staring upon the face that was captured in a moment of perfection. She focused in on his eyes; they were gleaming with the scintillate laughter she once loved. Now, they laughed at her, a reminder of what she had lost. It was the happiest memory that hurt the worst, lacerating her like shards of glass.
The vibrant colours of a land that was once inextricable with her seeped through the sepia toned photograph. The flamboyant attire and lavish dresses on display were no longer remotely similar to her monochromatic wardrobe; and the piquant curries on offer had not touched her palate in an eternity. The tranquility of the Taj Mahal juxtaposed the bustle of everyday traffic and the crimson sky made everything seem so peaceful. Now, everything was strange, quiet and different. She was a foreigner living in an alien country, still without a sense of home.
Her mind became a carousel of gyrating fears, each one pushing her into a deeper void. She wanted to run; she needed to freeze. Voices from the past felt present. She was no longer in the body that lay paralysed on the ground.
Her son’s scintillate smile was the last thing she saw before crumpling like a puppet released of its strings...
***
In the candle lit room stood family and friends, each ready to swear a pledge to how they would support Rita. When she spoke her voice trailed slowly, her words were unwilling to take flight. She swallowed down the pain, wearing a passive face and a tentative smile. A slow religious hymn played in the background as the tens of esteemed relatives cuddled and embraced her. The taste of sweet home made ladoo filled their mouths, a custom for the longevity of her son’s next life. The ceremony was beautiful beyond measure, not in extravagant flowers or fancy food, but in the sharing of sincere heartfelt emotion. However, Rita knew that no amount comfort would ameliorate what just happened. She had to leave.
She had to escape.
Rita’s fingers fumbled over the countless crease folds of the tear-stained newspaper for the umpteenth time, its blood red ink barely visible anymore.
Hiran Khan. Number seven on the list of casualties… for the week.
With no warning, total darkness prevailed, turbulent and unforgiving. Rita’s knees stopped working as her stomach churned over.
1947 –the civil war that split everything asunder. India’s darkest blemish.
The inconceivable injustices of poverty and resentment dispersed like a disease. Now, she too felt the agony of loss suffered by the other millions of people.
Rita cried for a minute. Or two. Or ten. As far as she knew, time had stopped completely.
***
The lake mirrored the sky above, a shade of blue that was impossible to capture in tourist brochures. Her vivacious red dress glinted in the sun, her skin feeling uneasy against the silk embroidery. She closed her eyes and let the breeze blow her long bangs away from them, bringing colour to her pale cheeks. The moist summer air was fragranced with the jasmine trees that circled the lake, a scent her nose adored for years. The forgotten taste of sweet ladoos danced on her palate, savouring the felicity that salivated her tongue. Boisterous music wafted around, tunes she could never expel caressed her ears.
The bungalows on either side of the narrow lake had transformed into small industrial houses but she noticed that the cobblestones remained, water drizzling between the cracks and crevices. In her hands were pebbles of different hues and like a cricketer, she sent them hurtling into the water one by one. With each splash she shouted the name of the one her heart still palpitated for.
The skin under her eyes wrinkled as a smile stained upon her lips. Hope beaded her skin like dew on spring grass. She felt him breathing
down on her, watching her.
***
Rita squinted her eyes open as a warm decisive light streamed through. Her mind awoke with a primal surge of adrenaline but her cold, heavy limbs disobeyed. Unable to stand, she stretched out her hand for the photo amongst the shattered glass. His gleaming face radiated his strong personality and for the first time she was able to look at his picture without the agony of loss.
The tears… now of satisfaction.
Post by: Nialllovespie on January 30, 2017, 03:37:16 pm
I would really appreciate it :)
“You see my darling, life is like an elevator. Let me explain to you” (I put this in as it's easy to incorporate into a stimulus as somebody talking to someone else at a place hence what I did in the exam)
***
The shiny silver elevator doors silently slid open revealing a petite lady, my mother, standing proudly with her husband, my father. I can see them but they cannot see me. My two-year old self is with them. As she bends over to pick me up, held in her safe arms makes me trust her without the doubts that would come later in my life. She passes me onto my father. Observing my surroundings, I cannot help but notice the smell of fresh paint accompanying a newly fitted carpet. A lightbulb hanging from the roof of the elevator shines bright. A “ding” sounds in sync with the closing of the doors of the elevator. We ascend to the first level where the doors smoothly open. My mother picks up a small bundle of blankets covering a new born baby boy I had not seen. My two year- old self holds on to her father's leg and is told that that the baby boy is her/my brother. The doors slam shut as the vroom of the elevator jolts upwards.
***
Bracing to a sudden stop at level five, a joyful young girl, my ten year-old self, neatly dressed in fresh school uniform dances ahead of me, playing tag with two others. Her green wide-brimmed hat attached with a string around her chin proudly displays her school logo; the joys of youth unquestioned by her. I smile.
***
At level ten a room full of HSC exam students, among them myself, is ahead; readiness and weariness across their faces. The silence permeating the room emphasised the invigorator's loud high-heeled boots as she walks through the exam room delivering papers. The urge to peek at my future exam paper floods me with curiosity but I do not let the temptation get the better of me. As they scribble student numbers on the front cover, the invigorator's voice booms through the room. “You may begin now.” Adrenaline rush floods through them, through me, as they begin. Tears obscure my vision.
***
At level twenty the elevator doors open to a university lecture room. I watch as a tanned young adult, with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes strolls in the direction of the elevator, my eyes following his every move. A toothy grin plasters his face as he enters. He wraps a muscular arm around a twenty something me, pulling me close as I sink into the warmth of his embrace. My parents stand mute; uncertainty is in their eyes; my brother faceless. I do not understand.
***
Stopping at level twenty-five, the elevator doors slide open. We gaze as the white tipped waves crash along a shoreline spreading like a fine lace across the sand. I observe myself in a long white dress, strolling along the shore, my brown hair wavy, studded with intricate flowers throughout. Holding the hand of my now husband, I look radiant, the photographer capturing their moment. They stop and pose while kissing, the bride flashing a diamond sitting on her ring finger, the wedding guests cheer and clap for joy.Is it true love?
***
At level thirty the elevator stops and the doors open. The young woman that I now am reaches out to grab the cradle sitting on the carpet. She brings it inside and places it in her/my husband's arms. Hidden under the blankets a small hand creeps out curling its fingers around her pinky. Her eyes glisten. The love unquestioned.
***
The elevator grinds to a halt at level thirty-five as the doors strike open in protest, uncovering the image of a deadly car crash between a car and a truck. I watch the paramedics lift a deceased body, my father, covered in a white blanket, onto the ambulance bed, shutting the doors behind them. The doors close unexpectedly, signifying there is no more to see, or perhaps no more I should see. I desperately press the level thirty button, but it is useless, I cannot go back.
The flickering of the elevator light illuminates level forty; the doors open to the hallway of a retirement home. My aged mother steps out, now alone, and waves a sad goodbye to me with a solemn smile covering her face. My middle- aged self and my husband, and our now grown child wave back sadly at a future without her. The doors slam shut and the lift whizzes upwards with an echoing brrriing.
At level forty-five the elevator stops. The faded paint on its walls has begun to peel like bark off a tree. The doors jam halfway through opening, requiring the combined effort of everyone left, (where is my husband and my child?) to forcefully pull the doors open. A hospital room is before me. My husband lies on a bed. Doctors and nurses support him in his last breaths. My now aged self holds his hand tightly. The thundering crash of the doors closing alerts me to step back. I must go on alone…but I am afraid.
At level fifty the worn carpet is patchy and the light flickering above is faint. A musty, stale odour lingers, signifying its use and age, my age. Those who have gone before me appear faintly ahead, beckoning me, and those who must live on, my daughter, behind me. I wave goodbye to my loved ones as I step out of the elevator and watch as the doors close behind me, carrying the others on the journey they have yet to travel.
THANKYOU so much again!! I really appreciate it
Post by: jamonwindeyer on January 30, 2017, 05:18:01 pm
Post by: QC on January 30, 2017, 09:30:04 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on January 31, 2017, 02:15:38 am
Hi Elyse, I was hoping if you could mark my creative piece. I've had some feedback that my story is a bit confusing so can you please tell me if you understand it properly. Thankyou.
Hey asd987! I'll give your Creative a read and let you know what I think! Comments in bold ;D
Spoiler
A Timeless Connection
Her wistful eyes were like jagged stones, grey as the shackles tethered around her.
Her breathing quickened as she waved her pallid hand around, the cobwebs billowing from the rafters. They were on the panes of the windows too, obscuring the little light that struggled through them. She ran her fingers over the old corrugated cardboard box, dust clinging on to her as she struggled to recall the last time she was in this room. As each flap unfolded, her heart felt butchered, bleeding her of the humanity she once had. It blanketed every other emotion, tainting all that could bring joy and respite. Beautiful introduction. Sets the scene, establishes an emotional state quickly, great use of technique and great style.
Plumes of dust erupted from the old photograph, giving the air a musty smell. She clutched the feeble wooden frame tight in her hand, able to see an eerie reflection of her face in the thin sheen of glass that covered it. She looked past her own tedious eyes, staring upon the face that was captured in a moment of perfection. She focused in on his eyes; they were gleaming with the scintillate laughter she once loved. A few sentences starting with the same word there - Not a bad thing, but it creates a sort of rhythmic pulse which could be misinterpreted in a negative light. To fit the style, I feel it should be changed. Now, they laughed at her, a reminder of what she had lost. It was the happiest memory that hurt the worst, lacerating her like shards of glass. Nice progression - First paragraph was an orientation, now it feels like we are about to head to the rising action.
The vibrant colours of a land that was once inextricable with her seeped through the sepia toned photograph. I reckon this would work well as a flashback. "As she closed her eyes, she could almost see the vibrant colours..." Just so looking at the photograph progresses to something a little more real. The flamboyant attire and lavish dresses on display were no longer remotely similar to her monochromatic wardrobe; and the piquant curries on offer had not touched her palate in an eternity. Watch for being over verbose. The word choice and structure of that sentence seems a bit over the top for me. The tranquility of the Taj Mahal juxtaposed the bustle of everyday traffic and the crimson sky made everything seem so peaceful. Now, everything was strange, quiet and different. She was a foreigner living in an alien country, still without a sense of home. Right, so we've got the complication. Cultural difference established through a photograph reminiscence. A tad cliche - But lets see what you do with it.
Her mind became a carousel of gyrating fears, each one pushing her into a deeper void. She wanted to run; she needed to freeze. Voices from the past felt present. She was no longer in the body that lay paralysed on the ground.
Her son’s scintillate smile was the last thing she saw before crumpling like a puppet released of its strings... A bit of a forced simile there - Again, be careful of forcing techniques in. They need to feel natural, every time you use a simile it should be this "AHA" moment of, "Yep, so happy I used that." If you over-use them they lose their power.
***
In the candle lit room stood family and friends, each ready to swear a pledge to how they would support Rita. When she spoke her voice trailed slowly, her words were unwilling to take flight. She swallowed down the pain, wearing a passive face and a tentative smile. A slow religious hymn played in the background as the tens of esteemed relatives cuddled and embraced her. With this change of scenery, the picture is not set nearly as well as it was in the first scene. I'd do a tad more to establish a sense of place. The taste of sweet home made ladoo filled their mouths, a custom for the longevity of her son’s next life. The ceremony was beautiful beyond measure, not in extravagant flowers or fancy food, but in the sharing of sincere heartfelt emotion. However, Rita knew that no amount comfort would ameliorate what just happened. She had to leave. So we've got an interesting choice that the name 'Rita' is only being used now. I assume at this stage it is the same person, that we are now in a flashback. But I have no way of knowing that for sure; this creates ambiguity. Not a bad thing - Just where I'm sitting right now as a reader.
She had to escape. Nice use of sentence length to establish a realisation.
Rita’s fingers fumbled over the countless crease folds of the tear-stained newspaper for the umpteenth time, its blood red ink barely visible anymore.
Hiran Khan. Number seven on the list of casualties… for the week.
With no warning, total darkness prevailed, turbulent and unforgiving. Rita’s knees stopped working as her stomach churned over.
1947 –the civil war that split everything asunder. India’s darkest blemish.
The inconceivable injustices of poverty and resentment dispersed like a disease. Now, she too felt the agony of loss suffered by the other millions of people.
Rita cried for a minute. Or two. Or ten. As far as she knew, time had stopped completely. Really like this last sentence here - The uncertainty in the narration carries through brilliantly to the emotional state of the protagonist. Really powerful.
So at this stage I will say that this stage of the narrative, the sequence we just explored, was vague. Not sure what the significance of the ceremony is or exactly who Rita has lost. The ambiguity does make it hard to emotionally invest.
***
The lake mirrored the sky above, a shade of blue that was impossible to capture in tourist brochures. Her vivacious red dress glinted in the sun, her skin feeling uneasy against the silk embroidery. She closed her eyes and let the breeze blow her long bangs away from them, bringing colour to her pale cheeks. The moist summer air was fragranced with the jasmine trees that circled the lake, a scent her nose adored for years. The forgotten taste of sweet ladoos danced on her palate, savouring the felicity that salivated her tongue. Boisterous music wafted around, tunes she could never expel caressed her ears. Better job setting the scene here - Your use of imagery is extremely powerful.
The bungalows on either side of the narrow lake had transformed into small industrial houses but she noticed that the cobblestones remained, water drizzling between the cracks and crevices. In her hands were pebbles of different hues and like a cricketer, she sent them hurtling into the water one by one. With each splash she shouted the name of the one her heart still palpitated for.
The skin under her eyes wrinkled as a smile stained upon her lips. Hope beaded her skin like dew on spring grass. She felt him breathing
down on her, watching her.
***
Rita squinted her eyes open as a warm decisive light streamed through. Her mind awoke with a primal surge of adrenaline but her cold, heavy limbs disobeyed. Unable to stand, she stretched out her hand for the photo amongst the shattered glass. His gleaming face radiated his strong personality and for the first time she was able to look at his picture without the agony of loss.
The tears… now of satisfaction.
Right, so getting to the end I think I have the plot. The woman at the start is Rita, who has lost her son in the Civil War, and she is retrieving a photograph. Essentially the story revolves around her acceptance with his loss. I'm with it.
Is it vague? I think it is, and I believe the reason is in your writing style. While extremely powerful, it can also be quite verbose, and details can be lost. In the funeral sequence for example, the only line that really gives away what is happening is: a custom for the longevity of her son’s next life. This is easily missed amongst the description of everything else happening, which creates ambiguity. This ambiguity prevents emotional investment because our energy is spent piecing together plot details.
So yep, I think in response to your main concern, I think the story is a tad confusing. And look, you've tackled a non-linear storyline with lots of jumps - Not an easy thing to do and even the best stories of that type will be a tad ambiguous. Try and achieve a nice balance so we are still taken on a journey and keep moving forward - But that we have our bearings as we go :)
Also, watch the techniques/style! 90% of the time, brilliant. The other 10% feels either a little forced or a little heavy handed/overdone. If you use a technique too much, it loses power - Kind of like seeing the same awesome movie over and over, or that song you love that is overplayed. Try to tone back a bit, remove a simile if It feels forced. Further, it is okay to sometimes just tell, not show. Of course we are told "show not tell," but sometimes a more direct approach can be powerful. Especially in contrast to descriptive sequences ;D
I hope this helps! :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on January 31, 2017, 10:06:26 am
Hiya, I've edited my creative some more and I was wondering if you could please mark it
I would really appreciate it :)
Sure thing! Your creative is attached with feedback in bold:
Spoiler
“You see my darling, life is like an elevator. Let me explain to you” I like that you are starting with dialogue. Be careful - Including the stimulus in this way only (with this dialogue) might seem forced depending on the stimulus and where you go with the story. It is usually better to include it figuratively or subtly in your text - But this can work! I'm a sucker for dialogue starting a Creative.
***
The shiny silver elevator doors silently slid open revealing a petite lady, my mother, standing proudly with her husband, my father. This last bit, 'my Father,' is unnecessary. The audience can deduce that themselves. I can see them but they cannot see me. My two-year old self is with them. A little too much tell here - A balance is good, but looking for some more description of the three people to set the scene in my mind. As she bends over to pick me up, held in her safe arms makes me trust her without the doubts that would come later in my life. She passes me onto my father. Observing my surroundings, I cannot help but notice the smell of fresh paint accompanying a newly fitted carpet. A lightbulb hanging from the roof of the elevator shines bright. A “ding” sounds in sync with the closing of the doors of the elevator. We ascend to the first level where the doors smoothly open. My mother picks up a small bundle of blankets covering a new born baby boy I had not seen. My two year- old self holds on to her father's leg and is told that that the baby boy is her/my brother. It seems you spent a lot less time describing that particular 'stop,' any reason why? The doors slam shut as the vroom of the elevator jolts upwards. Right, I see where this is heading now. Very interesting concept. I like your writing style, but I'm looking for description in better places. It seems like you described the environment quite well at the start, but not the characters. Not describing the characters leaves them anonymous personality wise - I don't know what the parents are like!
***
Bracing to a sudden stop at level five, a joyful young girl, my ten year-old self, neatly dressed in fresh school uniform dances ahead of me, playing tag with two others. Her green wide-brimmed hat attached with a string around her chin proudly displays her school logo; the joys of youth unquestioned by her. I smile. This change of pace to a short paragraph is really nice, especially that really nice truncated sentence at the end there.
***
At level ten a room full of HSC exam students, among them myself, is ahead; readiness and weariness across their faces. Be SUPER CAREFUL including HSC students in a story. It is done a lot, and can be considered quite cliche (that said, it's a passing thing and I see why you do it). The silence permeating the room emphasised the invigorator's loud high-heeled boots as she walks through the exam room delivering papers. The urge to peek at my future exam paper floods me with curiosity but I do not let the temptation get the better of me. As they scribble student numbers on the front cover, the invigorator's voice booms through the room. “You may begin now.” Adrenaline rush floods through them, through me, as they begin. I like the parallel emotional bridges you are creating... The memories are affecting you just as much. That works, makes the moment feel more real. Tears obscure my vision.
***
At level twenty the elevator doors open to a university lecture room. Weird comment - But how do you choose the level numbers? I think you should have them match your age at the time! This would be a subtle thing and would mean you don't have to explain how old you are every time. I watch as a tanned young adult, with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes strolls in the direction of the elevator, my eyes following his every move. A toothy grin plasters his face as he enters. He wraps a muscular arm around a twenty something me, pulling me close as I sink into the warmth of his embrace. My parents stand mute; uncertainty is in their eyes; my brother faceless. I do not understand. Having read the whole story I want to come back and mention - This last sentence doesn't have any greater impact. It happened earlier too, to a lesser extent, but this is the first big one. The uncertainty of the family members never amounts to anything, never evolves into a story element. It is mentioned here then vanishes. Ensure that if you introduce something like this that it has a significance to the story at large.
***
Stopping at level twenty-five, the elevator doors slide open. We gaze as the white tipped waves crash along a shoreline spreading like a fine lace across the sand. I observe myself in a long white dress, strolling along the shore, my brown hair wavy, studded with intricate flowers throughout. Holding the hand of my now husband, I look radiant, the photographer capturing their moment. They stop and pose while kissing, the bride flashing a diamond sitting on her ring finger, the wedding guests cheer and clap for joy. Is it true love? This rhetorical question seems fruitless, because presumably this is all flashback - Your persona KNOWS what comes next. Be sure to adjust to that.
***
At level thirty the elevator stops and the doors open. The young woman that I now am reaches out to grab the cradle sitting on the carpet. She brings it inside and places it in her/my husband's arms. Hidden under the blankets a small hand creeps out curling its fingers around her pinky. Her eyes glisten. The love unquestioned.
***
The elevator grinds to a halt at level thirty-five as the doors strike open in protest, uncovering the image of a deadly car crash between a car and a truck. I watch the paramedics lift a deceased body, my father, covered in a white blanket, onto the ambulance bed, shutting the doors behind them. So this is the first shock moment in the story, the first kind of 'rising action,' and I don't believe it has been given enough time. There isn't any description, no emotional build up. It feels insignificant in that sense. The doors close unexpectedly, signifying there is no more to see, or perhaps no more I should see. Love that sentence. I desperately press the level thirty button, but it is useless, I cannot go back.
The flickering of the elevator light illuminates level forty; the doors open to the hallway of a retirement home. My aged mother steps out, now alone, and waves a sad goodbye to me with a solemn smile covering her face. My middle- aged self and my husband, and our now grown child wave back sadly at a future without her. The doors slam shut and the lift whizzes upwards with an echoing brrriing. As above, although your tone has adjusted slightly to signify these negative changes, I think you need to devote more time to these occurrences. Doing them so quickly makes them feel unimportant.
At level forty-five the elevator stops. The faded paint on its walls has begun to peel like bark off a tree. The doors jam halfway through opening, requiring the combined effort of everyone left, (where is my husband and my child?) to forcefully pull the doors open. A hospital room is before me. My husband lies on a bed. Doctors and nurses support him in his last breaths. My now aged self holds his hand tightly. The thundering crash of the doors closing alerts me to step back. I must go on alone…but I am afraid.
At level fifty the worn carpet is patchy and the light flickering above is faint. A musty, stale odour lingers, signifying its use and age, my age. Those who have gone before me appear faintly ahead, beckoning me, and those who must live on, my daughter, behind me. I wave goodbye to my loved ones as I step out of the elevator and watch as the doors close behind me, carrying the others on the journey they have yet to travel. I feel like you should stop at "the doors close behind me." As soon as those doors close, the story should end, because yours (the persona) has ended.
***
The shiny silver elevator doors silently slid open revealing a petite lady, my mother, standing proudly with her husband, my father. This last bit, 'my Father,' is unnecessary. The audience can deduce that themselves. I can see them but they cannot see me. My two-year old self is with them. A little too much tell here - A balance is good, but looking for some more description of the three people to set the scene in my mind. As she bends over to pick me up, held in her safe arms makes me trust her without the doubts that would come later in my life. She passes me onto my father. Observing my surroundings, I cannot help but notice the smell of fresh paint accompanying a newly fitted carpet. A lightbulb hanging from the roof of the elevator shines bright. A “ding” sounds in sync with the closing of the doors of the elevator. We ascend to the first level where the doors smoothly open. My mother picks up a small bundle of blankets covering a new born baby boy I had not seen. My two year- old self holds on to her father's leg and is told that that the baby boy is her/my brother. It seems you spent a lot less time describing that particular 'stop,' any reason why? The doors slam shut as the vroom of the elevator jolts upwards. Right, I see where this is heading now. Very interesting concept. I like your writing style, but I'm looking for description in better places. It seems like you described the environment quite well at the start, but not the characters. Not describing the characters leaves them anonymous personality wise - I don't know what the parents are like!
***
Bracing to a sudden stop at level five, a joyful young girl, my ten year-old self, neatly dressed in fresh school uniform dances ahead of me, playing tag with two others. Her green wide-brimmed hat attached with a string around her chin proudly displays her school logo; the joys of youth unquestioned by her. I smile. This change of pace to a short paragraph is really nice, especially that really nice truncated sentence at the end there.
***
At level ten a room full of HSC exam students, among them myself, is ahead; readiness and weariness across their faces. Be SUPER CAREFUL including HSC students in a story. It is done a lot, and can be considered quite cliche (that said, it's a passing thing and I see why you do it). The silence permeating the room emphasised the invigorator's loud high-heeled boots as she walks through the exam room delivering papers. The urge to peek at my future exam paper floods me with curiosity but I do not let the temptation get the better of me. As they scribble student numbers on the front cover, the invigorator's voice booms through the room. “You may begin now.” Adrenaline rush floods through them, through me, as they begin. I like the parallel emotional bridges you are creating... The memories are affecting you just as much. That works, makes the moment feel more real. Tears obscure my vision.
***
At level twenty the elevator doors open to a university lecture room. Weird comment - But how do you choose the level numbers? I think you should have them match your age at the time! This would be a subtle thing and would mean you don't have to explain how old you are every time. I watch as a tanned young adult, with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes strolls in the direction of the elevator, my eyes following his every move. A toothy grin plasters his face as he enters. He wraps a muscular arm around a twenty something me, pulling me close as I sink into the warmth of his embrace. My parents stand mute; uncertainty is in their eyes; my brother faceless. I do not understand. Having read the whole story I want to come back and mention - This last sentence doesn't have any greater impact. It happened earlier too, to a lesser extent, but this is the first big one. The uncertainty of the family members never amounts to anything, never evolves into a story element. It is mentioned here then vanishes. Ensure that if you introduce something like this that it has a significance to the story at large.
***
Stopping at level twenty-five, the elevator doors slide open. We gaze as the white tipped waves crash along a shoreline spreading like a fine lace across the sand. I observe myself in a long white dress, strolling along the shore, my brown hair wavy, studded with intricate flowers throughout. Holding the hand of my now husband, I look radiant, the photographer capturing their moment. They stop and pose while kissing, the bride flashing a diamond sitting on her ring finger, the wedding guests cheer and clap for joy. Is it true love? This rhetorical question seems fruitless, because presumably this is all flashback - Your persona KNOWS what comes next. Be sure to adjust to that.
***
At level thirty the elevator stops and the doors open. The young woman that I now am reaches out to grab the cradle sitting on the carpet. She brings it inside and places it in her/my husband's arms. Hidden under the blankets a small hand creeps out curling its fingers around her pinky. Her eyes glisten. The love unquestioned.
***
The elevator grinds to a halt at level thirty-five as the doors strike open in protest, uncovering the image of a deadly car crash between a car and a truck. I watch the paramedics lift a deceased body, my father, covered in a white blanket, onto the ambulance bed, shutting the doors behind them. So this is the first shock moment in the story, the first kind of 'rising action,' and I don't believe it has been given enough time. There isn't any description, no emotional build up. It feels insignificant in that sense. The doors close unexpectedly, signifying there is no more to see, or perhaps no more I should see. Love that sentence. I desperately press the level thirty button, but it is useless, I cannot go back.
The flickering of the elevator light illuminates level forty; the doors open to the hallway of a retirement home. My aged mother steps out, now alone, and waves a sad goodbye to me with a solemn smile covering her face. My middle- aged self and my husband, and our now grown child wave back sadly at a future without her. The doors slam shut and the lift whizzes upwards with an echoing brrriing. As above, although your tone has adjusted slightly to signify these negative changes, I think you need to devote more time to these occurrences. Doing them so quickly makes them feel unimportant.
At level forty-five the elevator stops. The faded paint on its walls has begun to peel like bark off a tree. The doors jam halfway through opening, requiring the combined effort of everyone left, (where is my husband and my child?) to forcefully pull the doors open. A hospital room is before me. My husband lies on a bed. Doctors and nurses support him in his last breaths. My now aged self holds his hand tightly. The thundering crash of the doors closing alerts me to step back. I must go on alone…but I am afraid.
At level fifty the worn carpet is patchy and the light flickering above is faint. A musty, stale odour lingers, signifying its use and age, my age. Those who have gone before me appear faintly ahead, beckoning me, and those who must live on, my daughter, behind me. I wave goodbye to my loved ones as I step out of the elevator and watch as the doors close behind me, carrying the others on the journey they have yet to travel. I feel like you should stop at "the doors close behind me." As soon as those doors close, the story should end, because yours (the persona) has ended.
Right, so I really like the idea you have here. Very clever, very unique, very interesting. Definitely Band 6 potential in terms of places you could go with it conceptually. Some masterful writing in there; nice use of techniques that doesn't feel forced! Very nice work ;D
I have two main pieces of feedback:
- First, what is your Discovery concept? I'm not getting it very clearly after a few reads. Now I didn't do Discovery, so maybe I missed it, but just letting you know that the story doesn't communicate a clear concept on Discovery to me. To me it is more of a statement on the unpredictable nature of life. This could be extended to Discovery of course, but right now, a little conceptually obscure in my view.
- There are some really powerful moments you are trying to explore in this Creative. Marriages, deaths of family members, and so on. However, I feel like the most significant ones actually got the least amount of writing space. The death of the father should have been multiple paragraphs; the persona should have seen the crash, walked up to the window, seen the blood trickle from their fathers mouth - There should have been build up and power in that paragraph above all others! But it didn't quite get there for me, and other paragraphs felt rushed too. I feel like you need to trim down on less important moments (EG - HSC paragraph felt a little insignificant) to give more time to these. Essentially, less stops on the elevator!
Oh, and as a technique tip, I feel like the constant opening and closing of the doors of the elevator is begging for some use of repetition. Even, since you set it up at the start, use "Bing" (the elevator noise) as a separator between the sections instead of the dotted lines. Separators that actually exist in the text work better than just, as an author, using dots to signify that the scene has changed ;D
I hope this helps!! Let me know if any of that feedback is unclear. Again, I REALLY love your idea, it's really clever. Now it's just about improving the execution a bit more ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 01, 2017, 01:47:14 am
Hey guys, if possible could you guys please mark this, it would be much appreciated. For my creative I only got 12/15 which I'm pretty disappointed with so I'm hoping to improve it. Thanks.
Hey Aroon! Sure thing, I'd be happy to give your Creative a read and see if we can work on improving that result for you ;D
Spoiler
I sat there in the front pew, eyes transfixed on the photo at the altar. A face I knew more intimately than any other. I personally think you could add a bit of description here, paint a bit of a picture for the reader. My father. My role model. Since my mother had died, we’d become inseparable, except for his tours of duty. A figure who stood taller than all else in my mind. He was always one of the good guys, whether in service or in his day to day life, working for charities, giving up his time to help the little guy. I like the tone you are establishing here - Quite colloquial, feels very natural which works for the first person. Just looking for a little description to balance it.
Last time he’d returned from mission, his battle scars were obvious. Not physical but mental. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder they said. He was forced to undergo cognitive behavioural therapy as he couldn’t reconcile with what he’d seen. At home, he was worse. He couldn’t sit still, fidgeting as he sat in his rocking chair. He kept repeating words out loud, satiated his pain through liquor. Brandy, beer, wine. Nice playing with sentence length here - Again I'm looking for a bit more description! Really describe the actions/appearance of the father in this state to put it in the readers mind properly. I research PTSD and was alarmed. Fifty returned service personnel suicides already this year in Australia! And twenty-two a day in the US! These exclamations are the first time I feel the immersion was broken - You've got quite a blunt and bleak tone up until this point. The exclamations sort of ruin that and inject a bit of energy that isn't synonymous with the topic or the style. A voice broke into my thoughts. ‘We are assembled here to pay a last tribute to a beloved comrade, George Westinghouse, who served in defence of our nation,’ the military chaplain intoned, his voice monotone and unnerving like he had performed this service many times. I feel like you should have broken to a new paragraph here - Just to make the cut away more clear. I turned to see the casket, covered by the Australian Flag, carried by its bearers whose faces were twitching with pain. How does the protagonist feel? Have you purposely left this out?
***
Two weeks later, a box arrived at my front door. This was all that was left of him, just a box filled with possessions. A picture of my mum, him and I, his engagement ring. Really love your style of writing - Saying it a bit but its great. I came upon a novel, The Sun Also Rises, by Ernest Hemmingway. I couldn’t help a wry smile as I recalled the irony of its anti-war message. I flicked through the pages, some stained by dirt and water, some clean like he had bought it yesterday. I saw a small dog ear. I turned the page to see a note, concealed inside, like it had been waiting for me all along. Hmm, a little corny that last bit, a little forced.
“June 7th 2010. As I walked through the dusty streets of Kandahar a small boy, carrying a backpack approached me. I shouted at him to stop but he kept coming, I shouted again but he still persisted. So I did what we were trained to do. I shot him before he blew us both up. But he was just a boy. With an empty backpack. Innocent. Maybe 13 years old, the same age as my son. I keep telling myself the bullet did it. The bullet killed him. But my brain knows that I pulled the trigger. When I die, I want it known that this is what I’ve done. Not the ‘I’ who lives and breathes the streets of Sydney, but the ‘I’ who has been created by this brutal war. Is this our ultimate destiny, self-preservation at any cost? Despite living my life honestly and ethically, always fighting for what I believed was right, no matter how I try to rationalise my actions, I am guilty of murder.” Interesting inclusion of diary passage. I like the idea. I don't think the style quite works for a diary entry - It needs to be a little more... Spaced out. People write in diaries to express themselves, so there is ultimately more description than this. More lingering on weird small details. You might also want to add line breaks and paragraphs - Unless you want to keep it in one as more of a 'rushed' piece. In any case, just doesn't quite sit nicely to me as a reader. Feels a little forced, especially towards the end.
This was my father’s handwriting. I sat and stared at his words, trying to assimilate this information. The gentle man I knew had murdered an innocent boy.
I read his words over and over, looking for answers. But all I could think of were more questions: Are we more instinct than reason? More utilitarian than ethical? These sorts of broader conceptual questions are a little forced - And not what the character would be thinking. They need to be veiled in more practical questions, questions about the father and his character that act as SYMBOLIC of these grander conceptual questions.
The Defence Public Affairs had announced it an “operational incident” in which he’d sacrificed himself for his platoon. He was later awarded the Victoria Cross, which many were saying was a cynical ploy by the government to appeal to patriotism, in order to counter the growing rejection of our troops’ deployment in Afghanistan. I’d returned home still no wiser to the specific details. They wouldn’t tell me. I didn’t know how I could put my father to rest without knowing.
I was completely wrong. War doesn’t show the strength, bravery and courage of mankind but rather strips us to a fight for survival, it’s not about tactical assaults but rather each soldier stripped of rational thought with nothing but animal instinct. Again - Watch for forced conceptual statement. Like, it works! But it isn't subtle, it is obvious in reading this that, "Okay, this is the concept." Now you'd think that's a good thing, but in the process, you've broken immersion. This isn't what the character would be thinking - This is what you as the author want to say. You need to try and say those things, but without losing the immersion with the character. It needs to be more natural.
And what were the circumstances of my father’s death? His note had said, “when I die” and not “if I die”. I recalled those nights broken with his screams. I could only imagine the pain he suffered. A question kept nagging at me: was it a sacrifice or was it suicide? I wondered how many other soldiers had thrown their lives away once they’d discovered this truth about themselves. Soldiers whose numbers were not in the officially published figures. But, I couldn’t reveal this. I couldn’t have my father’s name and award tarnished.
I sat on this knowledge, unable to share it with anyone. Then, a few months after the funeral, a letter arrived, addressed to my father. It was from the Indira Gandhi Children’s Hospital thanking him for the bequeathment of his military pension. He’d put it in his will. I contacted his fund and made the arrangements but realised that all the questions that I had for my father could never be answered. All I knew was that he was a great man, and still was. I visited the grave again, and couldn’t help but feel relief, my dad had escaped his cage.
Last time he’d returned from mission, his battle scars were obvious. Not physical but mental. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder they said. He was forced to undergo cognitive behavioural therapy as he couldn’t reconcile with what he’d seen. At home, he was worse. He couldn’t sit still, fidgeting as he sat in his rocking chair. He kept repeating words out loud, satiated his pain through liquor. Brandy, beer, wine. Nice playing with sentence length here - Again I'm looking for a bit more description! Really describe the actions/appearance of the father in this state to put it in the readers mind properly. I research PTSD and was alarmed. Fifty returned service personnel suicides already this year in Australia! And twenty-two a day in the US! These exclamations are the first time I feel the immersion was broken - You've got quite a blunt and bleak tone up until this point. The exclamations sort of ruin that and inject a bit of energy that isn't synonymous with the topic or the style. A voice broke into my thoughts. ‘We are assembled here to pay a last tribute to a beloved comrade, George Westinghouse, who served in defence of our nation,’ the military chaplain intoned, his voice monotone and unnerving like he had performed this service many times. I feel like you should have broken to a new paragraph here - Just to make the cut away more clear. I turned to see the casket, covered by the Australian Flag, carried by its bearers whose faces were twitching with pain. How does the protagonist feel? Have you purposely left this out?
***
Two weeks later, a box arrived at my front door. This was all that was left of him, just a box filled with possessions. A picture of my mum, him and I, his engagement ring. Really love your style of writing - Saying it a bit but its great. I came upon a novel, The Sun Also Rises, by Ernest Hemmingway. I couldn’t help a wry smile as I recalled the irony of its anti-war message. I flicked through the pages, some stained by dirt and water, some clean like he had bought it yesterday. I saw a small dog ear. I turned the page to see a note, concealed inside, like it had been waiting for me all along. Hmm, a little corny that last bit, a little forced.
“June 7th 2010. As I walked through the dusty streets of Kandahar a small boy, carrying a backpack approached me. I shouted at him to stop but he kept coming, I shouted again but he still persisted. So I did what we were trained to do. I shot him before he blew us both up. But he was just a boy. With an empty backpack. Innocent. Maybe 13 years old, the same age as my son. I keep telling myself the bullet did it. The bullet killed him. But my brain knows that I pulled the trigger. When I die, I want it known that this is what I’ve done. Not the ‘I’ who lives and breathes the streets of Sydney, but the ‘I’ who has been created by this brutal war. Is this our ultimate destiny, self-preservation at any cost? Despite living my life honestly and ethically, always fighting for what I believed was right, no matter how I try to rationalise my actions, I am guilty of murder.” Interesting inclusion of diary passage. I like the idea. I don't think the style quite works for a diary entry - It needs to be a little more... Spaced out. People write in diaries to express themselves, so there is ultimately more description than this. More lingering on weird small details. You might also want to add line breaks and paragraphs - Unless you want to keep it in one as more of a 'rushed' piece. In any case, just doesn't quite sit nicely to me as a reader. Feels a little forced, especially towards the end.
This was my father’s handwriting. I sat and stared at his words, trying to assimilate this information. The gentle man I knew had murdered an innocent boy.
I read his words over and over, looking for answers. But all I could think of were more questions: Are we more instinct than reason? More utilitarian than ethical? These sorts of broader conceptual questions are a little forced - And not what the character would be thinking. They need to be veiled in more practical questions, questions about the father and his character that act as SYMBOLIC of these grander conceptual questions.
The Defence Public Affairs had announced it an “operational incident” in which he’d sacrificed himself for his platoon. He was later awarded the Victoria Cross, which many were saying was a cynical ploy by the government to appeal to patriotism, in order to counter the growing rejection of our troops’ deployment in Afghanistan. I’d returned home still no wiser to the specific details. They wouldn’t tell me. I didn’t know how I could put my father to rest without knowing.
I was completely wrong. War doesn’t show the strength, bravery and courage of mankind but rather strips us to a fight for survival, it’s not about tactical assaults but rather each soldier stripped of rational thought with nothing but animal instinct. Again - Watch for forced conceptual statement. Like, it works! But it isn't subtle, it is obvious in reading this that, "Okay, this is the concept." Now you'd think that's a good thing, but in the process, you've broken immersion. This isn't what the character would be thinking - This is what you as the author want to say. You need to try and say those things, but without losing the immersion with the character. It needs to be more natural.
And what were the circumstances of my father’s death? His note had said, “when I die” and not “if I die”. I recalled those nights broken with his screams. I could only imagine the pain he suffered. A question kept nagging at me: was it a sacrifice or was it suicide? I wondered how many other soldiers had thrown their lives away once they’d discovered this truth about themselves. Soldiers whose numbers were not in the officially published figures. But, I couldn’t reveal this. I couldn’t have my father’s name and award tarnished.
I sat on this knowledge, unable to share it with anyone. Then, a few months after the funeral, a letter arrived, addressed to my father. It was from the Indira Gandhi Children’s Hospital thanking him for the bequeathment of his military pension. He’d put it in his will. I contacted his fund and made the arrangements but realised that all the questions that I had for my father could never be answered. All I knew was that he was a great man, and still was. I visited the grave again, and couldn’t help but feel relief, my dad had escaped his cage.
First of all, you are a brilliant writer. You've got such a nice style, a great free flow of consciousness. It sounds very natural - The persona is characterised well because the internal dialogue you present feels real. That's awesome! You've also got some great use of technique - Clever manipulation of sentence length and clever choice of words in key places. All of this with a nice concept to boot - This is great!
I have two main comments - First of all, the forced nature of your concept in some areas. Many of the rhetorical questions and conceptual statements don't relate to the story directly. The problem with this is, when you write them, it breaks immersion. Your persona isn't going to be asking complex questions of existence and politics - They are just coming to terms with their dads death. The concepts need to be hidden in the story itself, not thrown in addition. For example, the persona questioning the change of his fathers identity acts as a commentary on the loss of individualism in war. You never mention that grander consequence - Only hint it. This is more subtle and almost always works much more effectively. Let me know if this makes sense, because it is a little hard to explain, aha!
Second is easier - More description. A lot of times I would love for you to slow down and describe things for a little longer, paint a picture in my head. Right now it's a bit, "This happened, then this happened." In places this worked well, in others I would love to see a little more time spent getting the reader into the scene to allow them to be emotionally invested. More description of the father, of the funeral, even really describe that note and the process of opening it in detail.
On a flick of a page a stain of yellow caught my eye. Turning back I found a note, tucked neatly into the lower left corner of the 175th page. Peculiar. Casting the book aside I carefully unfurl the mysterious package, and to my surprise was greeted by the sight of familiar black handwriting. In a jolt I smooth the message against the desk and begin to read:
Like, that was a random attempt at 2am from an electrical engineer, but you get the idea! More of a picture painted to make certain things in the story more significant - Because they should be! If you don't do this, you don't escalate. You don't accelerate. Things just kind of happen, then the story is over. You need to build up a climax, establish an emotional investment, and this is done by providing additional details for the audience to cling to :)
I hope these bits of feedback help! I think you have a great writing style and a great concept - Just a little more description and a little more subtlety in conceptual approach would benefit you ;D great work!
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 02, 2017, 02:12:49 am
Somewhere, anywhere, someday unfailingly, accidentally you will find yourself, and that, and only that, will be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.
*continues*
Hey Olivia! We're so happy to have you here on the forums. We do have a policy that requires 15 ATAR Notes posts to get a full piece marked to ensure the feedback is at a high standard and feasible for the markers! You can read more about it in the link in my signature below. The good news is that it doesn't take long to get up your posts!
At a quick glance, your creative is very long, presumably about 1400 words? Unless you're a very fast writer, or intending to shave time off another section of the exam, I suggest bringing down your word count by about 200 words if you can!
Let me know if we can help you find anything here online, we're here to help! :)
Post by: SSSS on February 05, 2017, 12:41:38 am
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 05, 2017, 07:01:11 am
Hey guys!! I am really struggling for my creative. So what my story is about is a women who is on her lunch break, smoking at a local public. A laugh catches her attention. A small family of a young boy and his parents enjoy the day, which leads her to be triggered of another boy that is simillar to the boy. The other boy she is reminded of was part of a case that she had to complete within her job, who is a refugee. She remembers him and his family, and how he understands the reality around him and the hardships one must conquer which evokes empathy as in contrast to the boy in the park, who is oblivious to the lifestyle he is granted with. She concludes that even though she is put in a moral dillema to push their case and enable them to stay, she realises that there is little she can do hence stays with her intial stance and goes to complete the cancellation of their visa. The problem is that my creative is sitting at an 11/15, which I believe is because there is no motif tying it together. I wanted to embed a closed door that is symbolic of the inevitable nature that the family is unable to enter. Yet, I don't know how to do this. Other things it that I am really bad at adapting to the stimulus. Thank you!
Great plot! To me, it seems clear that if you want to use a door, then you need to move into a building because the only door in a park is that belonging to a public toilet. So perhaps she could be in a cafe, a restaurant, a shopping centre, the local GP, anything like that. Choose an ordinary place for an extraordinary circumstance. To me, I'd lean towards something like a GP office waiting area than a cafe, it's just a little more ordinary and less scripted. Kids can still be laughing in the medical centre... Or a shopping centre, or at the local library. Do you think that moving the setting would enable you to incorporate that motif or are you looking for something deeper?
Post by: SSSS on February 05, 2017, 10:26:16 pm
Post by: Kaan709 on February 07, 2017, 10:30:34 pm
If you'd like your creative piece marked, you won't be able to post it until you make an ATAR Notes account here. Once you've done that, a little 'reply' button will come up when you're viewing threads, and you'll be able to copy and paste your essay and post it up here for us to mark!
Hey everyone!! Welcome to the English Creative Writing Marking Thread. This thread is here for you to get feedback on your creative pieces from a Band 6 student. This resource exists to help you guys make huge improvements on your writing... Too often, teachers just write "good" or "needs more creativity" or "expand on this idea". SUPER. FRUSTRATING. This is a place to properly improve :) :) :)
Before posting, please read the essay marking rules/rationale here.
To get your piece marked:
- Post it in this thread
- Include whether you have any particular concerns about the piece. E.g., "Can you please check to see that my story makes sense" and things like that.
Marking can take a few days during busy periods, but is usually done much faster than that.
Note that we now have a new post exchange system for essay marking on all forums. Every 15 ATAR Notes posts qualifies you to get marked for a single essay/creative. This is to ensure the system remains practical for the active members of the ATAR Notes community. More detail at the link above ;D
Post away, and happy studies!! ;D ;D
Hey Elyse, Jawline boy here :(
I received my creative writing back, which was from last term. The assessment was 40mins Comprehension (4/15 :( ), 40mins Essay (9/15), and 40mins Creative Writing (9/15). We could bring a sheet of handwritten notes. For the creative piece, we had to "Compose an original narrative that explores the creative and emotional impacts of discovery." Also, we had to choose a "starter", and I chose "The bridge appeared to step out into the clouds." However, on the day an unseen visual stimulus was given, and was a picture taken from a New-York High-Rise, looking down at Central Park in the Autumn (red leaves...) I thought the unseen stimulus worked perfectly with my text already.
My results were given, and included the teachers side notes of my 'cliches'. If you do pick up on any bad 'cliches', please let me know. She had also circled words, in which she didn't understand, however they were simply onomatopoeia. I am bad with my tenses, and it was a major flaw in my piece. I'm going to ask for it to be remarked, because the "English Studies" teachers marked it, and numerous people (including advanced) are asking it to be remarked.
Thank you so much, and please contact me if you're unsure of anything.
Post by: AnnaB on February 08, 2017, 01:01:50 pm
We were provided with a stimulus image of a key whole frame, which acted as a vector for the salient image of a white rabbit in a lush green forest:
The God like creature strides, flaunting inconceivably faultless golden locks, with a sheen that screamed pricey. Immaculately dressed, stark white from head to toe… the assistance of “Scotch Guard”, out of the question. Her vibrantly un smudged, red stained lips cause speculation as to whether, or not she has ever eaten.
I observe, slumped on the edge of my porch, her crimson heels... the height of fashion; far from sensible, black and flat, like my own. The puppeteer’s strings that stem from heaven keeps her posture arrow straight, as she seamlessly glides in sync with every green light. The hordes of pedestrians, seem to lift their gaze clearing space to allow her to continue, on her uninterrupted way.
My dullness, naivety and lack of wisdom concludes that she is the vision of perfection.
She reaches the end of her journey, in alignment with where I sit. I open my newspaper for protection, continuing to glare without a hint of suspicion. Entering the gate of a white picket fence, expectations do not disappoint; humbly large, a designer’s haven... her home was all a jaded housewife could imagine. Evoked by a concoction of wonder, curiosity and necessity, I continue to watch, now without hesitation; I am certain her elegance can distort the importance I place on caution.
I look in awe at her garden, contrasting it to that of my own untamed forest. As she walks along the coble path, a shift in stride is evident. The puppeteer has dropped his threads; the invisible book fell off her head. Before I can feast my eyes any further, I am jerked by small children with grotesquely loud and whiney cries that I have learnt all too well. I am pulled and tugged until I fall back into the paralyzing, monotonous routine of dinner and dishes, forgetting about my glamorous neighbour.
…
“Jane! Did you hear the boy’s art teacher is leaving?” one parent calls, interrupting my tactically constructed plan to drop and run and forcing me to enter the school gates.
“We didn’t see you at netball on Saturday morning… we had to make do without any oranges!” the self-appointed, playdate secretary of the group, sniggers with a sting in her tongue.
I scan around the circle of parents, observing them with blinkers off. With un kept hair they stand, trapped in the politics of the playground world. Unable to bring themselves to the brink of realization that a realm without children or even their husbands could truly be one of the greatest pleasures…. one that is far more enthralling than Timmy’s dad’s refusal to give him vaccinations.
“Ummm Hello…any one there?”
I wake from my judgmental reverie, with the apprehension that I could not pity them as I too was one of them. Losing my ability to string words together, I quickly turn and exit the cage, marching towards my car; what began as a purposeful walk rumbles to a storm that I had no control over. Slamming the door of my hatchback, I race back home.
This is not normal. This is not normal. A pounding mind searches for reasons to have such illicit thoughts. You have a beautiful family whom you love very much …. Why must I remind myself?
Forcefully kicking the mound of shoes compiled on the floor, I hobble through the doorway. I am stunned by the lack of comfort I sense after desperately fleeing in the hope to fall into a sanctum.
As I continue to walk, I am agonizingly uneased by once familiar surroundings.
The previously charming knick-knacks that covered every surface, now leave a nauseating taste to the mouth. Unapologetically silly family photos poorly imitate capturing a sense “quirkiness” in our mundane household. And my children’s hand drawn “artworks” that line the walls of this home we built… they disgust me. Why should we be venerating such little talent? … for it is not Van Gogh… it’s splattered paint for heaven’s sake! The rage I build, as my starving eyes digest the distasteful surrounds, acts as the fuel to destroy the diminutive sanity I have left.
I attempt to locate splendor in the colorful works in front of me. No control, no minimalism, no clarity, completely un remarkable…. Like me they hang around unwillingly.
And with that in mind I began to tear, break, smash… whatever it took to destroy the unpolished.
I flagrantly shred the paintings, reminding myself that these suffocating walls that surround me like a border contrast starkly to those protecting the creature who breaths next door to me.
And suddenly I halt…. as mortification floods. Observing the now permanent consequences of my actions… the floor resembles a battlefield. A woman of such style and sophistication next-door would be utterly horrified to have consumed a millisecond of her luxurious life in the presence of this “soulfully” clichéd brick, 3 bedder. The embarrassment I embody is the result of my failure.
And with that I continue to destroy before falling to the floor like a wounded deer… quickly and with little resistance.
Grasping my breath, I notice the one thing that I had not abolished; on the center of the hallway table lies a clock. Best get dinner on.
…
I observe, slumped on the edge of my porch, her crimson heels... the height of fashion. Numbing my lips with gin and a dash of tonic, I watch her in her element. Confidence oozes as she instructs the young men on the importance of care when transporting the purchase from the van to her haven. Completely enthralled, I grip my drink and take two steps closer; whatever is in this Sotheby’s truck could only be as equally dazing as herself.
“Straight from New York Madame… it is one of a kind!” exclaims a gentleman, stepping out of the truck. As the two men lift the item up, she rips the brown paper to insure it is was what she was longing for. The item is unveiled; I squint my eyes creating enough focus to see…. It is a painting.
Obnoxiously colorful with no control, no minimalism and no clarity, it is completely un remarkable.
Her sheer excitement is revealed with a joyous squeal, crying “this is what I’ve been searching for!”
This flawless life filled with glamour and unstained white, was far from its reality.
Post by: sudodds on February 08, 2017, 08:24:05 pm
Hey Elyse, Jawline boy here :(wait is this jawline boy as in general maths lecture jawline boy omg. not really qualified to mark your creative soz (though I'm sure you'll get an incred response soon - I know I did last year, 10/10 would recommend!), just wanted the opportunity to talk to a celebrity 8)
Post by: Kaan709 on February 08, 2017, 10:49:08 pm
wait is this jawline boy as in general maths lecture jawline boy omg. not really qualified to mark your creative soz (though I'm sure you'll get an incred response soon - I know I did last year, 10/10 would recommend!), just wanted the opportunity to talk to a celebrity 8)
Ahah if only a got this much gratitude from my teachers.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 09, 2017, 12:03:56 am
Hey Elyse, Jawline boy here :(
I received my creative writing back, which was from last term. The assessment was 40mins Comprehension (4/15 :( ), 40mins Essay (9/15), and 40mins Creative Writing (9/15). We could bring a sheet of handwritten notes. For the creative piece, we had to "Compose an original narrative that explores the creative and emotional impacts of discovery." Also, we had to choose a "starter", and I chose "The bridge appeared to step out into the clouds." However, on the day an unseen visual stimulus was given, and was a picture taken from a New-York High-Rise, looking down at Central Park in the Autumn (red leaves...) I thought the unseen stimulus worked perfectly with my text already.
My results were given, and included the teachers side notes of my 'cliches'. If you do pick up on any bad 'cliches', please let me know. She had also circled words, in which she didn't understand, however they were simply onomatopoeia. I am bad with my tenses, and it was a major flaw in my piece. I'm going to ask for it to be remarked, because the "English Studies" teachers marked it, and numerous people (including advanced) are asking it to be remarked.
Thank you so much, and please contact me if you're unsure of anything.
Hey! Awesome work getting your post count up, excited to give you some detailed feedback ;D
Your Creative is attached in the spoiler below, my comments are in bold, but I've told myself to ignore any tense issues because you've picked up on that already ;D
Creative
Compose an original narrative that explores the creative and emotional impacts of discovery.
Ivan Duric watched the Brooklyn Bridge step out into the clouds from his office chair, ignoring the papers that were due two weeks ago. I like the use of starter - Sets the New York office scene quickly and establishes the fact that the character is behind (=stressed) immediately. Subtle but nice! He shifted his focus onto a dark spot on the glass pane, when he overheard a conversation between his co-workers. “I’ve bought my dad a Rolex for Fathers Day. What about you?” the female executive member boasted out aloud. A few things to be careful of with dialogue - It needs to start on a new line, as a mechanical thing. More importantly, it needs to feel natural. This does a decent job, but it does feel just a little manufactured. The start of the conversation feels weird - It would almost seem a little more natural to jump in mid conversation - "...a Rolex, cost me a bloody fortune but that's what you do I suppose. How bout you?“ - Just an example. Nothing unfortunately, my father passed away last year.” the intern replied. Ivan heard the conversation from his cubicle, which triggered his reoccurring flashback. Conversation line triggering a flashback = Cliche. I wouldn't say a super bad one but a cliche nonetheless.
I’m standing on the bus crammed like tuna in a can. This simile feels a little forced - It has an almost comedic effect because it's like, "Why is this guy being compared to tuna in a can?" There is actually a technique name for that, but it doesn't quite feel right here. I’m running away from my father - Jeuz, he ruined my life after years of abuse. I mentioned it before - SHOW me this, don't tell it. Potential for a really powerful scene there instead of a passing mention. The bus abruptly comes to a halt. I try to grasp the handles, but the cheap-cloth ripped as I applied the weight on my shoulders. The passengers flinch at the thud of the police baton against the window, “Get out now!” the soldier orders. A wave of chills run down my spine, I try to squeeze and peer through the reaching arms of others, to find the familiar voice, but to my surprise its my father. A little awkward word choice there - It's a familiar voice, but there is still surprise that its the father. Just a little inconsistency. I leap out of the bus and run towards the dense forest, I look behind as I run, to see my father chasing after me. I lose sight of him, for now. Just a note on the transition from third person to first person in that flashback - Is it purposeful? If it is, I sort of see what you are going for, but it doesn't (to me) serve a great purpose and sticks out a little bit as an error. I'd avoid it and stick to either first or third person, as you choose.
Ivan sprung up from his chair, as his boss shouted “Ivan!”, he scrambled amongst his messy desk to find the papers that were due two weeks ago. I reckon it would be cool to have just one line, "Ivan!", as a way to break up that flashback. That would also let you stop after"chasing after me." and remove that last sentence, which I know is foreshadowing, but again feels a little forced. The boss questioned him, ”Are you sleeping on my shift? I’ve told you these papers needed to be completed!” Again watch unnatural dialogue, would someone actually say "needed to be completed" if they were really mad? No, they'd say "You know I need this done!" Using lots of dialogue is tough. Try and keep it to short, one phrase exchanges to minimise the chance of it coming off as unnatural. Writing realistic dialogue is something I have a lot of trouble with to this day - It's REALLY hard to get right. Ivan anxiously replied “I’m sorry boss, I’ll have it emailed to you by tomorrow.” His boss now satisfied, he concluded “Call me Jove.” and walked away. A really quick fizzle out there, I'd have the boss be a bit angrier for a bit longer. Ivan then reached into his draw to pull out an orange prescription canister with a skull printed on the label. The 'skull on the label' mark is a little bit misleading - On first read it sounds like they are suicide pills, which sort of comes from nowhere. That's not the case, but I think you should be a little more explanatory here. Twisting the cap with hesitation, tapping a tablet out, and then a couple more. The tablets remained in his hand, as he looked out the window of the office. Ivan contemplates taking the tablets, as he gazed upon the orange and red hues of the swaying trees, but is then reminded about a memory of his childhood. What memory? He dismissed the notion, he swallowed the semi-dissolved tablets, but the guilt blocked his airways, feeling like a bowling ball blocking the passage of air. Again, a little forced simile there. Try not to use techniques just because you need to - It seems like you might be chucking in a simile here or there for effect, purposefully. I appreciate that, but it doesn't quite come across as effectively as it could.
The medication was at full-effect, and Ivan finished the papers at midnight, he looked around to find he was alone. Suddenly, the fluorescent office lights turned off section-by-section, the clap crept closer. He threw the papers on his desk into a side bag, then aiming towards the exit. The weep of his father echoed, the sound traveled closer and closer. He dove inside the elevator, relieved as the doors clang close. The horror begun as the elevator came to a halt. He tried to signal help by pressing the emergency button, but only the alarm silenced. I'm a little confused as to what is happening here; I get that the lights are turning off and he needs to leave, but the urgency feels unfounded. Further, the elevator stops without a real reason (this feels cliche, because its like, why is this happening now).
Ivan stared aimlessly at his side bag, when he focused on a letter. He inspected the front of the weathered envelope, and found the post stamp was from Serbia. This feels a little out of nowhere too - How did this letter get there and why did we need to have the elevator jam for this realisation to occur? Be careful not to introduce empty plot elements - Nothing amounts of that elevator jamming, so your job as the writer is to consider, "Well why did I have the elevator jam then?" He slid his fingers in-between the opening, and pulled out a messy handwritten letter. Letter from loved one revealing a secret = Cliche; but again, not a really bad one in my eyes.
Dear Ivan
I write this letter to you after you ran away from me in Serbia. You’re a quick runner, you must have taken after me. You might not know yet, but I asked my brother Jove to take care of you in New York. I hope he’s taking care of you, and you’re enjoying the office life. Now back to the reason of the letter, (Would someone write that in a letter? Always try and adapt your style to the situation) I want to tell you that i’m sorry, and i’m not angry at you. I understand that I caused you pain and suffering, but i’ve changed. After undergoing several treatments of electroconvulsive therapy, I don't have the angry thoughts anymore, the doctors said I'm ‘cured’. Sudden cure with shock therapy - This is the first 'bad' cliche, and it feels bad because again it seems unfounded. Kind of like, "Oh, okay, well that came out of nowhere." Once they released me out of jail, I signed up for the army. Two more cliches. I just want to thank you for allowing me to be cured, because if it wasn't for you, I would have been the same old angry person, that abused you.
I love you, and miss you
Jeuz Duric, your loving father
The elevator begun working, taking Ivan down to the ground floor. He brushed himself off, and walked towards the main exit of the building, stopping besides a bin. He reached into his side bag, pulling the orange prescription canister out, and the letter, he then threw it into the bin without hesitation. The weight lifted off his shoulders, and he walked freely outside. He stood smiling in the middle of the foot path, amongst the rushing business men.
Ivan Duric watched the Brooklyn Bridge step out into the clouds from his office chair, ignoring the papers that were due two weeks ago. I like the use of starter - Sets the New York office scene quickly and establishes the fact that the character is behind (=stressed) immediately. Subtle but nice! He shifted his focus onto a dark spot on the glass pane, when he overheard a conversation between his co-workers. “I’ve bought my dad a Rolex for Fathers Day. What about you?” the female executive member boasted out aloud. A few things to be careful of with dialogue - It needs to start on a new line, as a mechanical thing. More importantly, it needs to feel natural. This does a decent job, but it does feel just a little manufactured. The start of the conversation feels weird - It would almost seem a little more natural to jump in mid conversation - "...a Rolex, cost me a bloody fortune but that's what you do I suppose. How bout you?“ - Just an example. Nothing unfortunately, my father passed away last year.” the intern replied. Ivan heard the conversation from his cubicle, which triggered his reoccurring flashback. Conversation line triggering a flashback = Cliche. I wouldn't say a super bad one but a cliche nonetheless.
I’m standing on the bus crammed like tuna in a can. This simile feels a little forced - It has an almost comedic effect because it's like, "Why is this guy being compared to tuna in a can?" There is actually a technique name for that, but it doesn't quite feel right here. I’m running away from my father - Jeuz, he ruined my life after years of abuse. I mentioned it before - SHOW me this, don't tell it. Potential for a really powerful scene there instead of a passing mention. The bus abruptly comes to a halt. I try to grasp the handles, but the cheap-cloth ripped as I applied the weight on my shoulders. The passengers flinch at the thud of the police baton against the window, “Get out now!” the soldier orders. A wave of chills run down my spine, I try to squeeze and peer through the reaching arms of others, to find the familiar voice, but to my surprise its my father. A little awkward word choice there - It's a familiar voice, but there is still surprise that its the father. Just a little inconsistency. I leap out of the bus and run towards the dense forest, I look behind as I run, to see my father chasing after me. I lose sight of him, for now. Just a note on the transition from third person to first person in that flashback - Is it purposeful? If it is, I sort of see what you are going for, but it doesn't (to me) serve a great purpose and sticks out a little bit as an error. I'd avoid it and stick to either first or third person, as you choose.
Ivan sprung up from his chair, as his boss shouted “Ivan!”, he scrambled amongst his messy desk to find the papers that were due two weeks ago. I reckon it would be cool to have just one line, "Ivan!", as a way to break up that flashback. That would also let you stop after"chasing after me." and remove that last sentence, which I know is foreshadowing, but again feels a little forced. The boss questioned him, ”Are you sleeping on my shift? I’ve told you these papers needed to be completed!” Again watch unnatural dialogue, would someone actually say "needed to be completed" if they were really mad? No, they'd say "You know I need this done!" Using lots of dialogue is tough. Try and keep it to short, one phrase exchanges to minimise the chance of it coming off as unnatural. Writing realistic dialogue is something I have a lot of trouble with to this day - It's REALLY hard to get right. Ivan anxiously replied “I’m sorry boss, I’ll have it emailed to you by tomorrow.” His boss now satisfied, he concluded “Call me Jove.” and walked away. A really quick fizzle out there, I'd have the boss be a bit angrier for a bit longer. Ivan then reached into his draw to pull out an orange prescription canister with a skull printed on the label. The 'skull on the label' mark is a little bit misleading - On first read it sounds like they are suicide pills, which sort of comes from nowhere. That's not the case, but I think you should be a little more explanatory here. Twisting the cap with hesitation, tapping a tablet out, and then a couple more. The tablets remained in his hand, as he looked out the window of the office. Ivan contemplates taking the tablets, as he gazed upon the orange and red hues of the swaying trees, but is then reminded about a memory of his childhood. What memory? He dismissed the notion, he swallowed the semi-dissolved tablets, but the guilt blocked his airways, feeling like a bowling ball blocking the passage of air. Again, a little forced simile there. Try not to use techniques just because you need to - It seems like you might be chucking in a simile here or there for effect, purposefully. I appreciate that, but it doesn't quite come across as effectively as it could.
The medication was at full-effect, and Ivan finished the papers at midnight, he looked around to find he was alone. Suddenly, the fluorescent office lights turned off section-by-section, the clap crept closer. He threw the papers on his desk into a side bag, then aiming towards the exit. The weep of his father echoed, the sound traveled closer and closer. He dove inside the elevator, relieved as the doors clang close. The horror begun as the elevator came to a halt. He tried to signal help by pressing the emergency button, but only the alarm silenced. I'm a little confused as to what is happening here; I get that the lights are turning off and he needs to leave, but the urgency feels unfounded. Further, the elevator stops without a real reason (this feels cliche, because its like, why is this happening now).
Ivan stared aimlessly at his side bag, when he focused on a letter. He inspected the front of the weathered envelope, and found the post stamp was from Serbia. This feels a little out of nowhere too - How did this letter get there and why did we need to have the elevator jam for this realisation to occur? Be careful not to introduce empty plot elements - Nothing amounts of that elevator jamming, so your job as the writer is to consider, "Well why did I have the elevator jam then?" He slid his fingers in-between the opening, and pulled out a messy handwritten letter. Letter from loved one revealing a secret = Cliche; but again, not a really bad one in my eyes.
Dear Ivan
I write this letter to you after you ran away from me in Serbia. You’re a quick runner, you must have taken after me. You might not know yet, but I asked my brother Jove to take care of you in New York. I hope he’s taking care of you, and you’re enjoying the office life. Now back to the reason of the letter, (Would someone write that in a letter? Always try and adapt your style to the situation) I want to tell you that i’m sorry, and i’m not angry at you. I understand that I caused you pain and suffering, but i’ve changed. After undergoing several treatments of electroconvulsive therapy, I don't have the angry thoughts anymore, the doctors said I'm ‘cured’. Sudden cure with shock therapy - This is the first 'bad' cliche, and it feels bad because again it seems unfounded. Kind of like, "Oh, okay, well that came out of nowhere." Once they released me out of jail, I signed up for the army. Two more cliches. I just want to thank you for allowing me to be cured, because if it wasn't for you, I would have been the same old angry person, that abused you.
I love you, and miss you
Jeuz Duric, your loving father
The elevator begun working, taking Ivan down to the ground floor. He brushed himself off, and walked towards the main exit of the building, stopping besides a bin. He reached into his side bag, pulling the orange prescription canister out, and the letter, he then threw it into the bin without hesitation. The weight lifted off his shoulders, and he walked freely outside. He stood smiling in the middle of the foot path, amongst the rushing business men.
Alrighty, so I think I can basically summarise my thoughts on how you could improve this Creative in one phrase: Keep it simple.
There is a lot going on in this Creative. For starters, a lot of plot elements. The basic plot is there - Abusive father, runaway child. But then there is the brother, the father goes to jail, the father is cured with electroconvulsive therapy, and then those pills come in too. The elevator jamming is another. All of this is going on and none of it is really explored in depth. It's just sort of thrown at you really quickly and then you move on - And thus, not much of it has significance. You don't explain/explore much properly because you've got so much going on!
A lot of these things are cliched as well, and the big one is probably the brother. The boss being the brother, the person watching over the child from afar, that's like a "Guardian Angel" cliche. But more than that, it's the fact that the brother doesn't really have significance. It would be more interesting if you, say, spent time building up a really negative and antagonistic relationship between the boss and the protagonist. Then to have it all immediately reversed by the letter. That would work! But as it is, it's like, "Oh yep, boss is angry because papers are late. Oh shit he's the brother, damn." Again, it lacks significance, because you've not given me a reason to care about either character. Again, just comes back to trying to do too much at once ;D
This extends to your language use too. A few forced similes (that's how they came across), a lot of "This happened, then this happened" to try and get through your complex story arc. I'm looking for description and powerful conceptual exploration - I'd have loved you to describe an abusive scene from the childhood (carefully). That would give the character some much needed depth and allow us to develop some sympathy for them!
The final consequence of this complicated narrative is that the stimulus isn't quite reflected. I don't have the part of the question that calls for the stimulus, but it would likely ask for it to be a "key feature" or something similar. Having it as the backdrop out the window, without it playing any other sort of key role, isn't quite enough. You could relocate the story to the park and have everything occur on the bench while watching the leaves, maybe with the wind triggering a flashback or something. But it needs to be more significant than, 'this is what I see outside my window.'
Here's what I think you should do. You've got a really cool idea here - I like the conceptual potential. There's lots of little subtleties you can play with. I think you should strip the idea back to bare bones and try to have a rethink of how the story plays out. Consider a ditch of the elevator bit; it feels unneeded to me. Keep it simple!
Sitting in the office, trigger a flashback. Great, abusive past set. Confrontation with boss, then have some reflection of how much the protagonist hates the boss. Great, that's set. Then introduce the letter, flip the whole idea of the boss around and then have some reflection on that. Notice I'm substituting "things happening" for "thinking about things." The protagonist could technically never leave their desk. Of course you don't have the stimulus in that version, but the idea is that I think you'd benefit from less happening, but more reflection on those things! :)
I've gone to town a little bit on this Creative, I go overboard sometimes ;) I hope these comments are helpful; I know all the suggestions might make it seem like your narrative has nothing good going for it. Not the case! It has a great premise that is flexible to explore multiple aspects of Discovery, and that is 70% of the battle. The other 30% is execution, and that's what you need to work on from here :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 09, 2017, 12:16:57 am
I was wondering if you could please look over my first draft for my advanced english creative.
We were provided with a stimulus image of a key whole frame, which acted as a vector for the salient image of a white rabbit in a lush green forest:
Hey Anna! Welcome to the forums! Thanks for posting your Creative; we have a rule that you need 15 posts on ATAR Notes for every piece you'd like feedback on. This is just to ensure that the markers don't become too overwhelmed, so we can devote a solid amount of time to the essays/creatives we mark ;D check out the essay marking rules here!
So, I'd be happy to give some detailed feedback once you've reached that 15 post threshold! Ask Kaan709 above you, it doesn't take too long (Kaan had nothing like, two days ago maybe?) I've seen people do 100 in a day (or that might have been me, how embarrassing...)
Anyway, I did have a quick skim; you are a brilliant writer. Like, bafflingly brilliant. I love your style and you encapsulate the tone of your protagonist so well, which makes for extremely effective characterisation. Great use of dialogue, great use of literary techniques, just great all around. Seriously wonderful!
What I think you need to work on is your conceptual element - I love the sense of envy you develop but the transformation at the end feels really rushed and a little confusing. Almost a bit anticlimactic. I like the idea, but I think you need to do more to develop it, and I don't quite think that painting finish does the idea justice, especially in comparison to how much time and how excellently you set up the protagonist's state of mind.
I really, genuinely hope you stick around the forums, ask a few questions and have a bit of a chat (getting your post count up in the process); I'd love to give this some more detailed feedback and help you develop it further! It easily has the potential to be a 15/15 piece ;D amazing work!
Post by: anotherworld2b on February 09, 2017, 12:38:26 am
I was wondering if I could get feedback on my current assessment please. I am having a bit of difficulty because I've never used the technique of stream of consciousness before so I would like to see if what I have done could be considered successful
Post by: sophroberts812 on February 09, 2017, 08:15:38 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 09, 2017, 08:30:59 pm
Hey guys, I'm just after some advice on a potential idea for my creative. So I've written half my creative so far and I really like it so am trying to stick with it, but that could just be me being rigid and/or somewhat lazy!!!! I'm wanting to write the entire thing in third person about a girl who is never actually named, only ever referred to as "the girl" and "she", and then at the very end of the story I'm hoping to somehow reveal to the reader that the narrator is actually just retelling her past. I'm just wondering if that's too overly ambitious for a Year 12 student to try and do?? Thanks!! :D
Hey Soph! I think that sounds like a really cool concept! It definitely doesn't sound too ambitious based on what you've said, and it is definitely not lazy to want to see an idea through to the end ;D
What is the big Discovery concept you are thinking with this? The significance of the ending eludes me a little bit, keen to hear the concept you want to push and if you've thought about ways to adapt it to different stimuli! ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 10, 2017, 03:14:12 am
Hi :D
I was wondering if I could get feedback on my current assessment please. I am having a bit of difficulty because I've never used the technique of stream of consciousness before so I would like to see if what I have done could be considered successful
Hey there!
I'll have a look at this now. It's a super interesting task you've been given!
Spoiler
POV: of a child at a playground
The day had been really pretty. On a creative level, this opening sentence doesn't grab a reader, set a tone, it only really presents us with the subjective idea of what constitutes pretty. The sky had strips of airy cotton candy and the ball of light held high in the sky shined really bright. I like this description of the sun. The cotton candy in the sky sometimes changes to a grey colour and starts to cry. Maybe its sad because its lonely. I wouldn't want that shiny ball of light to disappear if its my friend. I think its called the s...? Sun! That’s right the sun. It is bad to look at the sun. Mum said it will make you blind if you look at it. I don’t want to be blind. Blind? …
Where is everyone!? To create the clear difference between the speaker and the third person narration, I'd put the speaker on a different line to show it's internal dialogue. Perhaps this contravenes what's been suggested of you, it's just the way that I prefer to read stream of consciousness. The following voice is far too sophisticated to be that of a child that doesn't know the name of the sun. If you intend for this to be all in first person with the stream of consciousness running through, then you need to parallel the vocabulary of the thoughts and the narration. Because blades of grass isn't a description that would be given by someone who doesn't know the sun. It's just about balancing them out to create a cohesive and believable voice. Turning around, faint trails of children running for cover were left behind. The poor, thin green blades of the ground were flattened by a stampede of feet. I inhale. A familiar grassy smell of death. I salute to those who have passed on. The movable mighty fortress with a plank, net, cannon and the all powerful eye scope were left unattended. Did we get attack by an enemy ship? Where is the rest of my comrades? Did they get captured? I must report to the captain. Hurrying along as fast as I could with my little feet. I stand before my captain and his first mate. Captain. I salute. I like that we've so playfully moved onto the captain idea. It proves the stream of consciousness style well, moving from suns to pirates and so on.
The captain and his first mate stood proudly while almost being as tall as the sky itself. Maybe... just a little shorter than the sky. One day I will be tall enough to hit my head against the sky itself. It is only a matter of time. Time? I quickly submit my report and hurry as fast I could to the direction that he nodded. I must find my comrades.
Trudging through the dense dark forest. I scan through looking for survivors. I am brave. Big hairy, dangerous spiders, noisy jumping sticks and dark, scaly dragons will not stand in my way. I close my eyes and run. Run. RUN. BAM! I run into a sturdy tree and fall down holding my sore nose. Oww! I look up at the blurry, big tree. It’s alive?
A tall person with a shiny head. Its so shiny like the sun. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll cook. I like fried egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella?His head is just a big shiny egg. He had a white, hairy caterpillar on his lip that moved as he talked. His neck and strong arms were covered in black doodles. There is even a dragon! How cool. I wish I had doodles on me. I like colour. My favourite is probably blue. No purple. I love all colours. He must also like colours and drawings. I wonder what is his favourite one. The voice kind of jolts here. I thought we'd suddenly grown up when talking about the report and "comrades" because the vocabulary implies much older thoughts. But then we come back to samon...ella (so cute) and I'm brought back to the younger voice? Although children's conscious thoughts are scattered, they don't have such a consistent flick between mature and immature that we could justify this vocab.
He held a pink fishing rod in one hand and stared at me. ‘Hello’
‘It’s time to go!’ The captain shouted from afar with the crew following behind him like ducklings. He paused and stared at the man with tattoos all over his neck and arms and a scowl on his face emphasised by numerous piercings on his ears, nose and lip. Hands were quickly placed on my shoulders ushering me back towards the playground. Dad looked down and whispered ‘Stay away from people like him. He is dangerous’. I staring blankly and absently nodding.
The sun had shined brightly. But now only tiny spot lights from the sun could peer through the dense heavy clouds onto the cold, uneven pavement. A bustle of sounds and clammer echo through the hallways. Turning over, children ran for cover. Water droplets began to drizzle down from the sky. Before long, the drizzle of droplets started to fall in heavy drops. I inhale. The smell of the earthy soil permeates in the air. Looking up at the sky, several drops of rain fell on my face. I wonder if Mr Williams uses the fish hook on his nose to fish.
The day had been really pretty. On a creative level, this opening sentence doesn't grab a reader, set a tone, it only really presents us with the subjective idea of what constitutes pretty. The sky had strips of airy cotton candy and the ball of light held high in the sky shined really bright. I like this description of the sun. The cotton candy in the sky sometimes changes to a grey colour and starts to cry. Maybe its sad because its lonely. I wouldn't want that shiny ball of light to disappear if its my friend. I think its called the s...? Sun! That’s right the sun. It is bad to look at the sun. Mum said it will make you blind if you look at it. I don’t want to be blind. Blind? …
Where is everyone!? To create the clear difference between the speaker and the third person narration, I'd put the speaker on a different line to show it's internal dialogue. Perhaps this contravenes what's been suggested of you, it's just the way that I prefer to read stream of consciousness. The following voice is far too sophisticated to be that of a child that doesn't know the name of the sun. If you intend for this to be all in first person with the stream of consciousness running through, then you need to parallel the vocabulary of the thoughts and the narration. Because blades of grass isn't a description that would be given by someone who doesn't know the sun. It's just about balancing them out to create a cohesive and believable voice. Turning around, faint trails of children running for cover were left behind. The poor, thin green blades of the ground were flattened by a stampede of feet. I inhale. A familiar grassy smell of death. I salute to those who have passed on. The movable mighty fortress with a plank, net, cannon and the all powerful eye scope were left unattended. Did we get attack by an enemy ship? Where is the rest of my comrades? Did they get captured? I must report to the captain. Hurrying along as fast as I could with my little feet. I stand before my captain and his first mate. Captain. I salute. I like that we've so playfully moved onto the captain idea. It proves the stream of consciousness style well, moving from suns to pirates and so on.
The captain and his first mate stood proudly while almost being as tall as the sky itself. Maybe... just a little shorter than the sky. One day I will be tall enough to hit my head against the sky itself. It is only a matter of time. Time? I quickly submit my report and hurry as fast I could to the direction that he nodded. I must find my comrades.
Trudging through the dense dark forest. I scan through looking for survivors. I am brave. Big hairy, dangerous spiders, noisy jumping sticks and dark, scaly dragons will not stand in my way. I close my eyes and run. Run. RUN. BAM! I run into a sturdy tree and fall down holding my sore nose. Oww! I look up at the blurry, big tree. It’s alive?
A tall person with a shiny head. Its so shiny like the sun. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll cook. I like fried egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella?His head is just a big shiny egg. He had a white, hairy caterpillar on his lip that moved as he talked. His neck and strong arms were covered in black doodles. There is even a dragon! How cool. I wish I had doodles on me. I like colour. My favourite is probably blue. No purple. I love all colours. He must also like colours and drawings. I wonder what is his favourite one. The voice kind of jolts here. I thought we'd suddenly grown up when talking about the report and "comrades" because the vocabulary implies much older thoughts. But then we come back to samon...ella (so cute) and I'm brought back to the younger voice? Although children's conscious thoughts are scattered, they don't have such a consistent flick between mature and immature that we could justify this vocab.
He held a pink fishing rod in one hand and stared at me. ‘Hello’
‘It’s time to go!’ The captain shouted from afar with the crew following behind him like ducklings. He paused and stared at the man with tattoos all over his neck and arms and a scowl on his face emphasised by numerous piercings on his ears, nose and lip. Hands were quickly placed on my shoulders ushering me back towards the playground. Dad looked down and whispered ‘Stay away from people like him. He is dangerous’. I staring blankly and absently nodding.
The sun had shined brightly. But now only tiny spot lights from the sun could peer through the dense heavy clouds onto the cold, uneven pavement. A bustle of sounds and clammer echo through the hallways. Turning over, children ran for cover. Water droplets began to drizzle down from the sky. Before long, the drizzle of droplets started to fall in heavy drops. I inhale. The smell of the earthy soil permeates in the air. Looking up at the sky, several drops of rain fell on my face. I wonder if Mr Williams uses the fish hook on his nose to fish.
I think you're definitely getting the hand of the stream of consciousness style. You create internal voice well, the only problem is that it is as though you are creating multiple voices rather than just one strong, playful, childish voice. Once you create that consistency in voice, the stream will be more realistic and I think you'll have yourself a great result! Things like samon....ella create a childish but truthful voice. It's like the child is sounding it out, and that's what would happen in their head! Great work :)
Post by: anotherworld2b on February 10, 2017, 09:55:03 am
I have some questions to ask if that's okay
How else could I begin my narrative instead of 'The day had been really pretty?'
Are there particular techniques or ways I could use to gab the reader's attention?
I can see now that I have accidentally created multiple voices. Would you happen to have any advice on how to maintain a constant voice throughout?
I was also wondering how I could I explores thought-provoking, complex and challenging ideas through a child's voice which is part of the assessment's criteria? I tried to include the idea that a child's response is shaped by what their parents tell them who in turn are shaped by society's perception of others based on their appearance in the last 2 paragraphs? Would it be considered to be effective in fulfilling the criteria or should I do something else?
Hey there!
I'll have a look at this now. It's a super interesting task you've been given!SpoilerPOV: of a child at a playground
The day had been really pretty. On a creative level, this opening sentence doesn't grab a reader, set a tone, it only really presents us with the subjective idea of what constitutes pretty. The sky had strips of airy cotton candy and the ball of light held high in the sky shined really bright. I like this description of the sun. The cotton candy in the sky sometimes changes to a grey colour and starts to cry. Maybe its sad because its lonely. I wouldn't want that shiny ball of light to disappear if its my friend. I think its called the s...? Sun! That’s right the sun. It is bad to look at the sun. Mum said it will make you blind if you look at it. I don’t want to be blind. Blind? …
Where is everyone!? To create the clear difference between the speaker and the third person narration, I'd put the speaker on a different line to show it's internal dialogue. Perhaps this contravenes what's been suggested of you, it's just the way that I prefer to read stream of consciousness. The following voice is far too sophisticated to be that of a child that doesn't know the name of the sun. If you intend for this to be all in first person with the stream of consciousness running through, then you need to parallel the vocabulary of the thoughts and the narration. Because blades of grass isn't a description that would be given by someone who doesn't know the sun. It's just about balancing them out to create a cohesive and believable voice. Turning around, faint trails of children running for cover were left behind. The poor, thin green blades of the ground were flattened by a stampede of feet. I inhale. A familiar grassy smell of death. I salute to those who have passed on. The movable mighty fortress with a plank, net, cannon and the all powerful eye scope were left unattended. Did we get attack by an enemy ship? Where is the rest of my comrades? Did they get captured? I must report to the captain. Hurrying along as fast as I could with my little feet. I stand before my captain and his first mate. Captain. I salute. I like that we've so playfully moved onto the captain idea. It proves the stream of consciousness style well, moving from suns to pirates and so on.
The captain and his first mate stood proudly while almost being as tall as the sky itself. Maybe... just a little shorter than the sky. One day I will be tall enough to hit my head against the sky itself. It is only a matter of time. Time? I quickly submit my report and hurry as fast I could to the direction that he nodded. I must find my comrades.
Trudging through the dense dark forest. I scan through looking for survivors. I am brave. Big hairy, dangerous spiders, noisy jumping sticks and dark, scaly dragons will not stand in my way. I close my eyes and run. Run. RUN. BAM! I run into a sturdy tree and fall down holding my sore nose. Oww! I look up at the blurry, big tree. It’s alive?
A tall person with a shiny head. Its so shiny like the sun. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll cook. I like fried egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella?His head is just a big shiny egg. He had a white, hairy caterpillar on his lip that moved as he talked. His neck and strong arms were covered in black doodles. There is even a dragon! How cool. I wish I had doodles on me. I like colour. My favourite is probably blue. No purple. I love all colours. He must also like colours and drawings. I wonder what is his favourite one. The voice kind of jolts here. I thought we'd suddenly grown up when talking about the report and "comrades" because the vocabulary implies much older thoughts. But then we come back to samon...ella (so cute) and I'm brought back to the younger voice? Although children's conscious thoughts are scattered, they don't have such a consistent flick between mature and immature that we could justify this vocab.
He held a pink fishing rod in one hand and stared at me. ‘Hello’
‘It’s time to go!’ The captain shouted from afar with the crew following behind him like ducklings. He paused and stared at the man with tattoos all over his neck and arms and a scowl on his face emphasised by numerous piercings on his ears, nose and lip. Hands were quickly placed on my shoulders ushering me back towards the playground. Dad looked down and whispered ‘Stay away from people like him. He is dangerous’. I staring blankly and absently nodding.
The sun had shined brightly. But now only tiny spot lights from the sun could peer through the dense heavy clouds onto the cold, uneven pavement. A bustle of sounds and clammer echo through the hallways. Turning over, children ran for cover. Water droplets began to drizzle down from the sky. Before long, the drizzle of droplets started to fall in heavy drops. I inhale. The smell of the earthy soil permeates in the air. Looking up at the sky, several drops of rain fell on my face. I wonder if Mr Williams uses the fish hook on his nose to fish.
I think you're definitely getting the hand of the stream of consciousness style. You create internal voice well, the only problem is that it is as though you are creating multiple voices rather than just one strong, playful, childish voice. Once you create that consistency in voice, the stream will be more realistic and I think you'll have yourself a great result! Things like samon....ella create a childish but truthful voice. It's like the child is sounding it out, and that's what would happen in their head! Great work :)
Post by: sophroberts812 on February 10, 2017, 08:29:39 pm
Hey Soph! I think that sounds like a really cool concept! It definitely doesn't sound too ambitious based on what you've said, and it is definitely not lazy to want to see an idea through to the end ;D
What is the big Discovery concept you are thinking with this? The significance of the ending eludes me a little bit, keen to hear the concept you want to push and if you've thought about ways to adapt it to different stimuli! ;D
Basically my current storyline starts out set in a classroom, where a girl with OCD and auditory sensitivities gets super overwhelmed (cue fancy descriptive language and adjectives). She wonders if anyone will ever notice her... "Probably not. nobody ever noticed her - except Ms Mason (her teacher), who constantly showed her subtle compassion and understanding." So the girl evidently has a close relationship with her teacher with Ms Mason being nurturing and sympathetic towards her. Somehow I'm wanting to have a time jump (not sure how to do this or if it will even work), where the girl goes to visit Ms Mason years later in a dementia unit. Ms Mason will say something along the lines of "Sorry, do I know you?" or "And what's your name, dear?"... leading to the girl's realisation that she doesn't even know who she really is. Thus, self discovery (and personal and emotional).
There's also a recurring motif of silence, and the girl wanting silence to remove her auditory sensitivities and stop her pain and suffering, and my English teacher suggested that I could perhaps intertwine that notion into the conclusion of the story to have silence in the dementia unit with Ms Mason allowing the girl to discover her true self. This could either be re-discovery or discovering her true self for the first time.
I'm not sure if that even makes sense but hope it helps! Thank you so much!!!!
Post by: anotherworld2b on February 11, 2017, 12:31:54 am
So I have rewritten a new one.
I was wondering if could have feedback on how well I've fulfilled the criteria (table I have included)
and advice on how to achieve higher marks in regards to the criteria table
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 11, 2017, 07:21:43 am
I showed my teacher what I had done but she didn't really like it.
So I have rewritten a new one.
I was wondering if could have feedback on how well I've fulfilled the criteria (table I have included)
and advice on how to achieve higher marks in regards to the criteria table
Hey anotherworld, sure you can have some feedback :)
Spoiler
The sky had strips of airy cotton candy Is this a sunset image? That's what I get, and it's beaaaaautiful! Beautiful language. and the ball of light held high in the sky shined really bright. I look to the left and to the right two times twice before walking across. Just like mum told me to do when the little man turns green. Or was it red? I wonder what we will learn today. I wonder if I will see Mrs Williams and Jack today. I hope I don’t see Mr Williams. He is a tall person with a shiny head. Shiny like the sun. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll cook. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella? His head is just a big shiny egg. He has a white, hairy caterpillar on his lip that moves as he talks. His neck and strong arms are covered in black doodles. There is even a dragon! I like the shiny stones in his ears, nose and lip the most. But I should run away when I see him. Because mum says he is dangerous… The fault here with the stream of consciousness is that a child wouldn't be describing to themself what this person looks like in the way that it is presented. Currently, it's like you're describing the description of the man, to me, using childish language. The ideas here are great, the dragon, the tattoos, the caterpillar. But to be true to stream of consciousness, we need to think about the exact thoughts someone would have, and I just don't see it as reasonable that a child would describe the description of someone, to a third person, in their head? Unless they had an imaginary friend, which is a whole other ball game!
I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around I smile. Jack! You don't think to yourself, "I feel a tap on my shoulder." If you want to make the distinction between the first person narration and the stream of consciousness, this could work. But, it would mean putting your stream in italics, or on its own line, in order to differentiate the storytelling from the thoughts. Because it's unclear right now.
Mum starts talking to Mrs Williams. She has a big, purple and green bruise on her cheek again. She is trying to hide it with her grey scarf with many little holes in it again. Mrs Williams is bad at playing hide and seek. She always wears tops with long sleeves and long pants. Mum has a lot of pretty dresses but Mrs Williams always wears the same two tops. You can always see bruises on her arms and neck even when she tries to hide it. Mum gets angry about Mr Williams and talks to Mrs Williams a lot. Maybe tips on how to be better at hide and seek. Or maybe about how Jack and I can run very fast. We are the fastest in the class. Jack is sometimes faster. Only sometimes. That’s only when Jack doesn’t have his battle scars… I stare at the dandelion. Dandelion I like that word. Growing through the crack in the path it is even bigger than before. Oh! There is even a red and black ladybug. How cool. I like the serious turn that the story has taken. I like that it's brought up, and then left behind as we carry on with things that would be truly interesting for a child. it works well, because I'm wanting to know more.
I look around walking with Jack. He is walking weirdly today. Maybe he hurt his legs again. I ask if it hurts. He just smiles and says ‘no’. Jack is strong. He but is very clumsy and hurts himself all the time. There is a light in the normally dark, dirty home in corner of the street. Masie’s house. Maybe her big brother is home. I have seen him once. He was so skinny. And had little holes in arms. Maybe mozzies bit him. I heard mum whisper to dad when I couldn’t fall asleep one night. ‘Richard’s gone into a coma. He overdosed?’ I asked mum what is a coma and she said he is just sleeping for a while. I wonder what he dreams about. I hear people say he has been sleeping for a month. He must have nice dreams.
‘We’re here’ mum says. Yay! I look up and our teacher Ms Graves smiling down at me and ignoring Jack. People don’t like Jack. They say he is different. Being different isn’t good. We have to look the same. But I like Jack. He is fun to be around. He can run very fast and is very smart. He always borrows things from me. But its okay because mum said sharing is caring. He wears the same grey shirt with the same car on it. He said it used to be blue and wears it everyday. He even wears the same shoes. I think they are Jack’s favourite clothes.
The sun had shined brightly. But now only tiny spot lights from the sun could peer through the heavy clouds onto the cold, uneven path. Water droplets begin to drizzle down from the sky. Before long, the drizzle of droplets started to fall in heavy drops. I inhale. Looking up at the sky, several drops of rain fell on my face. I wonder if Mr Williams uses the fish hook on his nose to fish. Is this a nose piercing?
I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around I smile. Jack! You don't think to yourself, "I feel a tap on my shoulder." If you want to make the distinction between the first person narration and the stream of consciousness, this could work. But, it would mean putting your stream in italics, or on its own line, in order to differentiate the storytelling from the thoughts. Because it's unclear right now.
Mum starts talking to Mrs Williams. She has a big, purple and green bruise on her cheek again. She is trying to hide it with her grey scarf with many little holes in it again. Mrs Williams is bad at playing hide and seek. She always wears tops with long sleeves and long pants. Mum has a lot of pretty dresses but Mrs Williams always wears the same two tops. You can always see bruises on her arms and neck even when she tries to hide it. Mum gets angry about Mr Williams and talks to Mrs Williams a lot. Maybe tips on how to be better at hide and seek. Or maybe about how Jack and I can run very fast. We are the fastest in the class. Jack is sometimes faster. Only sometimes. That’s only when Jack doesn’t have his battle scars… I stare at the dandelion. Dandelion I like that word. Growing through the crack in the path it is even bigger than before. Oh! There is even a red and black ladybug. How cool. I like the serious turn that the story has taken. I like that it's brought up, and then left behind as we carry on with things that would be truly interesting for a child. it works well, because I'm wanting to know more.
I look around walking with Jack. He is walking weirdly today. Maybe he hurt his legs again. I ask if it hurts. He just smiles and says ‘no’. Jack is strong. He but is very clumsy and hurts himself all the time. There is a light in the normally dark, dirty home in corner of the street. Masie’s house. Maybe her big brother is home. I have seen him once. He was so skinny. And had little holes in arms. Maybe mozzies bit him. I heard mum whisper to dad when I couldn’t fall asleep one night. ‘Richard’s gone into a coma. He overdosed?’ I asked mum what is a coma and she said he is just sleeping for a while. I wonder what he dreams about. I hear people say he has been sleeping for a month. He must have nice dreams.
‘We’re here’ mum says. Yay! I look up and our teacher Ms Graves smiling down at me and ignoring Jack. People don’t like Jack. They say he is different. Being different isn’t good. We have to look the same. But I like Jack. He is fun to be around. He can run very fast and is very smart. He always borrows things from me. But its okay because mum said sharing is caring. He wears the same grey shirt with the same car on it. He said it used to be blue and wears it everyday. He even wears the same shoes. I think they are Jack’s favourite clothes.
The sun had shined brightly. But now only tiny spot lights from the sun could peer through the heavy clouds onto the cold, uneven path. Water droplets begin to drizzle down from the sky. Before long, the drizzle of droplets started to fall in heavy drops. I inhale. Looking up at the sky, several drops of rain fell on my face. I wonder if Mr Williams uses the fish hook on his nose to fish. Is this a nose piercing?
I think this is conceptually a lot better than your draft. I think that on a technical level, there are some issues relating to the way the voice is perceived. I've pointed them out and suggestions for adjusting them. It becomes far more comfortable as the story goes on, though, and the reader adjusts to the voice of the child. The issues are essentially, what would the boy actually be thinking, compared to what thoughts are expressed here as a way of advancing the plot?
I enjoy the sinister element to the plot, but I'm confused about who the Mr and Mrs are...at first I thought teachers, and then I thought maybe Jack's parents? But then maisie and Richard are brought into it and the connection between everyone isn't clear. Perhaps just holding onto the Mrs Williams storyline strongest will streamline your story. I think your use of language (the top criteria) is your strongest asset at the moment, because you really capture the childish thoughts. When the sinister aspect of the plot is streamlined, I think the thought-provokingness will increase sincerely!
Overall, a vast improvement and solid effort!
Post by: Kaan709 on February 11, 2017, 01:29:52 pm
Hey! Awesome work getting your post count up, excited to give you some detailed feedback ;D
Hey, sorry for the late reply. I just had a read, and agree with the feedback. Do you think my mark is fair? would you need to see my marking criteria?
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 11, 2017, 01:35:11 pm
Hey, sorry for the late reply. I just had a read, and agree with the feedback. Do you think my mark is fair? would you need to see my marking criteria?
That's okay! Glad it was useful! Hmm, based on what I'd expect the criteria to be (it would be similar to the HSC Marking Rubric), I'd say the mark is fair :)
Post by: anotherworld2b on February 11, 2017, 02:13:19 pm
I'm sorry for posting so much for this one narrative. I hope you don't mind
My teacher changed this section of the criteria: Quality of ideas explored (issues raised, themes developed, meanings made possible)-the response: Explores thought-provoking, complex and challenging ideas
To be worth 12 marks. I was hoping to get help in how to explore more complex ideas and how to establish clearly to my reader that my character is speaking to his imaginary friend Maisie. I am not sure what type of dialogue I should use to make sure or techniques to ensure that the stream of consciousness technique is still present in the narrative.
I was hoping to also get feedback on my Expression, Use of narrative point of view and Use of literal and metaphorical language
points for the allocation of marks in the criteria table I have included below.
I apologise if I seem greedy for attention/advice. I simply want to do the best narrative I can do before I hand it in on Friday. (it is my first English assessment of yr 12)
Hey anotherworld, sure you can have some feedback :)SpoilerThe sky had strips of airy cotton candy Is this a sunset image? That's what I get, and it's beaaaaautiful! Beautiful language. and the ball of light held high in the sky shined really bright. I look to the left and to the righttwo timestwice before walking across. Just like mum told me to do when the little man turns green. Or was it red? I wonder what we will learn today. I wonder if I will see Mrs Williams and Jack today. I hope I don’t see Mr Williams. He is a tall person with a shiny head. Shiny like the sun. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll cook. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella? His head is just a big shiny egg. He has a white, hairy caterpillar on his lip that moves as he talks. His neck and strong arms are covered in black doodles. There is even a dragon! I like the shiny stones in his ears, nose and lip the most. But I should run away when I see him. Because mum says he is dangerous… The fault here with the stream of consciousness is that a child wouldn't be describing to themself what this person looks like in the way that it is presented. Currently, it's like you're describing the description of the man, to me, using childish language. The ideas here are great, the dragon, the tattoos, the caterpillar. But to be true to stream of consciousness, we need to think about the exact thoughts someone would have, and I just don't see it as reasonable that a child would describe the description of someone, to a third person, in their head? Unless they had an imaginary friend, which is a whole other ball game!
I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around I smile. Jack! You don't think to yourself, "I feel a tap on my shoulder." If you want to make the distinction between the first person narration and the stream of consciousness, this could work. But, it would mean putting your stream in italics, or on its own line, in order to differentiate the storytelling from the thoughts. Because it's unclear right now.
Mum starts talking to Mrs Williams. She has a big, purple and green bruise on her cheek again. She is trying to hide it with her grey scarf with many little holes in it again. Mrs Williams is bad at playing hide and seek. She always wears tops with long sleeves and long pants. Mum has a lot of pretty dresses but Mrs Williams always wears the same two tops. You can always see bruises on her arms and neck even when she tries to hide it. Mum gets angry about Mr Williams and talks to Mrs Williams a lot. Maybe tips on how to be better at hide and seek. Or maybe about how Jack and I can run very fast. We are the fastest in the class. Jack is sometimes faster. Only sometimes. That’s only when Jack doesn’t have his battle scars… I stare at the dandelion. Dandelion I like that word. Growing through the crack in the path it is even bigger than before. Oh! There is even a red and black ladybug. How cool. I like the serious turn that the story has taken. I like that it's brought up, and then left behind as we carry on with things that would be truly interesting for a child. it works well, because I'm wanting to know more.
I look around walking with Jack. He is walking weirdly today. Maybe he hurt his legs again. I ask if it hurts. He just smiles and says ‘no’. Jack is strong. He but is very clumsy and hurts himself all the time. There is a light in the normally dark, dirty home in corner of the street. Masie’s house. Maybe her big brother is home. I have seen him once. He was so skinny. And had little holes in arms. Maybe mozzies bit him. I heard mum whisper to dad when I couldn’t fall asleep one night. ‘Richard’s gone into a coma. He overdosed?’ I asked mum what is a coma and she said he is just sleeping for a while. I wonder what he dreams about. I hear people say he has been sleeping for a month. He must have nice dreams.
‘We’re here’ mum says. Yay! I look up and our teacher Ms Graves smiling down at me and ignoring Jack. People don’t like Jack. They say he is different. Being different isn’t good. We have to look the same. But I like Jack. He is fun to be around. He can run very fast and is very smart. He always borrows things from me. But its okay because mum said sharing is caring. He wears the same grey shirt with the same car on it. He said it used to be blue and wears it everyday. He even wears the same shoes. I think they are Jack’s favourite clothes.
The sun had shined brightly. But now only tiny spot lights from the sun could peer through the heavy clouds onto the cold, uneven path. Water droplets begin to drizzle down from the sky. Before long, the drizzle of droplets started to fall in heavy drops. I inhale. Looking up at the sky, several drops of rain fell on my face. I wonder if Mr Williams uses the fish hook on his nose to fish. Is this a nose piercing?
I think this is conceptually a lot better than your draft. I think that on a technical level, there are some issues relating to the way the voice is perceived. I've pointed them out and suggestions for adjusting them. It becomes far more comfortable as the story goes on, though, and the reader adjusts to the voice of the child. The issues are essentially, what would the boy actually be thinking, compared to what thoughts are expressed here as a way of advancing the plot?
I enjoy the sinister element to the plot, but I'm confused about who the Mr and Mrs are...at first I thought teachers, and then I thought maybe Jack's parents? But then maisie and Richard are brought into it and the connection between everyone isn't clear. Perhaps just holding onto the Mrs Williams storyline strongest will streamline your story. I think your use of language (the top criteria) is your strongest asset at the moment, because you really capture the childish thoughts. When the sinister aspect of the plot is streamlined, I think the thought-provokingness will increase sincerely!
Overall, a vast improvement and solid effort!
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 14, 2017, 04:29:32 am
I have rewritten my narrative yet again.
I'm sorry for posting so much for this one narrative. I hope you don't mind
My teacher changed this section of the criteria: Quality of ideas explored (issues raised, themes developed, meanings made possible)-the response: Explores thought-provoking, complex and challenging ideas
To be worth 12 marks. I was hoping to get help in how to explore more complex ideas and how to establish clearly to my reader that my character is speaking to his imaginary friend Maisie. I am not sure what type of dialogue I should use to make sure or techniques to ensure that the stream of consciousness technique is still present in the narrative.
I was hoping to also get feedback on my Expression, Use of narrative point of view and Use of literal and metaphorical language
points for the allocation of marks in the criteria table I have included below.
I apologise if I seem greedy for attention/advice. I simply want to do the best narrative I can do before I hand it in on Friday. (it is my first English assessment of yr 12)
Hey anotherworld - I haven't forgotten you! I'll give you feedback on this in the next 24 hours. Sorry for the delay!
Post by: anotherworld2b on February 14, 2017, 07:28:23 pm
I showed my teacher what I did and she didn't like it... again. I am trying to write it again... XO
Can I request feedback on the newest version? I don't want to waste your time on reading the narrative I posted a few days ago with the knowledge that is not what my teacher wants.
She wants me to delve more into the thoughts of the character. She wants me write as if ' its a telephone conversation' letting the reader guess what is happening by implying what is happening? I am not sure how to do this without recounting or simply describing the settings/surroundings. Is there a technique?
I would like to explore the idea of domestic violence but I'm not sure how to advance further. This is all I have right now.
Strips of airy cotton candy float slowly above. Slow and steady like an old turtle. Like that fable. What is called again? The tortoise and the hare? Slow and steady wins the race. The ball of light held high in the sky shined blindly bright. On the left there is no car. On the right there is no car. No danger. It’s safe to cross when the little man turns green. Or was it red? Red like Jack’s dad face when he is angry. Pale white like Jack’s mum face when she is scared.
A tall person stands in the distance. Light reflects off his shiny, tan head. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll sizzle and cook. A sunnyside up egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella? His face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. Numerous wrinkles littered his face like a scrunched up ball of paper. If it rained at this moment the indents from the wrinkles can store water in all the little trenches in his face. He wouldn’t have to pay for water then.
Who am I to judge the way the white, hairy caterpillar on his lip quivers in tune to the movement of his mouth? Or the way thin trails of saliva streams down like little rivers dripping down onto the ground as if he is a feral dog. The feeling of disgust brews greater in intensity. Why am I so wicked? Why does he seem so revolting to me?
Hey anotherworld - I haven't forgotten you! I'll give you feedback on this in the next 24 hours. Sorry for the delay!
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 14, 2017, 09:27:55 pm
that's okay :D
I showed my teacher what I did and she didn't like it... again. I am trying to write it again... XO
Can I request feedback on the newest version? I don't want to waste your time on reading the narrative I posted a few days ago with the knowledge that is not what my teacher wants.
She wants me to delve more into the thoughts of the character. She wants me write as if ' its a telephone conversation' letting the reader guess what is happening by implying what is happening? I am not sure how to do this without recounting or simply describing the settings/surroundings. Is there a technique?
I would like to explore the idea of domestic violence but I'm not sure how to advance further. This is all I have right now.
Strips of airy cotton candy float slowly above. Slow and steady like an old turtle. Like that fable. What is called again? The tortoise and the hare? Slow and steady wins the race. The ball of light held high in the sky shined blindly bright. On the left there is no car. On the right there is no car. No danger. It’s safe to cross when the little man turns green. Or was it red? Red like Jack’s dad face when he is angry. Pale white like Jack’s mum face when she is scared.
A tall person stands in the distance. Light reflects off his shiny, tan head. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll sizzle and cook. A sunnyside up egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella? His face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. Numerous wrinkles littered his face like a scrunched up ball of paper. If it rained at this moment the indents from the wrinkles can store water in all the little trenches in his face. He wouldn’t have to pay for water then.
Who am I to judge the way the white, hairy caterpillar on his lip quivers in tune to the movement of his mouth? Or the way thin trails of saliva streams down like little rivers dripping down onto the ground as if he is a feral dog. The feeling of disgust brews greater in intensity. Why am I so wicked? Why does he seem so revolting to me?
Hey there! I don't really know what your teacher means by the telephone call idea? Does she mean that you only hear half of the story?
What you've written there is just excellent...your best work yet. You've paired the childish thoughts with the serious scenario in a way that is believable for the voice of the child. Absolutely we can do feedback on the newest version, just post it up and I'll respond :)
Post by: bdgonz on February 14, 2017, 10:34:58 pm
Here is the piece! (Note: Any words in itallics are the language 'Igbo, a Nigerian language)
Yekenni
The sticky aroma from the metallic walls fills your nostrils. You want to gag. The bruises on your delicate skin continue to send a constant, dull ache across your face. You analyse the bodies in the confined room. Each stare is menacingly aggressive, and you find it hard to not be intimidated. You witness an individual coming back from Cell One. The dried blood, like concrete over their delicate dark skin; the purple bruises, and the mgbu welts along the criminals innocent arms. You notice that even those who attempt to emasculate their fellows inmates shudder and look away, still trying to look proud. They are pathetic. You can feel your white hair slowly turning the colour of murky water - your tears refuse to fall. Whilst everybody continues to stare at you, begging you to challenge them, there is one young nwata nwoke who avoids your gaze. When he meets your eyes, they are filled with sympathy and pity, something seldom in this cell. He is beautiful, but prison makes him ugly. The bites from the bugs on his gentle, light brown skin, pussing at the surface. You think that this makes him more endearing. He reminds you of Yekenni.
While you were sitting in your house, you remember the phone call from the police demanding that you turn in your son; you remember telling them you had not seen him for four months; you remember your wife’s sorrowful, distraught face as she vigorously cried 'chi nyere m aka'; you remember wondering at what point in time that you let your son become this shell of a man, an individual that was victim to the corrupt and calamity filled society; you remember them barge into your quiet home; and you remember them grab your frail body, squeezing you so hard that you thought you might break in half. You try to remember less. When did Yekenni become like this? He use to be such a happy child, laughter consuming his body frequently, and not a trace of deceit or dishonesty was present. He changed, and it was your fault. You let him stay back at school when you knew he wasn’t ‘doing homework’, you let him go out to parties on weekdays and come home drunk after one in the morning, you let him keep his room private, where he could hide anything and everything. Both you and society corrupted your son, and you can’t help but feel disappointed in yourself - and him.
You stink. You have not enough money for an adequate meal, for any form of cleanliness, and you are desperate. Your own aroma makes you want to gag more than the smell of the sickly prison. You know that you are ill, and if you remain in prison much longer, you will die. Your shaking in your sleep only makes you feel weak, vulnerable, like chaos has personally chosen you to victimise. All the inmates are escorted out of the cell whilst it is being cleaned, and you can’t help to desire for them to splash that toxic, detergent over your body. Anything to be somewhat clean. When they finish cleaning you scurry into the cell, rip of your tattered shirt and rub your gentle back on the sickly smelling floors. It is bliss to have something other than grime over your body. The guards do not attempt to hide their laughter.
‘Take off the rest of your clothes oluku’
You obey. Another guard drags you by the arm and forces you to parade the corridor. They laugh at your wrinkly skin, your subtle hunch, your delicate whimper, and your sagging penis. This time, you let the tears fall. The only one not laughing is the pretty boy. He looks at you, and his gentle, compassionate stare makes you cry even more. He is someone that wants to help you, the only one that wants to help you. As this flutters through your mind, you hear the laughter grow louder.
‘Did your criminal of a son know papa’s penis was so shriveled? Ay?’
You stop your tears, carefully cover your private region and walk back into the cell. Guards stifle giggles.
The pretty boy was gone. He was gone before you arose from your uncomfortable position on the floor this morning. You did not know the boy, but he made you feel like somebody cared, like there was somebody watching over you. Now you are more alone, more vulnerable, closer to the end. You further touch your gentle skin, peeling of the dried blood. Subsequently, you wince as you gaze at the welts along your arm. The longer you look, the more painful they become.
‘Hey you, ghọgbuoI’ a guard barks.
You know he is talking to you.
‘Your thiefing son has been found, you’re out’.
You do not speak. You try not to react but a small smile dances across your face. As you walk through the dirty corridor you are unsure about how to feel. Your son is captured, it is very probable that he will die in prison. But now you will live. You will be clean, you will be in your own room, you will be with your wife, you will be safe. You love Yekenni, but you also love yourself.
Post by: anotherworld2b on February 14, 2017, 10:39:57 pm
thank you for your help I really appreciate it ;D
Hey there! I don't really know what your teacher means by the telephone call idea? Does she mean that you only hear half of the story?
What you've written there is just excellent...your best work yet. You've paired the childish thoughts with the serious scenario in a way that is believable for the voice of the child. Absolutely we can do feedback on the newest version, just post it up and I'll respond :)
Post by: anotherworld2b on February 15, 2017, 01:11:48 am
To be worth 12 marks. I was hoping to get help in how to explore more complex ideas.I was hoping to also get feedback on my Expression, Use of narrative point of view and Use of literal and metaphorical language points for the allocation of marks in the criteria table I have included below.
[/quote]
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 15, 2017, 07:11:25 pm
Hi there! If possible could you have a read of my creative piece. It is based on a Nigerian short story called 'Cell One' from the collection of short stories 'The Thing Around Your Neck'. My story is based on an old man who has been locked away in a horrific prison as a result of his sons crimes (the police could not find his son, so they locked him up instead). Ultimately, my piece aims to capture how a corrupt society can push people to there limits and cause disloyalty and desperation to be immensely prevalent. Any general feedback would be greatly appreciated!
Hey there! This sounds genuinely really interesting, I'm keen to read this! I'll put my comments in bold font below in the spoiler :)
Spoiler
Yekenni
The sticky aroma from the metallic walls fills your nostrils. You want to gag. The bruises on your delicate skin continue to send a constant, dull ache across your face. You analyse the bodies in the confined room. Each stare is menacingly aggressive, and you find it hard to not be intimidated. You witness an individual coming back from Cell One. Simple, but "Cell One" is the perfect introduction to us being in a prison.The dried blood, like concrete over their delicate dark skin; the purple bruises, and the mgbu welts along the criminals innocent arms. You notice that even those who attempt to emasculate their fellows inmates shudder and look away, still trying to look proud. They are pathetic. You can feel your white hair slowly turning the colour of murky water - your tears refuse to fall. Whilst everybody continues to stare at you, begging you to challenge them, there is one young nwata nwoke who avoids your gaze. When he meets your eyes, they are filled with sympathy and pity, something seldom in this cell. He is beautiful, but prison makes him ugly. The bites from the bugs on his gentle, light brown skin, pussing at the surface. You think that this makes him more endearing. He reminds you of Yekenni.
While you were sitting in your house, you remember the phone call from the police demanding that you turn in your son; you remember telling them you had not seen him for four months; you remember your wife’s sorrowful, distraught face as she vigorously cried 'chi nyere m aka'; you remember wondering at what point in time that you let your son become this shell of a man, an individual that was victim to the corrupt and calamity filled society; you remember them barge into your quiet home; and you remember them grab your frail body, squeezing you so hard that you thought you might break in half. I'm really enjoying the story so far, it's all flowing well. But, I think you can improve on this last bit here. Instead of "breaking in half" let's move from the cliche and into a really raw description. When I think of being squeezed really hard, I think of people's fingertips pressing into my flesh. Perhaps you could work with some dark imagery there? You try to remember less. When did Yekenni become like this? He use to be such a happy child, laughter consuming his body frequently, and not a trace of deceit or dishonesty was present. He changed, and it was your fault. You let him stay back at school when you knew he wasn’t ‘doing homework’, you let him go out to parties on weekdays and come home drunk after one in the morning, you let him keep his room private, where he could hide anything and everything. Both you and society corrupted your son, and you can’t help but feel disappointed in yourself - and him.
You stink. This works wonderfully as a double meaning - you stink, literally, but it also plays on "you stink as a father" after the last paragraph. You have not enough money for an adequate meal, for any form of cleanliness, and you are desperate. Your own aroma makes you want to gag more than the smell of the sickly prison. You know that you are ill, and if you remain in prison much longer, you will die. Your shaking in your sleep only makes you feel weak, vulnerable, like chaos has personally chosen you to victimise. All the inmates are escorted out of the cell whilst it is being cleaned, and you can’t help to desire for them to splash that toxic, detergent over your body. Anything to be somewhat clean. When they finish cleaning you scurry into the cell, rip of your tattered shirt and rub your gentle back on the sickly smelling floors. It is bliss to have something other than grime over your body. The guards do not attempt to hide their laughter.
‘Take off the rest of your clothes oluku’
You obey. Another guard drags you by the arm and forces you to parade the corridor. They laugh at your wrinkly skin, your subtle hunch, your delicate whimper, and your sagging penis. This time, you let the tears fall. The only one not laughing is the pretty boy. He looks at you, and his gentle, compassionate stare makes you cry even more. He is someone that wants to help you, the only one that wants to help you. As this flutters through your mind, you hear the laughter grow louder.
‘Did your criminal of a son know papa’s penis was so shriveled? Ay?’
You stop your tears, carefully cover your private region and walk back into the cell. Guards stifle giggles.
I really like this part, it's raw and insulting and it's a real blow to the character, very meaningful.
The pretty boy was gone. He was gone before you arose from your uncomfortable position on the floor this morning. You did not know the boy, but he made you feel like somebody cared, like there was somebody watching over you. Now you are more alone, more vulnerable, closer to the end. You further touch your gentle skin, peeling of the dried blood. Subsequently, you wince as you gaze at the welts along your arm. The longer you look, the more painful they become.
‘Hey you, ghọgbuoI’ a guard barks.
You know he is talking to you.
‘Your thiefing son has been found, you’re out’.
You do not speak. You try not to react but a small smile dances across your face. As you walk through the dirty corridor you are unsure about how to feel. Your son is captured, it is very probable that he will die in prison. But now you will live. You will be clean, you will be in your own room, you will be with your wife, you will be safe. You love Yekenni, but you also love yourself.
The sticky aroma from the metallic walls fills your nostrils. You want to gag. The bruises on your delicate skin continue to send a constant, dull ache across your face. You analyse the bodies in the confined room. Each stare is menacingly aggressive, and you find it hard to not be intimidated. You witness an individual coming back from Cell One. Simple, but "Cell One" is the perfect introduction to us being in a prison.The dried blood, like concrete over their delicate dark skin; the purple bruises, and the mgbu welts along the criminals innocent arms. You notice that even those who attempt to emasculate their fellows inmates shudder and look away, still trying to look proud. They are pathetic. You can feel your white hair slowly turning the colour of murky water - your tears refuse to fall. Whilst everybody continues to stare at you, begging you to challenge them, there is one young nwata nwoke who avoids your gaze. When he meets your eyes, they are filled with sympathy and pity, something seldom in this cell. He is beautiful, but prison makes him ugly. The bites from the bugs on his gentle, light brown skin, pussing at the surface. You think that this makes him more endearing. He reminds you of Yekenni.
While you were sitting in your house, you remember the phone call from the police demanding that you turn in your son; you remember telling them you had not seen him for four months; you remember your wife’s sorrowful, distraught face as she vigorously cried 'chi nyere m aka'; you remember wondering at what point in time that you let your son become this shell of a man, an individual that was victim to the corrupt and calamity filled society; you remember them barge into your quiet home; and you remember them grab your frail body, squeezing you so hard that you thought you might break in half. I'm really enjoying the story so far, it's all flowing well. But, I think you can improve on this last bit here. Instead of "breaking in half" let's move from the cliche and into a really raw description. When I think of being squeezed really hard, I think of people's fingertips pressing into my flesh. Perhaps you could work with some dark imagery there? You try to remember less. When did Yekenni become like this? He use to be such a happy child, laughter consuming his body frequently, and not a trace of deceit or dishonesty was present. He changed, and it was your fault. You let him stay back at school when you knew he wasn’t ‘doing homework’, you let him go out to parties on weekdays and come home drunk after one in the morning, you let him keep his room private, where he could hide anything and everything. Both you and society corrupted your son, and you can’t help but feel disappointed in yourself - and him.
You stink. This works wonderfully as a double meaning - you stink, literally, but it also plays on "you stink as a father" after the last paragraph. You have not enough money for an adequate meal, for any form of cleanliness, and you are desperate. Your own aroma makes you want to gag more than the smell of the sickly prison. You know that you are ill, and if you remain in prison much longer, you will die. Your shaking in your sleep only makes you feel weak, vulnerable, like chaos has personally chosen you to victimise. All the inmates are escorted out of the cell whilst it is being cleaned, and you can’t help to desire for them to splash that toxic, detergent over your body. Anything to be somewhat clean. When they finish cleaning you scurry into the cell, rip of your tattered shirt and rub your gentle back on the sickly smelling floors. It is bliss to have something other than grime over your body. The guards do not attempt to hide their laughter.
‘Take off the rest of your clothes oluku’
You obey. Another guard drags you by the arm and forces you to parade the corridor. They laugh at your wrinkly skin, your subtle hunch, your delicate whimper, and your sagging penis. This time, you let the tears fall. The only one not laughing is the pretty boy. He looks at you, and his gentle, compassionate stare makes you cry even more. He is someone that wants to help you, the only one that wants to help you. As this flutters through your mind, you hear the laughter grow louder.
‘Did your criminal of a son know papa’s penis was so shriveled? Ay?’
You stop your tears, carefully cover your private region and walk back into the cell. Guards stifle giggles.
I really like this part, it's raw and insulting and it's a real blow to the character, very meaningful.
The pretty boy was gone. He was gone before you arose from your uncomfortable position on the floor this morning. You did not know the boy, but he made you feel like somebody cared, like there was somebody watching over you. Now you are more alone, more vulnerable, closer to the end. You further touch your gentle skin, peeling of the dried blood. Subsequently, you wince as you gaze at the welts along your arm. The longer you look, the more painful they become.
‘Hey you, ghọgbuoI’ a guard barks.
You know he is talking to you.
‘Your thiefing son has been found, you’re out’.
You do not speak. You try not to react but a small smile dances across your face. As you walk through the dirty corridor you are unsure about how to feel. Your son is captured, it is very probable that he will die in prison. But now you will live. You will be clean, you will be in your own room, you will be with your wife, you will be safe. You love Yekenni, but you also love yourself.
Wow, wonderful piece! When I read that the father was in here in lieu of his son I wasn't sure how you'd play it out in a creative way but you completely have. There are a few suggestions I have that might enhance your story, although I really think it's headed to a band 6. The writing is never over the top, I just really enjoyed following it! It was easy to follow, but the writing was never bland.
In terms of discovery, we have the paragraph of realisation that he, and society, failed his son. I'd like to know a little more about this, I think it's powerful and the effect of the ending depends on this part here. Perhaps you could make it more out as the duty of the father to protect his son from the crime and chaos of the area. Perhaps you could make it as though it is the personal mission of the father to protect his son from being a victim of crime, always protecting him from theft, violence, etc. And it never occurred to him that he'd need to protect him from committing crime, and that's where his confliction comes in. "I failed him because I didn't stop him from committing crime, but society failed him because crime seems too appealling, and being an honest person gets the raw end of the deal. There's no fain there." A thought process like this makes him look like a more loving and proactive father, because right now his hands aren't clean, he's talked about letting him have his room for himself and whatever. So, perhaps if you take the route of his father being completely at a loss, then he could have another discovery of "decisions" and how everyone makes decisions for themselves, and for every action there is an equal response. So another small revelation, and this could lead to the ending being more powerful. Right now, I don't love the ending because I think the "also love yourself" thing is a little unjustified at this stage. But if we have that earlier revelation about the way that decisions are autonomous and cause responses, then we can look internally and see "I am a good man, I deserve this release. I love my son, but he knew how his actions would cause effect, and I knew how mine would. That is why I am walking free."
Now, there's a lot of ideas here and they definitely don't need to all be implemented. I'm trying to just richen your discovery a little bit without actually adjusting the plot. Because I think you have a short and sweet little piece here that works really well, but I think that you can broaden and intensify your discovery more to your advantage. To me, this is the only thing stopping me from thinking "this is definitely the work of a band 6" - the ending has the potential to be even more powerful than it currently is, and I think that sits in sewing the seeds for that intensified discovery earlier.
Let me know what you think, this is all just words and ideas from an outsider, how does it all fit with your vision? :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 16, 2017, 06:19:25 am
My teacher changed this section of the criteria: Quality of ideas explored (issues raised, themes developed, meanings made possible)-the response: Explores thought-provoking, complex and challenging ideas
To be worth 12 marks. I was hoping to get help in how to explore more complex ideas.I was hoping to also get feedback on my Expression, Use of narrative point of view and Use of literal and metaphorical language points for the allocation of marks in the criteria table I have included below.
Hey Anotherworld! What I'll do is comment on the story and the writing specifically in bold font in the spoiler, then I'll address the criteria at the end outside the spoiler :)
Spoiler
Strips of airy cotton candy float slowly above. Slow and steady like an old turtle. Like that fable. What is called again? The tortoise and the hare? Slow and steady wins the race. But now coming first is all that matters. If you are first you are the best. Second means nothing in the survival of the fittest.The ball of light held high in the sky shined blindingly bright. On the left there is no car. On the right there is no car. No danger. It’s safe to cross when the little man turns green. Or was it red? Red like Jack’s dad face when he is angry. Pale white like Jack’s mum face when she is scared.
A tall person stands in the distance. Light reflects off his shiny, tan head. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll sizzle and cook. A sunnyside up egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella? His face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. Numerous wrinkles littered his face like a scrunched up ball of paper. If it rained at this moment the indents from the wrinkles can store water in all the little trenches in his face. He wouldn’t have to pay for water then !
Who am I to judge the way the white, hairy caterpillar on his lip quivers in tune to the violent movement of his mouth? Or the way thin trails of saliva streams down like little rivers dripping down onto the ground as if he is a feral dog. The feeling of disgust brews greater in intensity. Why am I so wicked? Why does he seem so revolting to me? Maybe it's the way black doodles wraps around his arms and neck like a python; maybe it's the way he trudges along the path so hard it leaves black oily imprints; maybe it's the way he lost his mind.
A flash of blue flies onto a scrawny branch of a large tree. A vibrant shade of blue so beautiful you could drown in it endlessly; a never ending sea of blue in pictures and magazines brought to life. I inhale. Smells like a... eucalyptus tree?. Rumours travel fast once it gets in the wind. A little birdie once told me, through the incoherent incessant twittering in the eaves. As long as there is suspicion there will be rumours.
Pitiful. Vulnerable. Abused. A big, purple and green bruise on her cheek contrasts against pale skin. Feeble attempts at hiding it accentuates its prominence. She is bad at this game of hide and seek. All expressions are shown on her face. The good. The bad. The fear.
****
Why am I so wicked? Why I do I continue to watch something I despise? Like a car accident attention is garnered even though we are taught not to stare. Useless bystanders watch a lengthy battle of bickering, arguments and fights. In times of crisis, in times of danger importance is placed on the safety of one person; yourself. Why am I a coward?
Dandelions grows everywhere in the grass.Dandelion I like that word. I don't know this adds much to the work.Growing through the cracks in the path there are even bigger than before. Oh! There is blue bird. Maybe its looking for worms. Poor worm. It will get eaten and turned into poop. The worm’s family won’t be able to see him because he will be a poop. No one likes poop. It smells. An eternal cycle.
Love is eternal. Or is it?
Love can be fleeting. There are moments in the story where I think "Is this consistent with the voice of the child?" but I think this bit here is really, inconsistent. Fleeting isn't a word children would know, but also, "love can be fleeting" is unlikely a concept they'd understand. Brief like a cool breeze on a summer’s day. Is it worth the pain, betrayal and loss? Like the tv reality show ‘Married at first sight’ love is portrayed as a simple matter.Divorce is just as simple you just sign a paper with a fancy swirl and it’s done. Falling in love is just as easy as falling out of love; just like changing clothes you can change who you love.
But now only tiny spot lights from the sun could peer through the dense heavy clouds onto the cold, uneven pavement. A bustle of sounds and clammer echo. Turning over, children run for cover. Safety? Only for now. Water droplets began to drizzle down from the sky. Before long, the drizzle of droplets started to fall in heavy drops. I inhale. The smell of the earthy soil permeates in the air. Looking up at the sky, several drops of rain fell on my face. I hope it keeps raining.
A tall person stands in the distance. Light reflects off his shiny, tan head. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll sizzle and cook. A sunnyside up egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella? His face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. Numerous wrinkles littered his face like a scrunched up ball of paper. If it rained at this moment the indents from the wrinkles can store water in all the little trenches in his face. He wouldn’t have to pay for water then !
Who am I to judge the way the white, hairy caterpillar on his lip quivers in tune to the violent movement of his mouth? Or the way thin trails of saliva streams down like little rivers dripping down onto the ground as if he is a feral dog. The feeling of disgust brews greater in intensity. Why am I so wicked? Why does he seem so revolting to me? Maybe it's the way black doodles wraps around his arms and neck like a python; maybe it's the way he trudges along the path so hard it leaves black oily imprints; maybe it's the way he lost his mind.
A flash of blue flies onto a scrawny branch of a large tree. A vibrant shade of blue so beautiful you could drown in it endlessly; a never ending sea of blue in pictures and magazines brought to life. I inhale. Smells like a... eucalyptus tree?. Rumours travel fast once it gets in the wind. A little birdie once told me, through the incoherent incessant twittering in the eaves. As long as there is suspicion there will be rumours.
Pitiful. Vulnerable. Abused. A big, purple and green bruise on her cheek contrasts against pale skin. Feeble attempts at hiding it accentuates its prominence. She is bad at this game of hide and seek. All expressions are shown on her face. The good. The bad. The fear.
****
Why am I so wicked? Why I do I continue to watch something I despise? Like a car accident attention is garnered even though we are taught not to stare. Useless bystanders watch a lengthy battle of bickering, arguments and fights. In times of crisis, in times of danger importance is placed on the safety of one person; yourself. Why am I a coward?
Dandelions grows everywhere in the grass.
Love is eternal. Or is it?
Love can be fleeting. There are moments in the story where I think "Is this consistent with the voice of the child?" but I think this bit here is really, inconsistent. Fleeting isn't a word children would know, but also, "love can be fleeting" is unlikely a concept they'd understand. Brief like a cool breeze on a summer’s day. Is it worth the pain, betrayal and loss? Like the tv reality show ‘Married at first sight’ love is portrayed as a simple matter.Divorce is just as simple you just sign a paper with a fancy swirl and it’s done. Falling in love is just as easy as falling out of love; just like changing clothes you can change who you love.
But now only tiny spot lights from the sun could peer through the dense heavy clouds onto the cold, uneven pavement. A bustle of sounds and clammer echo. Turning over, children run for cover. Safety? Only for now. Water droplets began to drizzle down from the sky. Before long, the drizzle of droplets started to fall in heavy drops. I inhale. The smell of the earthy soil permeates in the air. Looking up at the sky, several drops of rain fell on my face. I hope it keeps raining.
I think we've moved away from your original plan about Jack's parents a bit too much towards the end. There are times when the vocabulary suggests more than what I think is reasonable for a child, in both language and concepts. Where I put **** marks the place in the story where I think we stop uncovering deep issues and we get side tracked. I want to hear more about Jack's parents. And why does this child see Jack's parents so much? Perhaps the protagonist should be hanging out with Jack some more, maybe put it in there that it's what the two of them do each day after school because they're neighbours, perhaps mark the 5pm time when your mum calls you to come home, and it happens to coincide with Jack's dad coming home. This adds the complexity of your mum knowing about it, but not actively doing anything (often a reality with DV). Perhaps you could notice little moments in Jack where his temper would emulate his father's, perhaps he takes it out on an action figure you're playing with. To me, the end of the story from **** onwards loses it's direction, which is so strong at the start.
In fact, the writing at the start is really wonderful, I enjoyed reading it a lot. But, I think to address that criteria of exploring complex ideas, we need to address some smaller ideas that put the dots together, like I've suggested above.
In terms of narrative point of view, there are inconsistencies which I think need to be addressed to obtain full marks in this section. I think that adjusting the plot will cause the character to ponder in a less sophisticated way, but rather just respond to the realities they face (Eg, saying less things about fleeting love, saying more things about noticing Jack's temper, or the way Jack's mum runs around cleaning at 4:30pm).
The use of literal and metaphorical language is difficult to judge, it's not something I'm using to qualifying for a HSC response. But, it does make me think that we could extend the piece more with a metaphor. So, perhaps, we could put this in the time frame of the last week at school before Summer holidays, and as the school week ends, so does Jack's happiness as he knows he's going away on an unhappy family trip. Or, it could take a more sinister turn, by being the school holidays, and as the holidays end, so does the appearance of Jack's mum. Kind of adding a childish time frame to symbolise a serious turn in the story might be a way of adding a metaphor. ORRRR, we could be a lot more simple but still effective, by saying that cotton candy filled the sky at the beginning, but at the end, something dark fills the sky, whatever you'd like. This will create that mirrored effect. In fact, I'd ignore the timezone thing above and go for this idea (but I'll leave it there in case it prompts something for you). Something simple like this reflects the events of the story in a metaphorical way so that you definitely tick that box.
Post by: Kirri Rule on February 16, 2017, 10:32:25 am
It was early morning when I woke and stepped outside, backlit by the orange glow of the rising sun, the herd of elephants paraded through the deserted savannah. The low sun almost tried to push its way through the rare tree across the arid plain, leaving thick black silhouettes of the baobabs on the skyline. The herd of elephants were accompanied by a family of rhino, who almost blended in with the elephants. My eyes wandered upon the little beauties one would miss upon glance with this land. The ground was almost glowing shades of oranges and reds across the arid land, and the sunlight illuminated the cracks in the dry ground. It was not hard to tell there had been an absence of rainfall for quite some time, there was dust everywhere, on the ground, trees, leaves, even my teeth and lips. The strong scent of pollution that normally coats the towns of Africa is lost out here, instead the sweeter smell of cloves and smoke filled my nose. I looked out into the distance, and noticed some water that was trickling down what once would have been a raging stream, when rainfall was consistent in the wetter months. The rays of sunlight in the early sunrise got captured in the water and let off a blinding sparkle. A russell is the bush into front of me echoed my ears as a ball came flying from within, landing at my feet. The edges rough and worn against my foot making contact as I trapped the ball. I crouched down and placed the ball in my hands and allowed my fingers to slide over the ball. I fiddled with the ball until my finger fell upon the hidden engraving (Allow for stimuli to be used here).
~
Lining up the perfect shot was difficult this morning, as my eyes squinted against this rising sun. Turnis bounced from foot to foot, conjuring up a cloud of smoke around him, blocking my line of view of the two sticks marking as the goal posts. I looked at my engraving of (Allow for stimuli to be used here) I swung my leg, making perfect contact with the ball. Too perfect. It torpedoed right past Turnis, right through the goals and right through the bushes we used as our goals net. “Off you go Taine you know the rules, go get it”, Turnis shouted as I starting running in retrieval of my ball, which was now out of sight. As I bashed through the bushes I skidded to a stop at the sight of this person holding my ball. I stayed out of sight and watched this thing, maybe he was an alien that Pappa has told me in his stories. His skin was clear, translucent, a bright reflecting white it almost burned my eyes. I had never seen someone or something like this before, his hair was a thin, tawny mop of a very light colour that seemed to even wrap all the way down his face, round his sharp chin and back again. He flipped my ball around in his hands, his eyes widening like Turnis on the return from a successful hunt with Pappa. Like the ball was his own, he caressed my engraving with a smile crossing his face. Anger boiled inside of me, that is my ball, my engraving, who does he think he is taking it like it's his own. Turnis would of told Pappa if I didn’t get it back, so I snapped a stick off the branch and slowly stepped out into the spotlight of morning light with the stick raised ready for a fight.
~
I couldn’t help but smile at this engraving of (Allow for stimuli to be used here) it was so intricately drawn but with the wobbly hand of a child. The snap in the bushes broke my concentration as my eyes snapped up, in time to witness a boy no taller than the bushes come charging out with stick in hand. My hands flew up in surrender, dropping the ball to my feet in pure fear. He halted, swaying from side to side, as if in preparation to run at any sign of threat. Crystal blue eyes stone cold swept up and down my body, searching for the point of weakness, like I was his prey. I smiled in hope it would ease his fear that I wasn’t going to harm him, yet no expression passed through any muscle in his face. Only his eyes flicked. Up from my eyes down to the ball and back again. As if in panic that losing sight of my eyes would cause me to attack. The boys chocolate coloured skin glistened with the early morning heat, as sweat tumbled, pooling and picking up pace as it fell, shaping his persistently frozen face. I slowly reached down motioning towards the frayed ball, causing his freak reaction to hurl the stick with force. It flew perfectly, not wavering, not even in the early morning breeze, and landed straight in front of my feet. In search of whether this was an intentional miss of my body or not I made eye contact, only to be met with eyes of pure rage staring back at me.
~
He dropped the ball like it had thorns, I smelt the fear radiating from every inch of his body as I raised my stick higher ready to attack. His murky eyes darted everywhere in hope of some protection, as he tried to hide the shaking of his fingertips by clenching them into fists. I scanned this unfamiliar human for some familiarity, something that would show me he was another one of us. Cloth covered every part of his body, as if covering some secret, which proved difficult to make a judgement of his danger to me. The corners of his mouth slowly edged up into a half hearted smile causing the caterpillar of hair above his lips to wiggle in sync. I stayed perfectly still with no movement, besides the occasional check at my ball that was now being held hostage at his feet. He edged down, his hand clasped out ready to grab hold of my precious ball. In a flash of rage and a moment of panic, it was to late. The stick that had been safely held in my hand had flown across the distance between us and landed inches from his feet. We held contact. His eyes interlocked with mine, as pure confusion and terror plastered across his face. A pang of guilty erupted in my chest as I saw this grown man in his most venerable position. Like a baby buck, innocent and no threat to us, yet always in Papas first choice of kill. I stepped back suddenly aware of what I had done and raised my own hands up in surrender, a smile sneaking across my face as a hope for forgiveness. The man slowly rose from his crouched position with uncertainty in fear I would strike again. Only until his eyes scanned my face noticing my repentant smile, did ease cross his face as his too, broke into a wild grin. He bent over once more to draw something into the now baking, dirt ground, then to quickly stand up and kick my ball back to me. I looked at what he had drawn to catch a glimpse of the engraving on my ball of the (Allow for stimuli to be used here) drawn perfectly. “Shh it can be our secret” he whispered as he raised his now stable finger to his lips and turned to enter back into his tent, leaving only the engraving as a remembrance of this encounter.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 16, 2017, 11:04:28 am
Hi i was wondering if you could look at my story please and explain what my teacher meant by "The setting is vivid but less exaggerated with adjectives. The dual narration is interesting and works really well. There is even more you could do with this too, particularly towards the end of the story. For example, speed up the shifts between characters. I'm really keen to work on tightening the ending and sharpening the sentence length." Thank you so much !
Hey Kirri! Thanks for posting your Creative - You need 15 posts on ATAR Notes per piece to get detailed feedback from one of our markers - Just to make sure the service doesn't get too clogged. However, I've had a skim, let me quickly try and explain what I view those comments to mean (that said, you should just ask them to make sure you take the right things from the feedback! Always best to clarify with your teachers if you are ever unsure)
"The setting is vivid but less exaggerated with adjectives." - Hmm, I THINK this is suggesting that you've over-used your adjectives in the first paragraph a little? In my opinion, it's always better to pick a few, powerful adjectives than use a lot of inconsequential ones.
"The dual narration is interesting and works really well."[/b] - Swapping between the two points of view is a great feature (I agree!) and something you should keep!
"There is even more you could do with this too, particularly towards the end of the story. For example, speed up the shifts between characters." - Basically, just keep trying new ideas! That last bit is suggesting that you start to make the character sections smaller towards the end, perhaps moving towards even just a single sentence per character with rapid switches between the two. This sets a pace and builds up a sense of climax.
"I'm really keen to work on tightening the ending and sharpening the sentence length." - Just means that the ending could be a little bit better - Perhaps conceptually, perhaps in how it is written, just wrapping the story up in a more complete and powerful way. Sentence length refers to using the size of your sentences as a tool to emphasise certain points (you've got lots of long ones).
If I write a really long winded sentence, extrapolate on every possible outcome, investigate every possible turning point in this conundrum that we face, then naturally you start to flow with the sentence and everything becomes nice and rhythmic. Boom. Now there's impact.
See that contrast? I mean this isn't actually DOING anything so it's a bad example, but the sentence length being altered adds some emphasis and power to the shorter sentences, and some eloquence to the longer ones. It is a powerful tool ;D
Let us know when you reach the 15 post threshold and we'll be happy to give you some more complete feedback! ;D
Post by: anotherworld2b on February 16, 2017, 08:23:59 pm
I have a quick question if I post my newest version of my narrative would it be possible to get some quick feedback on the overall flow before tomorrow?
Hey Anotherworld! What I'll do is comment on the story and the writing specifically in bold font in the spoiler, then I'll address the criteria at the end outside the spoiler :)SpoilerStrips of airy cotton candy float slowly above. Slow and steady like an old turtle. Like that fable. What is called again? The tortoise and the hare? Slow and steady wins the race. But now coming first is all that matters. If you are first you are the best. Second means nothing in the survival of the fittest.The ball of light held high in the sky shined blindingly bright. On the left there is no car. On the right there is no car. No danger. It’s safe to cross when the little man turns green. Or was it red? Red like Jack’s dad face when he is angry. Pale white like Jack’s mum face when she is scared.
A tall person stands in the distance. Light reflects off his shiny, tan head. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll sizzle and cook. A sunnyside up egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella? His face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. Numerous wrinkles littered his face like a scrunched up ball of paper. If it rained at this moment the indents from the wrinkles can store water in all the little trenches in his face. He wouldn’t have to pay for water then !
Who am I to judge the way the white, hairy caterpillar on his lip quivers in tune to the violent movement of his mouth? Or the way thin trails of saliva streams down like little rivers dripping down onto the ground as if he is a feral dog. The feeling of disgust brews greater in intensity. Why am I so wicked? Why does he seem so revolting to me? Maybe it's the way black doodles wraps around his arms and neck like a python; maybe it's the way he trudges along the path so hard it leaves black oily imprints; maybe it's the way he lost his mind.
A flash of blue flies onto a scrawny branch of a large tree. A vibrant shade of blue so beautiful you could drown in it endlessly; a never ending sea of blue in pictures and magazines brought to life. I inhale. Smells like a... eucalyptus tree?. Rumours travel fast once it gets in the wind. A little birdie once told me, through the incoherent incessant twittering in the eaves. As long as there is suspicion there will be rumours.
Pitiful. Vulnerable. Abused. A big, purple and green bruise on her cheek contrasts against pale skin. Feeble attempts at hiding it accentuates its prominence. She is bad at this game of hide and seek. All expressions are shown on her face. The good. The bad. The fear.
****
Why am I so wicked? Why I do I continue to watch something I despise? Like a car accident attention is garnered even though we are taught not to stare. Useless bystanders watch a lengthy battle of bickering, arguments and fights. In times of crisis, in times of danger importance is placed on the safety of one person; yourself. Why am I a coward?
Dandelions grows everywhere in the grass.Dandelion I like that word.I don't know this adds much to the work.Growing through the cracks in the path there are even bigger than before. Oh! There is blue bird. Maybe its looking for worms. Poor worm. It will get eaten and turned into poop. The worm’s family won’t be able to see him because he will be a poop. No one likes poop. It smells. An eternal cycle.
Love is eternal. Or is it?
Love can be fleeting. There are moments in the story where I think "Is this consistent with the voice of the child?" but I think this bit here is really, inconsistent. Fleeting isn't a word children would know, but also, "love can be fleeting" is unlikely a concept they'd understand. Brief like a cool breeze on a summer’s day. Is it worth the pain, betrayal and loss? Like the tv reality show ‘Married at first sight’ love is portrayed as a simple matter.Divorce is just as simple you just sign a paper with a fancy swirl and it’s done. Falling in love is just as easy as falling out of love; just like changing clothes you can change who you love.
But now only tiny spot lights from the sun could peer through the dense heavy clouds onto the cold, uneven pavement. A bustle of sounds and clammer echo. Turning over, children run for cover. Safety? Only for now. Water droplets began to drizzle down from the sky. Before long, the drizzle of droplets started to fall in heavy drops. I inhale. The smell of the earthy soil permeates in the air. Looking up at the sky, several drops of rain fell on my face. I hope it keeps raining.
I think we've moved away from your original plan about Jack's parents a bit too much towards the end. There are times when the vocabulary suggests more than what I think is reasonable for a child, in both language and concepts. Where I put **** marks the place in the story where I think we stop uncovering deep issues and we get side tracked. I want to hear more about Jack's parents. And why does this child see Jack's parents so much? Perhaps the protagonist should be hanging out with Jack some more, maybe put it in there that it's what the two of them do each day after school because they're neighbours, perhaps mark the 5pm time when your mum calls you to come home, and it happens to coincide with Jack's dad coming home. This adds the complexity of your mum knowing about it, but not actively doing anything (often a reality with DV). Perhaps you could notice little moments in Jack where his temper would emulate his father's, perhaps he takes it out on an action figure you're playing with. To me, the end of the story from **** onwards loses it's direction, which is so strong at the start.
In fact, the writing at the start is really wonderful, I enjoyed reading it a lot. But, I think to address that criteria of exploring complex ideas, we need to address some smaller ideas that put the dots together, like I've suggested above.
In terms of narrative point of view, there are inconsistencies which I think need to be addressed to obtain full marks in this section. I think that adjusting the plot will cause the character to ponder in a less sophisticated way, but rather just respond to the realities they face (Eg, saying less things about fleeting love, saying more things about noticing Jack's temper, or the way Jack's mum runs around cleaning at 4:30pm).
The use of literal and metaphorical language is difficult to judge, it's not something I'm using to qualifying for a HSC response. But, it does make me think that we could extend the piece more with a metaphor. So, perhaps, we could put this in the time frame of the last week at school before Summer holidays, and as the school week ends, so does Jack's happiness as he knows he's going away on an unhappy family trip. Or, it could take a more sinister turn, by being the school holidays, and as the holidays end, so does the appearance of Jack's mum. Kind of adding a childish time frame to symbolise a serious turn in the story might be a way of adding a metaphor. ORRRR, we could be a lot more simple but still effective, by saying that cotton candy filled the sky at the beginning, but at the end, something dark fills the sky, whatever you'd like. This will create that mirrored effect. In fact, I'd ignore the timezone thing above and go for this idea (but I'll leave it there in case it prompts something for you). Something simple like this reflects the events of the story in a metaphorical way so that you definitely tick that box.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 16, 2017, 08:27:08 pm
Thank you for your help :D
I have a quick question if I post my newest version of my narrative would it be possible to get some quick feedback on the overall flow before tomorrow?
I can do a quick read - Might be good to see how a fresh set of eyes goes with understanding the plot line ;D
Post by: anotherworld2b on February 16, 2017, 08:37:09 pm
Would it be okay if i post in an hour from now?
I can do a quick read - Might be good to see how a fresh set of eyes goes with understanding the plot line ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 16, 2017, 08:39:49 pm
I would really appreciate it :D I am still in the process of incorporating elyse's feedback so it may take a bit before I can post it up.
Would it be okay if i post in an hour from now?
Should be sweet, I'm a night owl - I'll give it a read and let you know whether I think it makes sense! ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 16, 2017, 09:13:10 pm
I would really appreciate it :D I am still in the process of incorporating elyse's feedback so it may take a bit before I can post it up.
Would it be okay if i post in an hour from now?
I'm loving your dedication - I hope you get the marks you have worked for!
Post by: anotherworld2b on February 16, 2017, 09:46:27 pm
I was also wondering could my narrative be considered to be written In a coherent and sophisticated style and makes creative use literal and metaphorical language to produce a meaningful text with strong aesthetic qualities?
Spoiler
Strips of airy cotton candy float slowly above. Slow and steady like an old turtle. Like that fable. What is called again? The tortoise and the hare? Slow and steady wins the race. But now coming first is all that matters. If you are first. You are the best. What is it like to be the best? How do you become the best… On the left there is no car. On the right there is no car. No danger. It’s safe to cross when the little man turns green. Or was it red? Red like Jack’s dad face when he is angry. Pale white like Jack’s mum face when she is scared.
A tall person stands in the distance. Light reflects off his shiny, tan head as he walks. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll sizzle and cook. A sunnyside up egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella? Or was it rubella? Something with a ella at the end... His face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. Numerous wrinkles littered his face like a scrunched up ball of paper. If it rained at this moment the indents from the wrinkles can store water in all the little trenches in his face. He wouldn’t have to pay for water then !
The white, hairy caterpillar on his lip quivers in tune to the violent movements of his mouth. Saliva streams down like little rivers. Drip drop just like rain. Onto the concrete ground. Just like a crazy dog. He is disgusting. What if he has a disease? Rabies. Diabetes? There is so many disease in the world and he is promoting them! He should be contained. Isolated. Quaran...tined. Like the disease that he is…Why am I so mean to Jack’s dad? He is only walking home. The way he is a living red canvas with frayed strips of skin beginning to peel of his burnt back just like snakeskin sends shivers down my spine. It must hurt. Why didn’t he put sunscreen on for goodness sake! Slather it on. Even though it’s expensive. Why would he hurt his body like that? Skin cancer mr! Australia has the highest rate of skin cancer!
The sun is so harsh now. It is really hot in Sydney. While in Perth you are either being burned alive by the scorching heat of a desert or it’s raining cats and dogs. Stupid weather. Stupid costs of sunscreen. Why is sunscreen so important anyway? Back in Malaysia it was hot every day but no one cared about sunscreen that much. No fuss. No nagging. No need to remember ‘slip, slop, slop, slap and slide’ that is taught all the time in primary school… Why do I that remember anyway? Probably because mum makes me wear sunscreen all the time now so my skin doesn’t get dark. Mum said boys won’t like you if you have dark skin. You have to have milky white and soft skin like a baby so we can a...sim...ilate?I wonder if I can live in a cold country when I grow up. No need to put sunscreen when I go out and spend lots of money. I can use it to buy toys instead. Switzerland even has snow! Hopefully its as soft as it looks. Where is Switzerland? Do they speak swiss? Swiss...cheese? They speak cheese! Is it hard to speak cheese? I hope not.
Uh oh...Jack’s face turned red and he started to scream at his mum again through the window next door. She covers her head as he hits her. Why does Jack hit his mum? If I did that I would get no tv.
A flash of blue flies onto a scrawny branch of a large tree. A vibrant shade of blue so beautiful you could drown in it endlessly; a never ending sea of blue in pictures and magazines brought to life. Smells like a... eucalyptus tree?. Maybe its home to a koala family. All sitting on a big branch eating a eucalyptus feast. Eucalyptus tastes nice. Tastes like grass apparently. What does grass taste like? Straw?
A BIG bruise. A really big bruise. Purple? No… a violetish, bluish green? It must hurt. It must be really embarrassing. The left? No? The right cheek? Which side is left again? It kind of looks like a galaxy. Especially the blue and purple. Was there a bruise there yesterday on her cheek?
‘It’s time to close the window and curtains’ Mum says. It must be 4:30 already. It’s nearly time for Jack’s dad to come home. There is a lot of screaming at 5:00 when he comes home. Jack’s family likes to watch scary movies when he is angry. Why don’t we watch movies all the time? Like Cinderella? When I grow up I will find my own prince charming just like that the tv show mum watches ‘Married at first sight’. Getting married is easy you have to just sign a paper with a fancy swirl and it’s done. What I should I do when I get married? Get a big fluffy white dress with sparkly diamonds. Will he whisk me away to travel the world? We can fly everywhere like birds in the sky. Where should we start? Paris? The city of love?
A tall person stands in the distance. Light reflects off his shiny, tan head as he walks. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll sizzle and cook. A sunnyside up egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella? Or was it rubella? Something with a ella at the end... His face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. Numerous wrinkles littered his face like a scrunched up ball of paper. If it rained at this moment the indents from the wrinkles can store water in all the little trenches in his face. He wouldn’t have to pay for water then !
The white, hairy caterpillar on his lip quivers in tune to the violent movements of his mouth. Saliva streams down like little rivers. Drip drop just like rain. Onto the concrete ground. Just like a crazy dog. He is disgusting. What if he has a disease? Rabies. Diabetes? There is so many disease in the world and he is promoting them! He should be contained. Isolated. Quaran...tined. Like the disease that he is…Why am I so mean to Jack’s dad? He is only walking home. The way he is a living red canvas with frayed strips of skin beginning to peel of his burnt back just like snakeskin sends shivers down my spine. It must hurt. Why didn’t he put sunscreen on for goodness sake! Slather it on. Even though it’s expensive. Why would he hurt his body like that? Skin cancer mr! Australia has the highest rate of skin cancer!
The sun is so harsh now. It is really hot in Sydney. While in Perth you are either being burned alive by the scorching heat of a desert or it’s raining cats and dogs. Stupid weather. Stupid costs of sunscreen. Why is sunscreen so important anyway? Back in Malaysia it was hot every day but no one cared about sunscreen that much. No fuss. No nagging. No need to remember ‘slip, slop, slop, slap and slide’ that is taught all the time in primary school… Why do I that remember anyway? Probably because mum makes me wear sunscreen all the time now so my skin doesn’t get dark. Mum said boys won’t like you if you have dark skin. You have to have milky white and soft skin like a baby so we can a...sim...ilate?I wonder if I can live in a cold country when I grow up. No need to put sunscreen when I go out and spend lots of money. I can use it to buy toys instead. Switzerland even has snow! Hopefully its as soft as it looks. Where is Switzerland? Do they speak swiss? Swiss...cheese? They speak cheese! Is it hard to speak cheese? I hope not.
Uh oh...Jack’s face turned red and he started to scream at his mum again through the window next door. She covers her head as he hits her. Why does Jack hit his mum? If I did that I would get no tv.
A flash of blue flies onto a scrawny branch of a large tree. A vibrant shade of blue so beautiful you could drown in it endlessly; a never ending sea of blue in pictures and magazines brought to life. Smells like a... eucalyptus tree?. Maybe its home to a koala family. All sitting on a big branch eating a eucalyptus feast. Eucalyptus tastes nice. Tastes like grass apparently. What does grass taste like? Straw?
A BIG bruise. A really big bruise. Purple? No… a violetish, bluish green? It must hurt. It must be really embarrassing. The left? No? The right cheek? Which side is left again? It kind of looks like a galaxy. Especially the blue and purple. Was there a bruise there yesterday on her cheek?
‘It’s time to close the window and curtains’ Mum says. It must be 4:30 already. It’s nearly time for Jack’s dad to come home. There is a lot of screaming at 5:00 when he comes home. Jack’s family likes to watch scary movies when he is angry. Why don’t we watch movies all the time? Like Cinderella? When I grow up I will find my own prince charming just like that the tv show mum watches ‘Married at first sight’. Getting married is easy you have to just sign a paper with a fancy swirl and it’s done. What I should I do when I get married? Get a big fluffy white dress with sparkly diamonds. Will he whisk me away to travel the world? We can fly everywhere like birds in the sky. Where should we start? Paris? The city of love?
Should be sweet, I'm a night owl - I'll give it a read and let you know whether I think it makes sense! ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 16, 2017, 11:46:12 pm
thank you for your help elyse :D Here is the new version of my narrative Jamon. I have tried to expand more on complex ideas and fix the child's narrative point of view.
I was also wondering could my narrative be considered to be written In a coherent and sophisticated style and makes creative use literal and metaphorical language to produce a meaningful text with strong aesthetic qualities?
Hey! So as a fresh set of eyes (don't think I've worked with this narrative in any form/draft actually) I really like this. The child's voice still has a few small issues in my opinion, but it seems like it has come a long way and I think it plays nicely into the characters innocence.
It definitely makes sense. I think the point of view of the child makes it subtle, which is nice. I think you MIGHT still need to deal with the thoughts/feelings of the characters a little more, just to give the story more purpose. It doesn't feel like there is a story arc proper, I feel the conclusion could be a little stronger. But it definitely makes sense to the reader :)
I think the style is fairly consistent (so coherent) and definitely works well to achieve the purpose (sophistication) in most sections. I think the use of language is effective; if only a little forced in some places (but I get it is hard to give sophisticated techniques to a Childs voice).
On the whole I think the narrative has come a long way and you should feel confident handing it in tomorrow ;D
Creative
Strips of airy cotton candy float slowly above. Slow and steady like an old turtle. Like that fable. What is called again? The tortoise and the hare? Slow and steady wins the race. But now coming first is all that matters. If you are first. You are the best. What is it like to be the best? How do you become the best… On the left there is no car. On the right there is no car. No danger. It’s safe to cross when the little man turns green. Or was it red? Red like Jack’s dad face when he is angry. Pale white like Jack’s mum face when she is scared.
A tall person stands in the distance. Light reflects off his shiny, tan head as he walks. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll sizzle and cook. A sunnyside up egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella? Or was it rubella? Something with a ella at the end... His face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. Numerous wrinkles littered his face like a scrunched up ball of paper. If it rained at this moment the indents from the wrinkles can store water in all the little trenches in his face. He wouldn’t have to pay for water then !
The white, hairy caterpillar on his lip quivers in tune to the violent movements of his mouth. Saliva streams down like little rivers. Drip drop just like rain. Onto the concrete ground. Just like a crazy dog. He is disgusting. What if he has a disease? Rabies. Diabetes? There is so many disease in the world and he is promoting them! He should be contained. Isolated. Quaran...tined. Like the disease that he is…Why am I so mean to Jack’s dad? He is only walking home. The way he is a living red canvas with frayed strips of skin beginning to peel of his burnt back just like snakeskin sends shivers down my spine. It must hurt. Why didn’t he put sunscreen on for goodness sake! Slather it on. Even though it’s expensive. Why would he hurt his body like that? Skin cancer mr! Australia has the highest rate of skin cancer!
The sun is so harsh now. It is really hot in Sydney. While in Perth you are either being burned alive by the scorching heat of a desert or it’s raining cats and dogs. Stupid weather. Stupid costs of sunscreen. Why is sunscreen so important anyway? Back in Malaysia it was hot every day but no one cared about sunscreen that much. No fuss. No nagging. No need to remember ‘slip, slop, slop, slap and slide’ that is taught all the time in primary school… Why do I that remember anyway? Probably because mum makes me wear sunscreen all the time now so my skin doesn’t get dark. Mum said boys won’t like you if you have dark skin. You have to have milky white and soft skin like a baby so we can a...sim...ilate?I wonder if I can live in a cold country when I grow up. No need to put sunscreen when I go out and spend lots of money. I can use it to buy toys instead. Switzerland even has snow! Hopefully its as soft as it looks. Where is Switzerland? Do they speak swiss? Swiss...cheese? They speak cheese! Is it hard to speak cheese? I hope not.
Uh oh...Jack’s face turned red and he started to scream at his mum again through the window next door. She covers her head as he hits her. Why does Jack hit his mum? If I did that I would get no tv.
A flash of blue flies onto a scrawny branch of a large tree. A vibrant shade of blue so beautiful you could drown in it endlessly; a never ending sea of blue in pictures and magazines brought to life. Smells like a... eucalyptus tree?. Maybe its home to a koala family. All sitting on a big branch eating a eucalyptus feast. Eucalyptus tastes nice. Tastes like grass apparently. What does grass taste like? Straw?
A BIG bruise. A really big bruise. Purple? No… a violetish, bluish green? It must hurt. It must be really embarrassing. The left? No? The right cheek? Which side is left again? It kind of looks like a galaxy. Especially the blue and purple. Was there a bruise there yesterday on her cheek?
‘It’s time to close the window and curtains’ Mum says. It must be 4:30 already. It’s nearly time for Jack’s dad to come home. There is a lot of screaming at 5:00 when he comes home. Jack’s family likes to watch scary movies when he is angry. Why don’t we watch movies all the time? Like Cinderella? When I grow up I will find my own prince charming just like that the tv show mum watches ‘Married at first sight’. Getting married is easy you have to just sign a paper with a fancy swirl and it’s done. What I should I do when I get married? Get a big fluffy white dress with sparkly diamonds. Will he whisk me away to travel the world? We can fly everywhere like birds in the sky. Where should we start? Paris? The city of love?
A tall person stands in the distance. Light reflects off his shiny, tan head as he walks. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll sizzle and cook. A sunnyside up egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella? Or was it rubella? Something with a ella at the end... His face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. Numerous wrinkles littered his face like a scrunched up ball of paper. If it rained at this moment the indents from the wrinkles can store water in all the little trenches in his face. He wouldn’t have to pay for water then !
The white, hairy caterpillar on his lip quivers in tune to the violent movements of his mouth. Saliva streams down like little rivers. Drip drop just like rain. Onto the concrete ground. Just like a crazy dog. He is disgusting. What if he has a disease? Rabies. Diabetes? There is so many disease in the world and he is promoting them! He should be contained. Isolated. Quaran...tined. Like the disease that he is…Why am I so mean to Jack’s dad? He is only walking home. The way he is a living red canvas with frayed strips of skin beginning to peel of his burnt back just like snakeskin sends shivers down my spine. It must hurt. Why didn’t he put sunscreen on for goodness sake! Slather it on. Even though it’s expensive. Why would he hurt his body like that? Skin cancer mr! Australia has the highest rate of skin cancer!
The sun is so harsh now. It is really hot in Sydney. While in Perth you are either being burned alive by the scorching heat of a desert or it’s raining cats and dogs. Stupid weather. Stupid costs of sunscreen. Why is sunscreen so important anyway? Back in Malaysia it was hot every day but no one cared about sunscreen that much. No fuss. No nagging. No need to remember ‘slip, slop, slop, slap and slide’ that is taught all the time in primary school… Why do I that remember anyway? Probably because mum makes me wear sunscreen all the time now so my skin doesn’t get dark. Mum said boys won’t like you if you have dark skin. You have to have milky white and soft skin like a baby so we can a...sim...ilate?I wonder if I can live in a cold country when I grow up. No need to put sunscreen when I go out and spend lots of money. I can use it to buy toys instead. Switzerland even has snow! Hopefully its as soft as it looks. Where is Switzerland? Do they speak swiss? Swiss...cheese? They speak cheese! Is it hard to speak cheese? I hope not.
Uh oh...Jack’s face turned red and he started to scream at his mum again through the window next door. She covers her head as he hits her. Why does Jack hit his mum? If I did that I would get no tv.
A flash of blue flies onto a scrawny branch of a large tree. A vibrant shade of blue so beautiful you could drown in it endlessly; a never ending sea of blue in pictures and magazines brought to life. Smells like a... eucalyptus tree?. Maybe its home to a koala family. All sitting on a big branch eating a eucalyptus feast. Eucalyptus tastes nice. Tastes like grass apparently. What does grass taste like? Straw?
A BIG bruise. A really big bruise. Purple? No… a violetish, bluish green? It must hurt. It must be really embarrassing. The left? No? The right cheek? Which side is left again? It kind of looks like a galaxy. Especially the blue and purple. Was there a bruise there yesterday on her cheek?
‘It’s time to close the window and curtains’ Mum says. It must be 4:30 already. It’s nearly time for Jack’s dad to come home. There is a lot of screaming at 5:00 when he comes home. Jack’s family likes to watch scary movies when he is angry. Why don’t we watch movies all the time? Like Cinderella? When I grow up I will find my own prince charming just like that the tv show mum watches ‘Married at first sight’. Getting married is easy you have to just sign a paper with a fancy swirl and it’s done. What I should I do when I get married? Get a big fluffy white dress with sparkly diamonds. Will he whisk me away to travel the world? We can fly everywhere like birds in the sky. Where should we start? Paris? The city of love?
Post by: anotherworld2b on February 16, 2017, 11:59:30 pm
I was wondering what do you mean by this?
' think you MIGHT still need to deal with the thoughts/feelings of the characters a little more, just to give the story more purpose. It doesn't feel like there is a story arc proper, I feel the conclusion could be a little stronger. But it definitely makes sense to the reader :)'
I am not sure how to deal with the thoughts/feelings of the characters more also what could I do to make the conclusion stronger?
Hey! So as a fresh set of eyes (don't think I've worked with this narrative in any form/draft actually) I really like this. The child's voice still has a few small issues in my opinion, but it seems like it has come a long way and I think it plays nicely into the characters innocence.
It definitely makes sense. I think the point of view of the child makes it subtle, which is nice. I think you MIGHT still need to deal with the thoughts/feelings of the characters a little more, just to give the story more purpose. It doesn't feel like there is a story arc proper, I feel the conclusion could be a little stronger. But it definitely makes sense to the reader :)
I think the style is fairly consistent (so coherent) and definitely works well to achieve the purpose (sophistication) in most sections. I think the use of language is effective; if only a little forced in some places (but I get it is hard to give sophisticated techniques to a Childs voice).
On the whole I think the narrative has come a long way and you should feel confident handing it in tomorrow ;DCreativeStrips of airy cotton candy float slowly above. Slow and steady like an old turtle. Like that fable. What is called again? The tortoise and the hare? Slow and steady wins the race. But now coming first is all that matters. If you are first. You are the best. What is it like to be the best? How do you become the best… On the left there is no car. On the right there is no car. No danger. It’s safe to cross when the little man turns green. Or was it red? Red like Jack’s dad face when he is angry. Pale white like Jack’s mum face when she is scared.
A tall person stands in the distance. Light reflects off his shiny, tan head as he walks. Maybe if I put a egg on it’ll sizzle and cook. A sunnyside up egg. Mum said eggs must be cooked or you’ll get samon... ella? Or was it rubella? Something with a ella at the end... His face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. Numerous wrinkles littered his face like a scrunched up ball of paper. If it rained at this moment the indents from the wrinkles can store water in all the little trenches in his face. He wouldn’t have to pay for water then !
The white, hairy caterpillar on his lip quivers in tune to the violent movements of his mouth. Saliva streams down like little rivers. Drip drop just like rain. Onto the concrete ground. Just like a crazy dog. He is disgusting. What if he has a disease? Rabies. Diabetes? There is so many disease in the world and he is promoting them! He should be contained. Isolated. Quaran...tined. Like the disease that he is…Why am I so mean to Jack’s dad? He is only walking home. The way he is a living red canvas with frayed strips of skin beginning to peel of his burnt back just like snakeskin sends shivers down my spine. It must hurt. Why didn’t he put sunscreen on for goodness sake! Slather it on. Even though it’s expensive. Why would he hurt his body like that? Skin cancer mr! Australia has the highest rate of skin cancer!
The sun is so harsh now. It is really hot in Sydney. While in Perth you are either being burned alive by the scorching heat of a desert or it’s raining cats and dogs. Stupid weather. Stupid costs of sunscreen. Why is sunscreen so important anyway? Back in Malaysia it was hot every day but no one cared about sunscreen that much. No fuss. No nagging. No need to remember ‘slip, slop, slop, slap and slide’ that is taught all the time in primary school… Why do I that remember anyway? Probably because mum makes me wear sunscreen all the time now so my skin doesn’t get dark. Mum said boys won’t like you if you have dark skin. You have to have milky white and soft skin like a baby so we can a...sim...ilate?I wonder if I can live in a cold country when I grow up. No need to put sunscreen when I go out and spend lots of money. I can use it to buy toys instead. Switzerland even has snow! Hopefully its as soft as it looks. Where is Switzerland? Do they speak swiss? Swiss...cheese? They speak cheese! Is it hard to speak cheese? I hope not.
Uh oh...Jack’s face turned red and he started to scream at his mum again through the window next door. She covers her head as he hits her. Why does Jack hit his mum? If I did that I would get no tv.
A flash of blue flies onto a scrawny branch of a large tree. A vibrant shade of blue so beautiful you could drown in it endlessly; a never ending sea of blue in pictures and magazines brought to life. Smells like a... eucalyptus tree?. Maybe its home to a koala family. All sitting on a big branch eating a eucalyptus feast. Eucalyptus tastes nice. Tastes like grass apparently. What does grass taste like? Straw?
A BIG bruise. A really big bruise. Purple? No… a violetish, bluish green? It must hurt. It must be really embarrassing. The left? No? The right cheek? Which side is left again? It kind of looks like a galaxy. Especially the blue and purple. Was there a bruise there yesterday on her cheek?
‘It’s time to close the window and curtains’ Mum says. It must be 4:30 already. It’s nearly time for Jack’s dad to come home. There is a lot of screaming at 5:00 when he comes home. Jack’s family likes to watch scary movies when he is angry. Why don’t we watch movies all the time? Like Cinderella? When I grow up I will find my own prince charming just like that the tv show mum watches ‘Married at first sight’. Getting married is easy you have to just sign a paper with a fancy swirl and it’s done. What I should I do when I get married? Get a big fluffy white dress with sparkly diamonds. Will he whisk me away to travel the world? We can fly everywhere like birds in the sky. Where should we start? Paris? The city of love?
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 17, 2017, 12:08:17 am
thank you for your feedback jamon
I was wondering what do you mean by this?
' think you MIGHT still need to deal with the thoughts/feelings of the characters a little more, just to give the story more purpose. It doesn't feel like there is a story arc proper, I feel the conclusion could be a little stronger. But it definitely makes sense to the reader :)'
I am not sure how to deal with the thoughts/feelings of the characters more also what could I do to make the conclusion stronger?
So what I mean by that is, it doesn't feel like you've fully culminated in a 'lesson' or realisation. At least, not as powerfully as you could. You've explored the theme of domestic violence a little but it doesn't feel like anything has been learned or any new understanding has been gained. The characters are all the same when you finish as when you started, so the story feels a little inconsequential. No one learns anything I suppose! This links to why I say the conclusion could be stronger because it feels a little lacklustre for the same reasons.
You could do more in the conclusion to have the main character realise something about relationships, or have some other change that makes the rest of the story mean something.
That said, that might not be the purpose of this story. It could just be an observation about the presence of domestic violence in society, and a contrast of that dark side of society agains the innocence of the child. That works too! I'm approaching this in a HSC mindset where there needs to be development and culmination - That might not be the same for you :)
Post by: anotherworld2b on February 17, 2017, 12:13:17 am
Thank you for the help :)
So what I mean by that is, it doesn't feel like you've fully culminated in a 'lesson' or realisation. At least, not as powerfully as you could. You've explored the theme of domestic violence a little but it doesn't feel like anything has been learned or any new understanding has been gained. The characters are all the same when you finish as when you started, so the story feels a little inconsequential. No one learns anything I suppose! This links to why I say the conclusion could be stronger because it feels a little lacklustre for the same reasons.
You could do more in the conclusion to have the main character realise something about relationships, or have some other change that makes the rest of the story mean something.
That said, that might not be the purpose of this story. It could just be an observation about the presence of domestic violence in society, and a contrast of that dark side of society agains the innocence of the child. That works too! I'm approaching this in a HSC mindset where there needs to be development and culmination - That might not be the same for you :)
Post by: emilyjaajaa on February 18, 2017, 12:14:16 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 18, 2017, 03:02:30 pm
Hey! if i post my creative here for marking, could i still use it for my hsc exam?
Hey Emily! Yeah you definitely can, heaps of people were getting feedback on creatives for their HSC all through last year ;D
Welcome to the forums! Remember you'll need 15 posts on ATAR Notes to qualify for feedback; really easy if you hang around the site a bit, have a chat and ask a few questions :)
Post by: Kirri Rule on February 21, 2017, 08:41:27 pm
Hey Kirri! Thanks for posting your Creative - You need 15 posts on ATAR Notes per piece to get detailed feedback from one of our markers - Just to make sure the service doesn't get too clogged. However, I've had a skim, let me quickly try and explain what I view those comments to mean (that said, you should just ask them to make sure you take the right things from the feedback! Always best to clarify with your teachers if you are ever unsure)
"The setting is vivid but less exaggerated with adjectives." - Hmm, I THINK this is suggesting that you've over-used your adjectives in the first paragraph a little? In my opinion, it's always better to pick a few, powerful adjectives than use a lot of inconsequential ones.
"The dual narration is interesting and works really well."[/b] - Swapping between the two points of view is a great feature (I agree!) and something you should keep!
"There is even more you could do with this too, particularly towards the end of the story. For example, speed up the shifts between characters." - Basically, just keep trying new ideas! That last bit is suggesting that you start to make the character sections smaller towards the end, perhaps moving towards even just a single sentence per character with rapid switches between the two. This sets a pace and builds up a sense of climax.
"I'm really keen to work on tightening the ending and sharpening the sentence length." - Just means that the ending could be a little bit better - Perhaps conceptually, perhaps in how it is written, just wrapping the story up in a more complete and powerful way. Sentence length refers to using the size of your sentences as a tool to emphasise certain points (you've got lots of long ones).
If I write a really long winded sentence, extrapolate on every possible outcome, investigate every possible turning point in this conundrum that we face, then naturally you start to flow with the sentence and everything becomes nice and rhythmic. Boom. Now there's impact.
See that contrast? I mean this isn't actually DOING anything so it's a bad example, but the sentence length being altered adds some emphasis and power to the shorter sentences, and some eloquence to the longer ones. It is a powerful tool ;D
Let us know when you reach the 15 post threshold and we'll be happy to give you some more complete feedback! ;D
Thank you very much, Ill let you know when i reach 15 but i was also just wondering, what is the recommended number of creatives we should have prepared for the HSC?
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 21, 2017, 10:57:01 pm
Thank you very much, Ill let you know when i reach 15 but i was also just wondering, what is the recommended number of creatives we should have prepared for the HSC?
Hey Kirri, I just prepared one, and I would say the majority of the students only prepare one to take in! But if you're going in with one, you want to be certain that you can adjust it. So before the HSC, I tested mine out with variable endings, beginnings, alterations in plot, etc. All of this meant that although I only had one prepared text, it was super flexible and it was almost as though I had prepared more (because I did a speech, I could change my target audience, location, etc). So, I'd just be working on the one for now. If you hit a dead end, why not begin another and see if it takes you better places. Otherwise, just one is what I recommend! :)
Post by: Kirri Rule on February 22, 2017, 08:20:35 am
Hey Kirri, I just prepared one, and I would say the majority of the students only prepare one to take in! But if you're going in with one, you want to be certain that you can adjust it. So before the HSC, I tested mine out with variable endings, beginnings, alterations in plot, etc. All of this meant that although I only had one prepared text, it was super flexible and it was almost as though I had prepared more (because I did a speech, I could change my target audience, location, etc). So, I'd just be working on the one for now. If you hit a dead end, why not begin another and see if it takes you better places. Otherwise, just one is what I recommend! :)
Perfect so would you recommend that we should use different past paper stimuli to test our creatives, to see if they are flexible enough?
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 22, 2017, 08:29:16 am
Perfect so would you recommend that we should use different past paper stimuli to test our creatives, to see if they are flexible enough?
Definitely - That's the absolute best way to test the versatility of your script, plus the more you write it the more ideas you may come up with and the more refined it will be ;D
Post by: bananna on February 22, 2017, 05:37:31 pm
my creative is in the spoiler below, just wondering if you could tell me what you think of it, if its too over-descriptive, what mark you think it deserves and if it makes sense (i had one teacher a little confused).
Also, is it enough in terms of word-limits (its about 850 words) should I write more?
thank you!!
Spoiler
Anniversary
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room.
*
She set the porcelain plates down on each end of the dining table. She smiled at the warm reaction she felt from her husband. She hated cooking, but loved making his favourite meal—beef stroganoff and steamed vegetables. She sat in her chair, the peppery aroma inviting her to pick up her fork. As she stuck her fork into a pasta spiral, she smiled and asked “How’s the food, sweetie?” No response. She imagined him shoveling the food into his mouth like a savage, looking down; she shook her head and chuckled.
She was a woman in her golden years. With deep wrinkle lines that carved a map on her face and thin lips that cracked whenever she smiled. Her thin, pale skin speckled with age spots stretched when she spoke. She used to wear make-up for her husband, but gave in to the passage of time—baring her timeworn face to the world. Not really—she didn’t go out as much. She went out with her husband. A lot. Travelling, walking, folk dancing, wine-tasting. She loved it. She loved him.
A gentle, lilting voice filled the room. “Thanks for calling, sweetie, I’ll see if I can find that pearl necklace for you”. She smiled as if her daughter was next to her. She picked up her walking stick, and hobbled to her room, a thud accompanying her every step. She stood at the entrance, pencil markings up the doorway, accounting for the growth of her children over the years. She shuffled to her closet and pulled open a drawer, revealing a beautiful, antique jewelry box, embroidered with small metallic flowers and a silver filigree on the crown of the chest. She unlatched it, revealing the fine, scarlet velvet upon which her best jewelry lay. She smiled when she saw it- a thin silver necklace, with white pearls adorning it. She carefully picked it up and laid it on a stool next to her. Beside the small box, her blush and red lipstick stood. She smiled, reminiscing of her date-nights: when despite copious amounts of make-up, her wrinkles stood strong but her husband still complimented her.
She turned to leave when a glimmer caught her eye. Her eyes wondered to a heap of clothes from the back of her closet. Rummaging through articles of clothing, she finally found the source of that which sparked her curiosity.
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room.
A ring. HIS ring. She carefully picked up the irreplaceable metal. Moving her wrist slightly, she looked at the golden band on the finger that connected to her heart.
She looked up, and a handsome, familiar face gazed back at her. She looked at her hand once again: the blemishes and freckles and wrinkles were gone: she was looking at a youthful, more radiant hand. She looked up once again.
He was gone.
Once again, she looked at her ring finger. The golden band reminded her of her purpose. The day she trained for. The day she lived out what she was born to do—place a ring on her finger. She slowly lowered herself to sit on her bed and studied the ring. Looking up, she whispered, “you were gone 367 days”, and closed her creased eyelids.
She slid the symbol of marriage off her finger, placing both rings in her slightly shaky palm. A short, red ribbon caught her eye. She reached over and held the thin, silk cloth. Taking a deep breath, she laced both rings through the ribbon—“clink” and tied a small bow. Seeing the two hoops together made her feel weightless, and filled her soul with swelling symphonies. They were finally side by side—where they belonged. Closing her palm, she held tightly onto the rings, hobbling over to the cabinet without her walking stick. She placed a small kiss on her hand, hovered her fingers over the jewelry box—and released the rings. She sighed—a sigh of relief rather than resignation.
She picked up the tube of red lipstick next to the box. She removed the lid, placing it next to the jewelry box. Hobbling over to the small oval mirror, she grimaced. Meticulously, she made up her face. For the first time in a year, she smiled at her reflection. She glanced at the calendar, which was hung next to the mirror. Today’s date was circled and a big red heart drawn next to the small ‘02/02’. “Well, we almost made it to 50”; she smiled and looked up. For the first time in forever, she strode out of her home with her walking aid and smelled the fresh, earthy scent left after the harsh rain. She looked up to see colours hovering in the sky—and felt a warm embrace.
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room.
*
She set the porcelain plates down on each end of the dining table. She smiled at the warm reaction she felt from her husband. She hated cooking, but loved making his favourite meal—beef stroganoff and steamed vegetables. She sat in her chair, the peppery aroma inviting her to pick up her fork. As she stuck her fork into a pasta spiral, she smiled and asked “How’s the food, sweetie?” No response. She imagined him shoveling the food into his mouth like a savage, looking down; she shook her head and chuckled.
She was a woman in her golden years. With deep wrinkle lines that carved a map on her face and thin lips that cracked whenever she smiled. Her thin, pale skin speckled with age spots stretched when she spoke. She used to wear make-up for her husband, but gave in to the passage of time—baring her timeworn face to the world. Not really—she didn’t go out as much. She went out with her husband. A lot. Travelling, walking, folk dancing, wine-tasting. She loved it. She loved him.
A gentle, lilting voice filled the room. “Thanks for calling, sweetie, I’ll see if I can find that pearl necklace for you”. She smiled as if her daughter was next to her. She picked up her walking stick, and hobbled to her room, a thud accompanying her every step. She stood at the entrance, pencil markings up the doorway, accounting for the growth of her children over the years. She shuffled to her closet and pulled open a drawer, revealing a beautiful, antique jewelry box, embroidered with small metallic flowers and a silver filigree on the crown of the chest. She unlatched it, revealing the fine, scarlet velvet upon which her best jewelry lay. She smiled when she saw it- a thin silver necklace, with white pearls adorning it. She carefully picked it up and laid it on a stool next to her. Beside the small box, her blush and red lipstick stood. She smiled, reminiscing of her date-nights: when despite copious amounts of make-up, her wrinkles stood strong but her husband still complimented her.
She turned to leave when a glimmer caught her eye. Her eyes wondered to a heap of clothes from the back of her closet. Rummaging through articles of clothing, she finally found the source of that which sparked her curiosity.
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room.
A ring. HIS ring. She carefully picked up the irreplaceable metal. Moving her wrist slightly, she looked at the golden band on the finger that connected to her heart.
She looked up, and a handsome, familiar face gazed back at her. She looked at her hand once again: the blemishes and freckles and wrinkles were gone: she was looking at a youthful, more radiant hand. She looked up once again.
He was gone.
Once again, she looked at her ring finger. The golden band reminded her of her purpose. The day she trained for. The day she lived out what she was born to do—place a ring on her finger. She slowly lowered herself to sit on her bed and studied the ring. Looking up, she whispered, “you were gone 367 days”, and closed her creased eyelids.
She slid the symbol of marriage off her finger, placing both rings in her slightly shaky palm. A short, red ribbon caught her eye. She reached over and held the thin, silk cloth. Taking a deep breath, she laced both rings through the ribbon—“clink” and tied a small bow. Seeing the two hoops together made her feel weightless, and filled her soul with swelling symphonies. They were finally side by side—where they belonged. Closing her palm, she held tightly onto the rings, hobbling over to the cabinet without her walking stick. She placed a small kiss on her hand, hovered her fingers over the jewelry box—and released the rings. She sighed—a sigh of relief rather than resignation.
She picked up the tube of red lipstick next to the box. She removed the lid, placing it next to the jewelry box. Hobbling over to the small oval mirror, she grimaced. Meticulously, she made up her face. For the first time in a year, she smiled at her reflection. She glanced at the calendar, which was hung next to the mirror. Today’s date was circled and a big red heart drawn next to the small ‘02/02’. “Well, we almost made it to 50”; she smiled and looked up. For the first time in forever, she strode out of her home with her walking aid and smelled the fresh, earthy scent left after the harsh rain. She looked up to see colours hovering in the sky—and felt a warm embrace.
Post by: f_tan on February 23, 2017, 12:03:58 am
1. My teacher said that the present day character needs more backstory/more depth - how can I achieve this without adding more words to the story? (word limit is 1000 and I'm already above)
2. Teacher also said that the discovery happens too quickly, and I realize that, but I'm not sure how I can make it develop through the story? (I'm trying show that the Australian character discovers to devalue materialism and to instead value human connectivity/enjoy the moments around him, while also conveying that the Vietnamese character has learned forgiveness for the destruction of his home)
3. We have to incorporate the stimulus into a significant moment of discovery, and I'm not sure which one would fit best (the two I'm deciding on is "I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight" or "All torment, trouble, wonder, and amazement inhabits here")
4. I'm also not sure how to convey/show the character's background/culture/context without telling - Walter is Australian and the man who owns the restaurant is Vietnamese
15th September, 1976
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight.
A lifetime of seeing only death and destruction has left me with the lasting impression of a macabre world, deprived of any humanity; a constant fight for power between nations, driven by greed. Which is why, as the wave gently nudges our boat closer to the land, I just stare blankly ahead. I see the cluster of buildings first, which replace the dense, green jungles of Vietnam. The green rice paddy fields have been replaced by concrete roads.
The air is laced with a gentle breeze that is calming, but it is unfamiliar, different to the hot and humid days of my childhood. Even though we celebrate our safe arrival to Australia, I desperately clutch onto the familiarity of the only photograph I have of my family, as if it could dissipate into a smoky haze, just like our home did.
***
It was in the early hours of the morning when Walter stepped out onto the front porch steps of his home, the heat immediately hitting him. It didn’t help that the weather was humid last night, earning Walter yet another sleepless night. Not that that it mattered. Walter hardly slept at all anyways. He’s always typing away at his computer, his mother used to say, meeting deadline after deadline, he doesn’t want to spend time with his mother anymore, she used to joke. He took his pride in it after all; earning enough to buy whatever he wanted, by writing what people wanted to read. Even as Walter walked through the front yard of his house, he was subconsciously thinking of the next headlines for his article.
(Insert headline) <-- haven't decided what to put yet - I want to put in something that shows how Walter writes articles that doesn't really hold any meaning for him just to please the public by giving them things they like to read if that makes sense? Any suggestions?
Tomorrow would be another deadline, and today, Walter was out of ideas.
Mrs Healey who lived next door, cheerfully exclaimed a “Good morning, Walter!” as he passed by – her ageing body did not stop her from tending to her flowers – “Have you got time to help me –“
It reminded him of the times his mother used to ask him to fix the constant leaks in the roof of their broken-down home. They couldn’t afford a new place; his father gone before Walter was even born. He brushed off the memory. Those times were long gone now, and he would make sure it never happened again.
“Sorry Mrs Healey, I’ve someplace I gotta be,” Walter mumbled, hurrying past her. Mrs Healey was always asking him to help her with things.
Slinging his bag over his shoulders, he made his way to the shops. Being the early hours of the day, the streets were quiet except for the sound of the occasional car going by. He passed by the park; empty, with its rusting benches covered in a layer of dried, yellowing leaves. He racked his brain for ideas on his next article, but it was as if the heat had consumed with it his ability to think clearly. Desperately needing a quiet place to write, away from the mess at home, Walter turned the corner, to find that the only place open this early in the morning was a small café with neon lights that spelled Nhu’s Cafe.
The doorbell tinkled as Walter pushed the door open, eyes already scanning for the seat in the corner that would isolate him from any distractions. No one else had come in yet and the room was empty, but he could hear the faint sound of sizzling and clink of metals from behind a thin curtain, and the smell of fresh, hot food wafted into the room, a delightful mix of spices.
But his appetite was ruined.
He had a deadline tomorrow, and he had to come up with something today. He took his laptop out of his bag, opened the lid, hands on the keyboard.
Finally, in this peace and qui – “Anything from the menu sir? Drinks? The special for today –“
“Just coffee, please.” Walter replied dismissively, hardly looking at the man.
(Insert headline), Walter typed and deleted. He could not concentrate. He looked up from his laptop and stared ahead, his mind gradually wandering away from the blank document in front of him, subconsciously trying to avoid the thought of the deadline tomorrow. Staring blankly in front of him, he suddenly took notice of the painting in front of him; distorted shapes of green and blue, resembling the ocean or a field perhaps, and also saw what seemed to resemble the triangular shape of a small run-down house. He could not rub the strangeness from his eyes. Beside the straw coloured house, three figures stood. What was that –
“It’s my home. Back in Vietnam.”
Walter started. He had not seen the man come back through the curtains, who must’ve caught him staring at the painting.
A moment of silence before Walter gave a slight nod. The man set his coffee down on the table.
“We used to run around those fields on hot days like these,” he continued, “the village children and I.” He turned back towards the kitchen, but Walter couldn’t help but notice the slight sadness in his voice, hidden beneath his amiable nature and polite smile.
“Who are the three figures in the painting?” Walter asked abruptly. The man turned back, slightly surprised to find that he had taken an interest. He stood there, fishing for something in his pocket, and took out a photograph, which Walter assumed to be of his family.
“My parents,” he said, pointing to the man and woman in the picture, both in simple clothing, sandals on their feet. In the middle, a child about 8 years, looking up at both parents with a wide grin plastered on his face. “A napalm bomb was dropped on our village. They mistook us for enemy soldiers.” the man explained.
“And your parents?”, Walter asked, though he was afraid he knew the answer.
The man shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t change what happened. I was angry at first, but it’s not anyone’s fault; it’s the nature of war. I arrived here to find that there is still kindness in humanity. The nuns who met us with clothes and food when we arrived taught me that.”
He excused himself to serve the customers that had just walked in. It amazed Walter that for an experience that horrible, a person could still see the goodness of others. It hit Walter that he had been too caught up with his own life that he did not know anything about the world around him. I realize this bit still needs some editing to convey a more meaningful discovery. This is also where I think the second quote/stimulus may fit in where he realizes about the history behind the man's life which has allowed him to appreciate life more?It was noon, and although the heat still lingered, a pleasant breeze flowed through the windows and gently settled in the room. He watched the leaves on the trees outside for a while, as the breeze rustled through, and he set his fingers on the keyboard.
Insert headline.
It would be his greatest article yet, but it would have to wait. Walking out of the café doors, he breathed in the fresh air, through the park, turned onto his street, walked up onto the steps of Mrs Healey’s door, and knocked.
THANK YOU!! :):)
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 23, 2017, 06:08:35 am
Hi!
my creative is in the spoiler below, just wondering if you could tell me what you think of it, if its too over-descriptive, what mark you think it deserves and if it makes sense (i had one teacher a little confused).
Also, is it enough in terms of word-limits (its about 850 words) should I write more?
thank you!!
Hey Bananna :) I'll have a look at this for you and respond to your queries. I'll put it in a spoiler below with my comments in bold font :)
Spoiler
Anniversary
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room. I like the sentence variation and the onomatopoeia here.
*
She set the porcelain plates down on each end of the dining table. She smiled at the warm reaction she felt from her husband. She hated cooking, but loved making his favourite meal—beef stroganoff and steamed vegetables. She sat in her chair, the peppery aroma inviting her to pick up her fork. As she stuck her fork into a pasta spiral, she smiled and asked “How’s the food, sweetie?” No response. She imagined him shoveling the food into his mouth like a savage, looking down; she shook her head and chuckled.
She was a woman in her golden years. With deep wrinkle lines that carved a map on her face and thin lips that cracked whenever she smiled. Her thin, pale skin speckled with age spots stretched when she spoke. She used to wear make-up for her husband, but gave in to the passage of time—baring her timeworn face to the world. Not really—she didn’t go out as much. She went out with her husband. A lot. Travelling, walking, folk dancing, wine-tasting. She loved it. She loved him. I'm really engaged with the storytelling here.
A gentle, lilting voice filled the room. “Thanks for calling, sweetie, I’ll see if I can find that pearl necklace for you”. Dialogue needs to have a new line. She smiled as if her daughter was next to her. She picked up her walking stick, and hobbled to her room, a thud accompanying her every step. She stood at the entrance, pencil markings up the doorway, accounting for the growth of her children over the years. She shuffled to her closet and pulled open a drawer, revealing a beautiful, antique jewelry jewellery* (Check if you have your Microsoft Word set to English US or Aus) box, embroidered with small metallic flowers and a silver filigree on the crown of the chest. She unlatched it, revealing the fine, scarlet velvet upon which her best jewelry jewellery* lay. She smiled when she saw it- a thin silver necklace, with white pearls adorning it. She carefully picked it up and laid it on a stool next to her. Beside the small box, her blush and red lipstick stood. She smiled, reminiscing of her date-nights: when despite copious amounts of make-up, her wrinkles stood strong but her husband still complimented her.
She turned to leave when a glimmer caught her eye. Her eyes wondered to a heap of clothes from the back of her closet. Rummaging through articles of clothing, she finally found the source of that which sparked her curiosity.
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room.
A ring. HIS ring. She carefully picked up the irreplaceable metal. Moving her wrist slightly, she looked at the golden band on the finger that connected to her heart.
She looked up, and a handsome, familiar face gazed back at her. She looked at her hand once again: the blemishes and freckles and wrinkles were gone: she was looking at a youthful, more radiant hand. She looked up once again.
He was gone.
Once again, she looked at her ring finger. The golden band reminded her of her purpose. The day she trained for. The day she lived out what she was born to do—place a ring on her finger. I'd get a second opinion on this because I don't want to tell you to omit something that is crucial to someone else's understanding, but I knew what she was born to do without stating "place a ring on her finger."She slowly lowered herself to sit on her bed and studied the ring. Looking up, she whispered, “you were gone 367 days”, and closed her creased eyelids.
She slid the symbol of marriage off her finger, Is this an opportunity to enhance the symbolism? Is it just a symbol of marriage? Or is this a chance where you could say contract, or success?placing both rings in her slightly shaky palm. A short, red ribbon caught her eye. She reached over and held the thin, silk cloth. Taking a deep breath, she laced both rings through the ribbon—“clink” and tied a small bow. Seeing the two hoops together made her feel weightless, and filled her soul with swelling symphonies. They were finally side by side—where they belonged. Closing her palm, she held tightly onto the rings, hobbling over to the cabinet without her walking stick. She placed a small kiss on her hand, hovered her fingers over the jewelry jewellery* box—and released the rings. She sighed—a sigh of relief rather than resignation.
She picked up the tube of red lipstick next to the box. She removed the lid, placing it next to the jewelry jewellery* box. Hobbling over to the small oval mirror, she grimaced. Meticulously, she made up her face. For the first time in a year, she smiled at her reflection. She glanced at the calendar, which was hung next to the mirror. Today’s date was circled and a big red heart drawn next to the small ‘02/02’. “Well, we almost made it to 50”; she smiled and looked up. For the first time in forever, she strode out of her home with her walking aid and smelled the fresh, earthy scent left after the harsh rain. She looked up to see colours hovering in the sky—and felt a warm embrace.
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room. I like the sentence variation and the onomatopoeia here.
*
She set the porcelain plates down on each end of the dining table. She smiled at the warm reaction she felt from her husband. She hated cooking, but loved making his favourite meal—beef stroganoff and steamed vegetables. She sat in her chair, the peppery aroma inviting her to pick up her fork. As she stuck her fork into a pasta spiral, she smiled and asked “How’s the food, sweetie?” No response. She imagined him shoveling the food into his mouth like a savage, looking down; she shook her head and chuckled.
She was a woman in her golden years. With deep wrinkle lines that carved a map on her face and thin lips that cracked whenever she smiled. Her thin, pale skin speckled with age spots stretched when she spoke. She used to wear make-up for her husband, but gave in to the passage of time—baring her timeworn face to the world. Not really—she didn’t go out as much. She went out with her husband. A lot. Travelling, walking, folk dancing, wine-tasting. She loved it. She loved him. I'm really engaged with the storytelling here.
A gentle, lilting voice filled the room. “Thanks for calling, sweetie, I’ll see if I can find that pearl necklace for you”. Dialogue needs to have a new line. She smiled as if her daughter was next to her. She picked up her walking stick, and hobbled to her room, a thud accompanying her every step. She stood at the entrance, pencil markings up the doorway, accounting for the growth of her children over the years. She shuffled to her closet and pulled open a drawer, revealing a beautiful, antique jewelry jewellery* (Check if you have your Microsoft Word set to English US or Aus) box, embroidered with small metallic flowers and a silver filigree on the crown of the chest. She unlatched it, revealing the fine, scarlet velvet upon which her best jewelry jewellery* lay. She smiled when she saw it- a thin silver necklace, with white pearls adorning it. She carefully picked it up and laid it on a stool next to her. Beside the small box, her blush and red lipstick stood. She smiled, reminiscing of her date-nights: when despite copious amounts of make-up, her wrinkles stood strong but her husband still complimented her.
She turned to leave when a glimmer caught her eye. Her eyes wondered to a heap of clothes from the back of her closet. Rummaging through articles of clothing, she finally found the source of that which sparked her curiosity.
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room.
A ring. HIS ring. She carefully picked up the irreplaceable metal. Moving her wrist slightly, she looked at the golden band on the finger that connected to her heart.
She looked up, and a handsome, familiar face gazed back at her. She looked at her hand once again: the blemishes and freckles and wrinkles were gone: she was looking at a youthful, more radiant hand. She looked up once again.
He was gone.
Once again, she looked at her ring finger. The golden band reminded her of her purpose. The day she trained for. The day she lived out what she was born to do—
She slid the symbol of marriage off her finger, Is this an opportunity to enhance the symbolism? Is it just a symbol of marriage? Or is this a chance where you could say contract, or success?placing both rings in her slightly shaky palm. A short, red ribbon caught her eye. She reached over and held the thin, silk cloth. Taking a deep breath, she laced both rings through the ribbon—“clink” and tied a small bow. Seeing the two hoops together made her feel weightless, and filled her soul with swelling symphonies. They were finally side by side—where they belonged. Closing her palm, she held tightly onto the rings, hobbling over to the cabinet without her walking stick. She placed a small kiss on her hand, hovered her fingers over the jewelry jewellery* box—and released the rings. She sighed—a sigh of relief rather than resignation.
She picked up the tube of red lipstick next to the box. She removed the lid, placing it next to the jewelry jewellery* box. Hobbling over to the small oval mirror, she grimaced. Meticulously, she made up her face. For the first time in a year, she smiled at her reflection. She glanced at the calendar, which was hung next to the mirror. Today’s date was circled and a big red heart drawn next to the small ‘02/02’. “Well, we almost made it to 50”; she smiled and looked up. For the first time in forever, she strode out of her home with her walking aid and smelled the fresh, earthy scent left after the harsh rain. She looked up to see colours hovering in the sky—and felt a warm embrace.
This is a beautiful piece to read. I'm astonished at how seamlessly you slid into the imagery of their two young hands together. I could truly visualise it. I wasn't lost at any part of the story, it always made sense to me and it was a joy to read. I do think it can improve in terms of the richness of discovery. I don't think this is at all too descriptive, and if it were purely marked on the careful control and manipulation of language I'd give it a band 6. I think we can make the story richer, slightly more complicated, and therefore expressive of more discovery types. She was born to get married, we see that. Was she born to also have children after that? Perhaps we could complicate the plot by revealing how her ring was a sign of a success, she had gotten married, woohoo. But, she couldn't have children. So although she saw the marriage as a bit of a transaction, a fulfilling of duties, she realised when she couldn't have children that her husband never felt like he got the raw end of the deal, because he loved her. Or, maybe she miscarried a few times, or maybe she could just never conceive. So her discovery is more aimed at the love her husband had for her and how she had misunderstood marriage for so long. Just an idea.
Alternatively, finding the ring could prompt her to analyse how it was once a sign of success, but now it's just a symbol of what she used to think marriage was. Maybe she didn't want to look at the ring until their anniversary, and as she picks it up, she doesn't feel what she expects to feel. Instead, she is prompted to remember how it all began. It began as her fulfilling her role. Now it's a lot more. As she sits in her house full of quilts and family photos and books, she realises that her marriage turned from an expectation to a partnership that exceeded all expectations, because it was filled with love. It took her until the 50th anniversary to recognise this change.
These are all just my ideas to prompt you to think about adding an extra layer to the story to diversify and intensify the discovery. Because as is, there's nothing deeply meaningful or transformative about her discovery to a reader, I'm not moved by her experience. It's more a focus on minutiae rather than discovery as a prominent theme. Because you're only on 850 words, you've got some room to add little bits and bobs here and there to add an extra veil to the work to intensify it. Again, your writing style is beautiful and a real joy to read. I found this very easy to follow. So an easy to follow text can handle a more intensified plot. I'm not suggesting we make it dense, because it is quite simple as is. It's just adding a thin layer of icing to change the flavour, rather than changing the entire recipe.
Let me know what you think... :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 23, 2017, 07:00:13 am
Hi! I'd like some help and feedback with my creative story, and these are a few things I need help with in my story.
THANK YOU!! :):)
Hey there! I'm excited to read this, I'll put it in the spoiler below and write my comments in bold font throughout, and then leave some comments at the end to answer your questions :)
Spoiler
15th September, 1976
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight.
A lifetime of seeing only death and destruction has left me with the lasting impression of a macabre world, deprived of any humanity; a constant fight for power between nations, driven by greed. Which is why, as the wave gently nudges our boat closer to the land, I just stare blankly ahead. I see the cluster of buildings first, which replace You use replace twice in two consecutive sentences. I think it fits better in the next sentence, so I'd opt for swapping this one. the dense, green jungles of Vietnam. The green rice paddy fields have been replaced by concrete roads.
The air is laced with a gentle breeze that is calming, but it is unfamiliar, different to the hot and humid days of my childhood. Even though we celebrate our safe arrival to Australia, I desperately clutch onto the familiarity of the only photograph I have of my family, as if it could dissipate into a smoky haze, just like our home did. Oooh nice
***
It was in the early hours of the morning when Walter stepped out onto the front porch steps of his home, the heat immediately hitting him. It didn’t help that the weather was humid last night, earning Walter yet another sleepless night. Not that that it mattered. Walter hardly slept at all anyways. He’s always typing away at his computer, his mother used to say, meeting deadline after deadline, he doesn’t want to spend time with his mother anymore, she used to joke. He took his pride in it after all; earning enough to buy whatever he wanted, by writing what people wanted to read. Even as Walter walked through the front yard of his house, he was subconsciously thinking of the next headlines for his article.
(Insert headline) <-- haven't decided what to put yet - I want to put in something that shows how Walter writes articles that doesn't really hold any meaning for him just to please the public by giving them things they like to read if that makes sense? Any suggestions? Maybe something about house prices? Or a C-lister celebrity spotting? "Vegetarian radio host, John McCabe, seen eating McChicken burger." "Australia named in top 5 countries for happiness"
Tomorrow would be another deadline, and today, Walter was out of ideas.
Mrs Healey who lived next door, cheerfully exclaimed a “Good morning, Walter!” as he passed by – her ageing body did not stop her from tending to her flowers – “Have you got time to help me –“
It reminded him of the times his mother used to ask him to fix the constant leaks in the roof of their broken-down home. They couldn’t afford a new place; his father gone before Walter was even born. He brushed off the memory. Those times were long gone now, and he would make sure it never happened again.
“Sorry Mrs Healey, I’ve someplace I gotta be,” Walter mumbled, hurrying past her. Mrs Healey was always asking him to help her with things.
Slinging his bag over his shoulders, he made his way to the shops. Being the early hours of the day, the streets were quiet except for the sound of the occasional car going by. He passed by the park; empty, with its rusting benches covered in a layer of dried, yellowing leaves. He racked his brain for ideas on his next article, but it was as if the heat had consumed with it his ability to think clearly. Desperately needing a quiet place to write, away from the mess at home, Walter turned the corner, to find that the only place open this early in the morning was a small café with neon lights that spelled Nhu’s Cafe.
The doorbell tinkled as Walter pushed the door open, eyes already scanning for the seat in the corner that would isolate him from any distractions. No one else had come in yet and the room was empty, but he could hear the faint sound of sizzling and clink of metals from behind a thin curtain, and the smell of fresh, hot food wafted into the room, a delightful mix of spices.
But his appetite was ruined.
He had a deadline tomorrow, and he had to come up with something today. He took his laptop out of his bag, opened the lid, hands on the keyboard.
Finally, in this peace and qui – “Anything from the menu sir? Drinks? The special for today –“
“Just coffee, please.” Walter replied dismissively, hardly looking at the man.
(Insert headline), Walter typed and deleted. He could not concentrate. He looked up from his laptop and stared ahead, his mind gradually wandering away from the blank document in front of him, subconsciously trying to avoid the thought of the deadline tomorrow. Staring blankly in front of him, he suddenly took notice of the painting in front of him; distorted shapes of green and blue, resembling the ocean or a field perhaps, and also saw what seemed to resemble the triangular shape of a small run-down house. He could not rub the strangeness from his eyes. Beside the straw coloured house, three figures stood. What was that –
“It’s my home. Back in Vietnam.”
Walter started. He had not seen the man come back through the curtains, who must’ve caught him staring at the painting.
A moment of silence before Walter gave a slight nod. The man set his coffee down on the table.
“We used to run around those fields on hot days like these,” he continued, “the village children and I.” He turned back towards the kitchen, but Walter couldn’t help but notice the slight sadness in his voice, hidden beneath his amiable nature and polite smile.
“Who are the three figures in the painting?” Walter asked abruptly. The man turned back, slightly surprised to find that he had taken an interest. He stood there, fishing for something in his pocket, and took out a photograph out of his wallet? It seems a bit unrealistic to me that he carries photos in his pocket at a restaurant. Too unprotected. In a wallet perhaps?, which Walter assumed to be of his family.
“My parents,” he said, pointing to the man and woman in the picture, both in simple clothing, sandals on their feet. In the middle, a child about 8 years, looking up at both parents with a wide grin plastered on his face. “A napalm bomb was dropped on our village. They mistook us for enemy soldiers.” the man explained.
“And your parents?”, Walter asked, though he was afraid he knew the answer.
The man shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t change what happened. I was angry at first, but it’s not anyone’s fault; it’s the nature of war. I arrived here to find that there is still kindness in humanity. The nuns who met us with clothes and food when we arrived taught me that.”
He excused himself to serve the customers that had just walked in. It amazed Walter that for an experience that horrible, a person could still see the goodness of others. It hit Walter that he had been too caught up with his own life that he did not know anything about the world around him. I realize this bit still needs some editing to convey a more meaningful discovery. This is also where I think the second quote/stimulus may fit in where he realizes about the history behind the man's life which has allowed him to appreciate life more?It was noon, and although the heat still lingered, a pleasant breeze flowed through the windows and gently settled in the room. He watched the leaves on the trees outside for a while, as the breeze rustled through, and he set his fingers on the keyboard.
Instead of coming into the cafe, typing a title, then deleting it. I think it's more symbolic if that title gets backspaced now, and then the new headline comes in. If you want to deepen this discovery, I'd make the previous headlines very white-focused, about celebrities, middle income earners, etc. Then the next headline will be an even more significant change.
Insert headline.
It would be his greatest article yet, but it would have to wait. Walking out of the café doors, he breathed in the fresh air, through the park, turned onto his street, walked up onto the steps of Mrs Healey’s door, and knocked.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight.
A lifetime of seeing only death and destruction has left me with the lasting impression of a macabre world, deprived of any humanity; a constant fight for power between nations, driven by greed. Which is why, as the wave gently nudges our boat closer to the land, I just stare blankly ahead. I see the cluster of buildings first, which replace You use replace twice in two consecutive sentences. I think it fits better in the next sentence, so I'd opt for swapping this one. the dense, green jungles of Vietnam. The green rice paddy fields have been replaced by concrete roads.
The air is laced with a gentle breeze that is calming, but it is unfamiliar, different to the hot and humid days of my childhood. Even though we celebrate our safe arrival to Australia, I desperately clutch onto the familiarity of the only photograph I have of my family, as if it could dissipate into a smoky haze, just like our home did. Oooh nice
***
It was in the early hours of the morning when Walter stepped out onto the front porch steps of his home, the heat immediately hitting him. It didn’t help that the weather was humid last night, earning Walter yet another sleepless night. Not that that it mattered. Walter hardly slept at all anyways. He’s always typing away at his computer, his mother used to say, meeting deadline after deadline, he doesn’t want to spend time with his mother anymore, she used to joke. He took his pride in it after all; earning enough to buy whatever he wanted, by writing what people wanted to read. Even as Walter walked through the front yard of his house, he was subconsciously thinking of the next headlines for his article.
(Insert headline) <-- haven't decided what to put yet - I want to put in something that shows how Walter writes articles that doesn't really hold any meaning for him just to please the public by giving them things they like to read if that makes sense? Any suggestions? Maybe something about house prices? Or a C-lister celebrity spotting? "Vegetarian radio host, John McCabe, seen eating McChicken burger." "Australia named in top 5 countries for happiness"
Tomorrow would be another deadline, and today, Walter was out of ideas.
Mrs Healey who lived next door, cheerfully exclaimed a “Good morning, Walter!” as he passed by – her ageing body did not stop her from tending to her flowers – “Have you got time to help me –“
It reminded him of the times his mother used to ask him to fix the constant leaks in the roof of their broken-down home. They couldn’t afford a new place; his father gone before Walter was even born. He brushed off the memory. Those times were long gone now, and he would make sure it never happened again.
“Sorry Mrs Healey, I’ve someplace I gotta be,” Walter mumbled, hurrying past her. Mrs Healey was always asking him to help her with things.
Slinging his bag over his shoulders, he made his way to the shops. Being the early hours of the day, the streets were quiet except for the sound of the occasional car going by. He passed by the park; empty, with its rusting benches covered in a layer of dried, yellowing leaves. He racked his brain for ideas on his next article, but it was as if the heat had consumed with it his ability to think clearly. Desperately needing a quiet place to write, away from the mess at home, Walter turned the corner, to find that the only place open this early in the morning was a small café with neon lights that spelled Nhu’s Cafe.
The doorbell tinkled as Walter pushed the door open, eyes already scanning for the seat in the corner that would isolate him from any distractions. No one else had come in yet and the room was empty, but he could hear the faint sound of sizzling and clink of metals from behind a thin curtain, and the smell of fresh, hot food wafted into the room, a delightful mix of spices.
But his appetite was ruined.
He had a deadline tomorrow, and he had to come up with something today. He took his laptop out of his bag, opened the lid, hands on the keyboard.
Finally, in this peace and qui – “Anything from the menu sir? Drinks? The special for today –“
“Just coffee, please.” Walter replied dismissively, hardly looking at the man.
(Insert headline), Walter typed and deleted. He could not concentrate. He looked up from his laptop and stared ahead, his mind gradually wandering away from the blank document in front of him, subconsciously trying to avoid the thought of the deadline tomorrow. Staring blankly in front of him, he suddenly took notice of the painting in front of him; distorted shapes of green and blue, resembling the ocean or a field perhaps, and also saw what seemed to resemble the triangular shape of a small run-down house. He could not rub the strangeness from his eyes. Beside the straw coloured house, three figures stood. What was that –
“It’s my home. Back in Vietnam.”
Walter started. He had not seen the man come back through the curtains, who must’ve caught him staring at the painting.
A moment of silence before Walter gave a slight nod. The man set his coffee down on the table.
“We used to run around those fields on hot days like these,” he continued, “the village children and I.” He turned back towards the kitchen, but Walter couldn’t help but notice the slight sadness in his voice, hidden beneath his amiable nature and polite smile.
“Who are the three figures in the painting?” Walter asked abruptly. The man turned back, slightly surprised to find that he had taken an interest. He stood there, fishing for something in his pocket, and took out a photograph out of his wallet? It seems a bit unrealistic to me that he carries photos in his pocket at a restaurant. Too unprotected. In a wallet perhaps?, which Walter assumed to be of his family.
“My parents,” he said, pointing to the man and woman in the picture, both in simple clothing, sandals on their feet. In the middle, a child about 8 years, looking up at both parents with a wide grin plastered on his face. “A napalm bomb was dropped on our village. They mistook us for enemy soldiers.” the man explained.
“And your parents?”, Walter asked, though he was afraid he knew the answer.
The man shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t change what happened. I was angry at first, but it’s not anyone’s fault; it’s the nature of war. I arrived here to find that there is still kindness in humanity. The nuns who met us with clothes and food when we arrived taught me that.”
He excused himself to serve the customers that had just walked in. It amazed Walter that for an experience that horrible, a person could still see the goodness of others. It hit Walter that he had been too caught up with his own life that he did not know anything about the world around him. I realize this bit still needs some editing to convey a more meaningful discovery. This is also where I think the second quote/stimulus may fit in where he realizes about the history behind the man's life which has allowed him to appreciate life more?It was noon, and although the heat still lingered, a pleasant breeze flowed through the windows and gently settled in the room. He watched the leaves on the trees outside for a while, as the breeze rustled through, and he set his fingers on the keyboard.
Instead of coming into the cafe, typing a title, then deleting it. I think it's more symbolic if that title gets backspaced now, and then the new headline comes in. If you want to deepen this discovery, I'd make the previous headlines very white-focused, about celebrities, middle income earners, etc. Then the next headline will be an even more significant change.
Insert headline.
It would be his greatest article yet, but it would have to wait. Walking out of the café doors, he breathed in the fresh air, through the park, turned onto his street, walked up onto the steps of Mrs Healey’s door, and knocked.
1. My teacher said that the present day character needs more backstory/more depth - how can I achieve this without adding more words to the story? (word limit is 1000 and I'm already above) I think that it could be simply done by focusing more on the headlines. So something like "Walter said to himself, active voice, noun drives the verb, one sensationalist adjective for the shock factor, and the readers will love it. That's what his professor taught him in his Journalism class in 197..." Something like this adds the point to his character that the standardised, taught and basic way of writing headlines is representative of his stock-standard self. Never questioning, challenging, etc. It's what he's always known, and what he writes is what everyone else has always known. He is the perfect symbol of white middle-income society.
2. Teacher also said that the discovery happens too quickly, and I realize that, but I'm not sure how I can make it develop through the story? (I'm trying show that the Australian character discovers to devalue materialism and to instead value human connectivity/enjoy the moments around him, while also conveying that the Vietnamese character has learned forgiveness for the destruction of his home) I personally don't think it happens too quickly, but I think the way around this is to have Walter questioning himself a bit more. So, he can't think of a headline, sure. But why? Maybe he should ask himself, is it because nothing worthwhile is happening? Are the readers as sick of reading basic bullshit as he is sick of writing it? He's starting to wonder if there is a desire for people to know more, but he doesn't know more. So it's all preliminary thoughts until life is breathed into it when he goes to the restaurant.
3. We have to incorporate the stimulus into a significant moment of discovery, and I'm not sure which one would fit best (the two I'm deciding on is "I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight" or "All torment, trouble, wonder, and amazement inhabits here") It's tricky, but I'd likely go with the first. Perhaps when he walks into the restaurant and it's completely designed to look authentic Vietnamese. And he realises this tiny little world of pain and perseverance in this man, then he realises the strangeness of it all - the strangeness that is Walter's vague and meaningless career compared to the turmoil of this waiter.
4. I'm also not sure how to convey/show the character's background/culture/context without telling - Walter is Australian and the man who owns the restaurant is Vietnamese. I understood this. Admittedly I was confused for a second when Walter was introduced, I thought maybe the Vietnamese man adopted a Western name. That bit could be improved a little, perhaps by talking about the tie he wears, the white collar (symbolic) or even by naming him Walter Anderson, a very Western name. Because knowing the Vietnamese man is Mr Nhu, I have no questions about his nationality.
Overall, I think this piece is very impressive. By intensifying the discovery, which comes from sewing the seed earlier, and then filling out those headlines to be very meaningful, this piece will come together really beautifully. I don't think you need to add a whole lot more, but rather just tweak what you have. Although, by the time I get to the end, I do forget all about the segment at the beginning that introduces Nhu's ride to Australia. It is an important part of the story, and I enjoyed reading it as I did, but by the time I get to the end it's like I've forgotten? It could be shorter with more punch in order to still be effective - Mr Nhu explains the situation to Walter anyway, so the audience is filled in no matter what. You should be really proud of this piece, it's coming along really beautifully :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 24, 2017, 01:53:26 am
Thank you so much! This is awesome advice, but quick question could you tell her husband passed away easily?
Should I make it more explicit?
I'm thinking of taking up your advice-- while my character is sitting down, holding the rings in her hand, she looks at some photographs and realises the depth of her husband's love. Not completely sure how I'm going to incorporate this idea in, but I love it..thanks!
We're getting our stimuli soon (before the exam), can I incorporate my stimulus in and then send it again?
Do I need 15 more posts?
Thank you! :)))))
I certainly could tell that her husband had died, I wasn't confused there :) I think that a discovery about the extent of her husband's love will richen the discovery. To send it back for feedback with the stimulus incorporated, you'll need 10 more posts to get to 30. Not far off at all :) I'm excited to see how you go about it!
Post by: f_tan on February 24, 2017, 11:16:19 pm
Hey there! I'm excited to read this, I'll put it in the spoiler below and write my comments in bold font throughout, and then leave some comments at the end to answer your questions :)
Thank you so much for your feedback!! Really helpful in giving me ideas to improve the story :D
Post by: bdgonz on February 24, 2017, 11:28:12 pm
Hey there! This sounds genuinely really interesting, I'm keen to read this! I'll put my comments in bold font below in the spoiler :)SpoilerYekenni
The sticky aroma from the metallic walls fills your nostrils. You want to gag. The bruises on your delicate skin continue to send a constant, dull ache across your face. You analyse the bodies in the confined room. Each stare is menacingly aggressive, and you find it hard to not be intimidated. You witness an individual coming back from Cell One. Simple, but "Cell One" is the perfect introduction to us being in a prison.The dried blood, like concrete over their delicate dark skin; the purple bruises, and the mgbu welts along the criminals innocent arms. You notice that even those who attempt to emasculate their fellows inmates shudder and look away, still trying to look proud. They are pathetic. You can feel your white hair slowly turning the colour of murky water - your tears refuse to fall. Whilst everybody continues to stare at you, begging you to challenge them, there is one young nwata nwoke who avoids your gaze. When he meets your eyes, they are filled with sympathy and pity, something seldom in this cell. He is beautiful, but prison makes him ugly. The bites from the bugs on his gentle, light brown skin, pussing at the surface. You think that this makes him more endearing. He reminds you of Yekenni.
While you were sitting in your house, you remember the phone call from the police demanding that you turn in your son; you remember telling them you had not seen him for four months; you remember your wife’s sorrowful, distraught face as she vigorously cried 'chi nyere m aka'; you remember wondering at what point in time that you let your son become this shell of a man, an individual that was victim to the corrupt and calamity filled society; you remember them barge into your quiet home; and you remember them grab your frail body, squeezing you so hard that you thought you might break in half. I'm really enjoying the story so far, it's all flowing well. But, I think you can improve on this last bit here. Instead of "breaking in half" let's move from the cliche and into a really raw description. When I think of being squeezed really hard, I think of people's fingertips pressing into my flesh. Perhaps you could work with some dark imagery there? You try to remember less. When did Yekenni become like this? He use to be such a happy child, laughter consuming his body frequently, and not a trace of deceit or dishonesty was present. He changed, and it was your fault. You let him stay back at school when you knew he wasn’t ‘doing homework’, you let him go out to parties on weekdays and come home drunk after one in the morning, you let him keep his room private, where he could hide anything and everything. Both you and society corrupted your son, and you can’t help but feel disappointed in yourself - and him.
You stink. This works wonderfully as a double meaning - you stink, literally, but it also plays on "you stink as a father" after the last paragraph. You have not enough money for an adequate meal, for any form of cleanliness, and you are desperate. Your own aroma makes you want to gag more than the smell of the sickly prison. You know that you are ill, and if you remain in prison much longer, you will die. Your shaking in your sleep only makes you feel weak, vulnerable, like chaos has personally chosen you to victimise. All the inmates are escorted out of the cell whilst it is being cleaned, and you can’t help to desire for them to splash that toxic, detergent over your body. Anything to be somewhat clean. When they finish cleaning you scurry into the cell, rip of your tattered shirt and rub your gentle back on the sickly smelling floors. It is bliss to have something other than grime over your body. The guards do not attempt to hide their laughter.
‘Take off the rest of your clothes oluku’
You obey. Another guard drags you by the arm and forces you to parade the corridor. They laugh at your wrinkly skin, your subtle hunch, your delicate whimper, and your sagging penis. This time, you let the tears fall. The only one not laughing is the pretty boy. He looks at you, and his gentle, compassionate stare makes you cry even more. He is someone that wants to help you, the only one that wants to help you. As this flutters through your mind, you hear the laughter grow louder.
‘Did your criminal of a son know papa’s penis was so shriveled? Ay?’
You stop your tears, carefully cover your private region and walk back into the cell. Guards stifle giggles.
I really like this part, it's raw and insulting and it's a real blow to the character, very meaningful.
The pretty boy was gone. He was gone before you arose from your uncomfortable position on the floor this morning. You did not know the boy, but he made you feel like somebody cared, like there was somebody watching over you. Now you are more alone, more vulnerable, closer to the end. You further touch your gentle skin, peeling of the dried blood. Subsequently, you wince as you gaze at the welts along your arm. The longer you look, the more painful they become.
‘Hey you, ghọgbuoI’ a guard barks.
You know he is talking to you.
‘Your thiefing son has been found, you’re out’.
You do not speak. You try not to react but a small smile dances across your face. As you walk through the dirty corridor you are unsure about how to feel. Your son is captured, it is very probable that he will die in prison. But now you will live. You will be clean, you will be in your own room, you will be with your wife, you will be safe. You love Yekenni, but you also love yourself.
Wow, wonderful piece! When I read that the father was in here in lieu of his son I wasn't sure how you'd play it out in a creative way but you completely have. There are a few suggestions I have that might enhance your story, although I really think it's headed to a band 6. The writing is never over the top, I just really enjoyed following it! It was easy to follow, but the writing was never bland.
In terms of discovery, we have the paragraph of realisation that he, and society, failed his son. I'd like to know a little more about this, I think it's powerful and the effect of the ending depends on this part here. Perhaps you could make it more out as the duty of the father to protect his son from the crime and chaos of the area. Perhaps you could make it as though it is the personal mission of the father to protect his son from being a victim of crime, always protecting him from theft, violence, etc. And it never occurred to him that he'd need to protect him from committing crime, and that's where his confliction comes in. "I failed him because I didn't stop him from committing crime, but society failed him because crime seems too appealling, and being an honest person gets the raw end of the deal. There's no fain there." A thought process like this makes him look like a more loving and proactive father, because right now his hands aren't clean, he's talked about letting him have his room for himself and whatever. So, perhaps if you take the route of his father being completely at a loss, then he could have another discovery of "decisions" and how everyone makes decisions for themselves, and for every action there is an equal response. So another small revelation, and this could lead to the ending being more powerful. Right now, I don't love the ending because I think the "also love yourself" thing is a little unjustified at this stage. But if we have that earlier revelation about the way that decisions are autonomous and cause responses, then we can look internally and see "I am a good man, I deserve this release. I love my son, but he knew how his actions would cause effect, and I knew how mine would. That is why I am walking free."
Now, there's a lot of ideas here and they definitely don't need to all be implemented. I'm trying to just richen your discovery a little bit without actually adjusting the plot. Because I think you have a short and sweet little piece here that works really well, but I think that you can broaden and intensify your discovery more to your advantage. To me, this is the only thing stopping me from thinking "this is definitely the work of a band 6" - the ending has the potential to be even more powerful than it currently is, and I think that sits in sewing the seeds for that intensified discovery earlier.
Let me know what you think, this is all just words and ideas from an outsider, how does it all fit with your vision? :)
Wow!! Thank you so much for the amazing feedback :-) I will be sure to take it on board when editing my piece for final drafting. Again, thanks so much, it is much appreciated.
Post by: SSSS on February 25, 2017, 09:16:03 am
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 25, 2017, 11:53:23 am
Hey. I just wanted to ask if its acceptable to say 'ring. ring.' in a creative? also is it fine to have a line after you finish one part of your creative in an exam and have a new setting in the future after it? Thanks :)
Hey! On the "ring ring" (do you mean in the form of onomatopoeia?) - I personally think it seems a little cheesy/forced in this case, but it could work! If you've got a playful/innocent voice being developed, perhaps a young child, I could picture it coming naturally from that? :) but that's just me! I'm not the biggest fan of onomatopoeia except in very specific circumstances :)
And yep, a new line and new paragraph would definitely suit that transition! :)
Post by: CaitlinSavins on February 25, 2017, 03:25:22 pm
By imaginative writing, it's not necessarily a story, is it? Could an imaginative writing piece be a letter?
Post by: jamonwindeyer on February 25, 2017, 04:01:19 pm
I'm not sure this is the correct place to ask this, but it seemed like the most appropriate thread.
By imaginative writing, it's not necessarily a story, is it? Could an imaginative writing piece be a letter?
Definitely! Or a speech, or a series of diary entries - If they don't specify a narrative then you can take your pick ;D
Post by: Kirri Rule on February 25, 2017, 05:53:35 pm
It was early morning when I woke and stepped outside, backlit by the orange glow of the rising sun, the herd of elephants paraded through the deserted savannah. The low sun almost tried to push its way through the rare tree across the arid plain, leaving thick black silhouettes of the baobabs on the skyline. The herd of elephants were accompanied by a family of rhino, who almost blended in with the elephants. My eyes wandered upon the little beauties one would miss upon glance with this land. The ground was almost glowing shades of oranges and reds across the arid land, and the sunlight illuminated the cracks in the dry ground. It was not hard to tell there had been an absence of rainfall for quite some time, there was dust everywhere, on the ground, trees, leaves, even my teeth and lips. The strong scent of pollution that normally coats the towns of Africa is lost out here, instead the sweeter smell of cloves and smoke filled my nose. I looked out into the distance, and noticed some water that was trickling down what once would have been a raging stream, when rainfall was consistent in the wetter months. The rays of sunlight in the early sunrise got captured in the water and let off a blinding sparkle. A russell is the bush into front of me echoed my ears as a ball came flying from within, landing at my feet. The edges rough and worn against my foot making contact as I trapped the ball. I crouched down and placed the ball in my hands and allowed my fingers to slide over the ball. I fiddled with the ball until my finger fell upon the hidden engraving (Allow for stimuli to be used here).
~
Lining up the perfect shot was difficult this morning, as my eyes squinted against this rising sun. Turnis bounced from foot to foot, conjuring up a cloud of smoke around him, blocking my line of view of the two sticks marking as the goal posts. I looked at my engraving of (Allow for stimuli to be used here) I swung my leg, making perfect contact with the ball. Too perfect. It torpedoed right past Turnis, right through the goals and right through the bushes we used as our goals net. “Off you go Taine you know the rules, go get it”, Turnis shouted as I starting running in retrieval of my ball, which was now out of sight. As I bashed through the bushes I skidded to a stop at the sight of this person holding my ball. I stayed out of sight and watched this thing, maybe he was an alien that Pappa has told me in his stories. His skin was clear, translucent, a bright reflecting white it almost burned my eyes. I had never seen someone or something like this before, his hair was a thin, tawny mop of a very light colour that seemed to even wrap all the way down his face, round his sharp chin and back again. He flipped my ball around in his hands, his eyes widening like Turnis on the return from a successful hunt with Pappa. Like the ball was his own, he caressed my engraving with a smile crossing his face. Anger boiled inside of me, that is my ball, my engraving, who does he think he is taking it like it's his own. Turnis would of told Pappa if I didn’t get it back, so I snapped a stick off the branch and slowly stepped out into the spotlight of morning light with the stick raised ready for a fight.
~
I couldn’t help but smile at this engraving of (Allow for stimuli to be used here) it was so intricately drawn but with the wobbly hand of a child. The snap in the bushes broke my concentration as my eyes snapped up, in time to witness a boy no taller than the bushes come charging out with stick in hand. My hands flew up in surrender, dropping the ball to my feet in pure fear. He halted, swaying from side to side, as if in preparation to run at any sign of threat. Crystal blue eyes stone cold swept up and down my body, searching for the point of weakness, like I was his prey. I smiled in hope it would ease his fear that I wasn’t going to harm him, yet no expression passed through any muscle in his face. Only his eyes flicked. Up from my eyes down to the ball and back again. As if in panic that losing sight of my eyes would cause me to attack. The boys chocolate coloured skin glistened with the early morning heat, as sweat tumbled, pooling and picking up pace as it fell, shaping his persistently frozen face. I slowly reached down motioning towards the frayed ball, causing his freak reaction to hurl the stick with force. It flew perfectly, not wavering, not even in the early morning breeze, and landed straight in front of my feet. In search of whether this was an intentional miss of my body or not I made eye contact, only to be met with eyes of pure rage staring back at me.
~
He dropped the ball like it had thorns, I smelt the fear radiating from every inch of his body as I raised my stick higher ready to attack. His murky eyes darted everywhere in hope of some protection, as he tried to hide the shaking of his fingertips by clenching them into fists. I scanned this unfamiliar human for some familiarity, something that would show me he was another one of us. Cloth covered every part of his body, as if covering some secret, which proved difficult to make a judgement of his danger to me. The corners of his mouth slowly edged up into a half hearted smile causing the caterpillar of hair above his lips to wiggle in sync. I stayed perfectly still with no movement, besides the occasional check at my ball that was now being held hostage at his feet. He edged down, his hand clasped out ready to grab hold of my precious ball. In a flash of rage and a moment of panic, it was to late. The stick that had been safely held in my hand had flown across the distance between us and landed inches from his feet. We held contact. His eyes interlocked with mine, as pure confusion and terror plastered across his face. A pang of guilty erupted in my chest as I saw this grown man in his most venerable position. Like a baby buck, innocent and no threat to us, yet always in Papas first choice of kill. I stepped back suddenly aware of what I had done and raised my own hands up in surrender, a smile sneaking across my face as a hope for forgiveness. The man slowly rose from his crouched position with uncertainty in fear I would strike again. Only until his eyes scanned my face noticing my repentant smile, did ease cross his face as his too, broke into a wild grin. He bent over once more to draw something into the now baking, dirt ground, then to quickly stand up and kick my ball back to me. I looked at what he had drawn to catch a glimpse of the engraving on my ball of the (Allow for stimuli to be used here) drawn perfectly. “Shh it can be our secret” he whispered as he raised his now stable finger to his lips and turned to enter back into his tent, leaving only the engraving as a remembrance of this encounter.
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 27, 2017, 08:18:59 am
Hi i was wondering if you could look at my story please thank you so much im really struggling on how to further improve this !
Hi Kirri, happy to help! :)
I'll write my comments in bold fonts in the spoiler below, and then I'll comment at the end :)
Spoiler
It was early morning when I woke and stepped outside, backlit by the orange glow of the rising sun, the herd of elephants paraded through the deserted savannah. The low sun almost tried to push its way through the rare tree across the arid plain, leaving thick black silhouettes of the baobabs on the skyline. The herd of elephants were accompanied by a family of rhino, who almost blended in with the elephants. I have such clear imagery here! My eyes wandered upon the little beauties one would miss upon glance with this land. But this sentence, I'm not sure what it's saying? What would the eyes miss? is it the rhinos? It's not entirely clear because elephants are the last group of nouns mentioned, but it's evidently hard to miss elephants. Perhaps just reword this a little for clarity. The ground was almost glowing shades of oranges and reds across the arid land, and the sunlight illuminated the cracks in the dry ground. It was not hard to tell there had been an absence of rainfall for quite some time, there was dust everywhere, on the ground, trees, leaves, even my teeth and lips. The strong scent of pollution that normally coats the towns of Africa is lost out here, instead the sweeter smell of cloves and smoke filled my nose. I looked out into the distance, and noticed some water that was trickling down what once would have been a raging stream, when rainfall was consistent in the wetter months. The rays of sunlight in the early sunrise got captured in the water and let off a blinding sparkle. A russell is the bush into front of me echoed my ears as a ball came flying from within, landing at my feet. The edges rough and worn against my foot making contact as I trapped the ball. I crouched down and placed the ball in my hands and allowed my fingers to slide over the ball. I fiddled with the ball until my finger fell upon the hidden engraving (Allow for stimuli to be used here). Oooh, excellent use of stimulus. Really good to have a space here like this, I can't imagine a stimulus that wouldn't fit.
~
Lining up the perfect shot was difficult this morning, as my eyes squinted against this rising sun. Turnis bounced from foot to foot, conjuring up a cloud of smoke around him, blocking my line of view of the two sticks marking as the goal posts. I looked at my engraving of (Allow for stimuli to be used here) I swung my leg, making perfect contact with the ball. Too perfect. It torpedoed right past Turnis, right through the goals and right through the bushes we used as our goals net. “Off you go Taine you know the rules, go get it”, Turnis shouted as I starting running in retrieval of my ball, which was now out of sight. As I bashed through the bushes I skidded to a stop at the sight of this person holding my ball. I stayed out of sight and watched this thing, maybe he was an alien that Pappa has told me in his stories. His skin was clear, translucent, a bright reflecting white it almost burned my eyes. Grammatically, this part here could be better. "white, so bright it almost burned my eyes." Or perhaps a semicolon in your existing sentence. I had never seen someone or something like this before, his hair was athin, tawny mop of a very light colour that seemed to even wrap all the way down his face, round his sharp chin and back again. He flipped my ball around in his hands, his eyes widening like Turnis on the return from a successful hunt with Pappa. Like the ball was his own, he caressed my engraving with a smile crossing his face. Anger boiled inside of me, that is my ball, my engraving, who does he think he is taking it like it's his own. Rhetorical question but no question mark. I'd be breaking this sentence up into three or four little sentences. The truncated sentences would work well here I think. Turnis would of told Pappa if I didn’t get it back, so I snapped a stick off the branch and slowly stepped out into the spotlight of morning light with the stick raised ready for a fight.
~
I couldn’t help but smile at this engraving of (Allow for stimuli to be used here) it was so intricately drawn but with the wobbly hand of a child. The snap in the bushes broke my concentration as my eyes snapped up, in time to witness a boy no taller than the bushes come charging out with stick in hand. My hands flew up in surrender, dropping the ball to my feet in pure fear. He halted, swaying from side to side, as if in preparation to run at any sign of threat. Crystal blue eyes stone cold swept up and down my body, searching for the point of weakness, like I was his prey. I smiled in hope it would ease his fear that I wasn’t going to harm him, yet no expression passed through any muscle in his face. Only his eyes flicked. Up from my eyes down to the ball and back again. As if in panic that losing sight of my eyes would cause me to attack. The boys possessive apostrophe needed in boy's* chocolate coloured skin glistened with the early morning heat, as sweat tumbled, pooling and picking up pace as it fell, shaping his persistently frozen face. I slowly reached down motioning towards the frayed ball, causing his freak reaction to hurl the stick with force. It flew perfectly, not wavering, not even in the early morning breeze, and landed straight in front of my feet. In search of whether this was an intentional miss of my body or not I made eye contact, only to be met with eyes of pure rage staring back at me.
~
He dropped the ball like it had thorns, I smelt the fear radiating from every inch of his body as I raised my stick higher ready to attack. His murky eyes darted everywhere in hope of some protection, as he tried to hide the shaking of his fingertips by clenching them into fists. I scanned this unfamiliar human for some familiarity, something that would show me he was another one of us. Cloth covered every part of his body, as if covering some secret, which proved difficult to make a judgement of his danger to me. The corners of his mouth slowly edged up into a half hearted smile causing the caterpillar of hair above his lips to wiggle in sync. I stayed perfectly still with no movement, besides the occasional check at my ball that was now being held hostage at his feet. He edged down, his hand clasped out ready to grab hold of my precious ball. In a flash of rage and a moment of panic, it was too - too* late. Around this point, I'd consider starting a new paragraph. The suspense is there, bringing it into a new para kind of jolts the suspense rather than letting it all flow out - the reader appreciates it more. The stick that had been safely held in my hand had flown across the distance between us and landed inches from his feet. We held contact. His eyes interlocked with mine, no need for a common if you're using "as" as pure confusion and terror plastered across his face. A pang of guilty guilt* erupted in my chest as I saw this grown man in his most venerable position. Like a baby buck, innocent and no threat to us, yet always in Papas first choice of kill. I stepped back suddenly aware of what I had done and raised my own hands up in surrender, a smile sneaking across my face as a hope for forgiveness. The man slowly rose from his crouched position with uncertainty in fear I would strike again. Only until his eyes scanned my face noticing my repentant smile, did ease cross his face as his too, broke into a wild grin. He bent over once more to draw something into the now baking, dirt ground, then to quickly stand up and kick my ball back to me. I looked at what he had drawn to catch a glimpse of the engraving on my ball of the (Allow for stimuli to be used here) drawn perfectly. “Shh it can be our secret” he whispered as he raised his now stable finger to his lips and turned to enter back into his tent, leaving only the engraving as a remembrance of this encounter.
~
Lining up the perfect shot was difficult this morning, as my eyes squinted against this rising sun. Turnis bounced from foot to foot, conjuring up a cloud of smoke around him, blocking my line of view of the two sticks marking as the goal posts. I looked at my engraving of (Allow for stimuli to be used here) I swung my leg, making perfect contact with the ball. Too perfect. It torpedoed right past Turnis, right through the goals and right through the bushes we used as our goals net. “Off you go Taine you know the rules, go get it”, Turnis shouted as I starting running in retrieval of my ball, which was now out of sight. As I bashed through the bushes I skidded to a stop at the sight of this person holding my ball. I stayed out of sight and watched this thing, maybe he was an alien that Pappa has told me in his stories. His skin was clear, translucent, a bright reflecting white it almost burned my eyes. Grammatically, this part here could be better. "white, so bright it almost burned my eyes." Or perhaps a semicolon in your existing sentence. I had never seen someone or something like this before, his hair was a
~
I couldn’t help but smile at this engraving of (Allow for stimuli to be used here) it was so intricately drawn but with the wobbly hand of a child. The snap in the bushes broke my concentration as my eyes snapped up, in time to witness a boy no taller than the bushes come charging out with stick in hand. My hands flew up in surrender, dropping the ball to my feet in pure fear. He halted, swaying from side to side, as if in preparation to run at any sign of threat. Crystal blue eyes stone cold swept up and down my body, searching for the point of weakness, like I was his prey. I smiled in hope it would ease his fear that I wasn’t going to harm him, yet no expression passed through any muscle in his face. Only his eyes flicked. Up from my eyes down to the ball and back again. As if in panic that losing sight of my eyes would cause me to attack. The boys possessive apostrophe needed in boy's* chocolate coloured skin glistened with the early morning heat, as sweat tumbled, pooling and picking up pace as it fell, shaping his persistently frozen face. I slowly reached down motioning towards the frayed ball, causing his freak reaction to hurl the stick with force. It flew perfectly, not wavering, not even in the early morning breeze, and landed straight in front of my feet. In search of whether this was an intentional miss of my body or not I made eye contact, only to be met with eyes of pure rage staring back at me.
~
He dropped the ball like it had thorns, I smelt the fear radiating from every inch of his body as I raised my stick higher ready to attack. His murky eyes darted everywhere in hope of some protection, as he tried to hide the shaking of his fingertips by clenching them into fists. I scanned this unfamiliar human for some familiarity, something that would show me he was another one of us. Cloth covered every part of his body, as if covering some secret, which proved difficult to make a judgement of his danger to me. The corners of his mouth slowly edged up into a half hearted smile causing the caterpillar of hair above his lips to wiggle in sync. I stayed perfectly still with no movement, besides the occasional check at my ball that was now being held hostage at his feet. He edged down, his hand clasped out ready to grab hold of my precious ball. In a flash of rage and a moment of panic, it was too - too* late. Around this point, I'd consider starting a new paragraph. The suspense is there, bringing it into a new para kind of jolts the suspense rather than letting it all flow out - the reader appreciates it more. The stick that had been safely held in my hand had flown across the distance between us and landed inches from his feet. We held contact. His eyes interlocked with mine, no need for a common if you're using "as" as pure confusion and terror plastered across his face. A pang of guilt
I have been absolutely enthralled by this piece...you write so beautifully. I was lulled yet intrigued in some sections, and chasing the next word in other sections. What a fun piece to read! I can see why you're struggling to improve, because I'm struggling to fault it. I think that perhaps improving this isn't about finding a fault, but just looking for ways to elevate it more. I think something that could add to your work is using the setting to be symbolic. I'd love to visualise the display of the animals in the hot land at the end. In the beginning, I was transported to this completely serene experience. I'd love to go back there at the end, even if only briefly, to bring back the drama and intensity to a calm place of nature. You could slightly alter the first scene in the ending to show a particular shift in atmosphere, or you could simply reuse that initial scene to re-establish the natural order, and the "circle of life" kind of events that have occurred. What do you think about this idea?
Currently, I think the ending is wonderful and leaves you thinking 'ahh'...but I think that by adding that metaphorical/symbolic layer with the beautiful imagery, you remove all doubt from this piece and you demand that people feel satisfied upon ending the story.
Again, there's nothing wrong with this story at all, it was a real pleasure to read. It's like you're at the top and it's finding a way to keep pushing through to guarantee the highest mark possible. It's a lot harder to go from a 14 to a 15 than it is to go from a 9 to a 10, in my opinion. Let me know what you think...we can chat about it if you have any ideas or questions :)
Post by: Kirri Rule on February 28, 2017, 09:54:18 pm
Hi Kirri, happy to help! :)
I'll write my comments in bold fonts in the spoiler below, and then I'll comment at the end :)SpoilerIt was early morning when I woke and stepped outside, backlit by the orange glow of the rising sun, the herd of elephants paraded through the deserted savannah. The low sun almost tried to push its way through the rare tree across the arid plain, leaving thick black silhouettes of the baobabs on the skyline. The herd of elephants were accompanied by a family of rhino, who almost blended in with the elephants. I have such clear imagery here! My eyes wandered upon the little beauties one would miss upon glance with this land. But this sentence, I'm not sure what it's saying? What would the eyes miss? is it the rhinos? It's not entirely clear because elephants are the last group of nouns mentioned, but it's evidently hard to miss elephants. Perhaps just reword this a little for clarity. The ground was almost glowing shades of oranges and reds across the arid land, and the sunlight illuminated the cracks in the dry ground. It was not hard to tell there had been an absence of rainfall for quite some time, there was dust everywhere, on the ground, trees, leaves, even my teeth and lips. The strong scent of pollution that normally coats the towns of Africa is lost out here, instead the sweeter smell of cloves and smoke filled my nose. I looked out into the distance, and noticed some water that was trickling down what once would have been a raging stream, when rainfall was consistent in the wetter months. The rays of sunlight in the early sunrise got captured in the water and let off a blinding sparkle. A russell is the bush into front of me echoed my ears as a ball came flying from within, landing at my feet. The edges rough and worn against my foot making contact as I trapped the ball. I crouched down and placed the ball in my hands and allowed my fingers to slide over the ball. I fiddled with the ball until my finger fell upon the hidden engraving (Allow for stimuli to be used here). Oooh, excellent use of stimulus. Really good to have a space here like this, I can't imagine a stimulus that wouldn't fit.
~
Lining up the perfect shot was difficult this morning, as my eyes squinted against this rising sun. Turnis bounced from foot to foot, conjuring up a cloud of smoke around him, blocking my line of view of the two sticks marking as the goal posts. I looked at my engraving of (Allow for stimuli to be used here) I swung my leg, making perfect contact with the ball. Too perfect. It torpedoed right past Turnis, right through the goals and right through the bushes we used as our goals net. “Off you go Taine you know the rules, go get it”, Turnis shouted as I starting running in retrieval of my ball, which was now out of sight. As I bashed through the bushes I skidded to a stop at the sight of this person holding my ball. I stayed out of sight and watched this thing, maybe he was an alien that Pappa has told me in his stories. His skin was clear, translucent, a bright reflecting white it almost burned my eyes. Grammatically, this part here could be better. "white, so bright it almost burned my eyes." Or perhaps a semicolon in your existing sentence. I had never seen someone or something like this before, his hair was athin,tawny mop of a very light colour that seemed to even wrap all the way down his face, round his sharp chin and back again. He flipped my ball around in his hands, his eyes widening like Turnis on the return from a successful hunt with Pappa. Like the ball was his own, he caressed my engraving with a smile crossing his face. Anger boiled inside of me, that is my ball, my engraving, who does he think he is taking it like it's his own. Rhetorical question but no question mark. I'd be breaking this sentence up into three or four little sentences. The truncated sentences would work well here I think. Turnis would of told Pappa if I didn’t get it back, so I snapped a stick off the branch and slowly stepped out into the spotlight of morning light with the stick raised ready for a fight.
~
I couldn’t help but smile at this engraving of (Allow for stimuli to be used here) it was so intricately drawn but with the wobbly hand of a child. The snap in the bushes broke my concentration as my eyes snapped up, in time to witness a boy no taller than the bushes come charging out with stick in hand. My hands flew up in surrender, dropping the ball to my feet in pure fear. He halted, swaying from side to side, as if in preparation to run at any sign of threat. Crystal blue eyes stone cold swept up and down my body, searching for the point of weakness, like I was his prey. I smiled in hope it would ease his fear that I wasn’t going to harm him, yet no expression passed through any muscle in his face. Only his eyes flicked. Up from my eyes down to the ball and back again. As if in panic that losing sight of my eyes would cause me to attack. The boys possessive apostrophe needed in boy's* chocolate coloured skin glistened with the early morning heat, as sweat tumbled, pooling and picking up pace as it fell, shaping his persistently frozen face. I slowly reached down motioning towards the frayed ball, causing his freak reaction to hurl the stick with force. It flew perfectly, not wavering, not even in the early morning breeze, and landed straight in front of my feet. In search of whether this was an intentional miss of my body or not I made eye contact, only to be met with eyes of pure rage staring back at me.
~
He dropped the ball like it had thorns, I smelt the fear radiating from every inch of his body as I raised my stick higher ready to attack. His murky eyes darted everywhere in hope of some protection, as he tried to hide the shaking of his fingertips by clenching them into fists. I scanned this unfamiliar human for some familiarity, something that would show me he was another one of us. Cloth covered every part of his body, as if covering some secret, which proved difficult to make a judgement of his danger to me. The corners of his mouth slowly edged up into a half hearted smile causing the caterpillar of hair above his lips to wiggle in sync. I stayed perfectly still with no movement, besides the occasional check at my ball that was now being held hostage at his feet. He edged down, his hand clasped out ready to grab hold of my precious ball. In a flash of rage and a moment of panic, it was too - too* late. Around this point, I'd consider starting a new paragraph. The suspense is there, bringing it into a new para kind of jolts the suspense rather than letting it all flow out - the reader appreciates it more. The stick that had been safely held in my hand had flown across the distance between us and landed inches from his feet. We held contact. His eyes interlocked with mine, no need for a common if you're using "as" as pure confusion and terror plastered across his face. A pang of guiltyguilt* erupted in my chest as I saw this grown man in his most venerable position. Like a baby buck, innocent and no threat to us, yet always in Papas first choice of kill. I stepped back suddenly aware of what I had done and raised my own hands up in surrender, a smile sneaking across my face as a hope for forgiveness. The man slowly rose from his crouched position with uncertainty in fear I would strike again. Only until his eyes scanned my face noticing my repentant smile, did ease cross his face as his too, broke into a wild grin. He bent over once more to draw something into the now baking, dirt ground, then to quickly stand up and kick my ball back to me. I looked at what he had drawn to catch a glimpse of the engraving on my ball of the (Allow for stimuli to be used here) drawn perfectly. “Shh it can be our secret” he whispered as he raised his now stable finger to his lips and turned to enter back into his tent, leaving only the engraving as a remembrance of this encounter.
I have been absolutely enthralled by this piece...you write so beautifully. I was lulled yet intrigued in some sections, and chasing the next word in other sections. What a fun piece to read! I can see why you're struggling to improve, because I'm struggling to fault it. I think that perhaps improving this isn't about finding a fault, but just looking for ways to elevate it more. I think something that could add to your work is using the setting to be symbolic. I'd love to visualise the display of the animals in the hot land at the end. In the beginning, I was transported to this completely serene experience. I'd love to go back there at the end, even if only briefly, to bring back the drama and intensity to a calm place of nature. You could slightly alter the first scene in the ending to show a particular shift in atmosphere, or you could simply reuse that initial scene to re-establish the natural order, and the "circle of life" kind of events that have occurred. What do you think about this idea?
Currently, I think the ending is wonderful and leaves you thinking 'ahh'...but I think that by adding that metaphorical/symbolic layer with the beautiful imagery, you remove all doubt from this piece and you demand that people feel satisfied upon ending the story.
Again, there's nothing wrong with this story at all, it was a real pleasure to read. It's like you're at the top and it's finding a way to keep pushing through to guarantee the highest mark possible. It's a lot harder to go from a 14 to a 15 than it is to go from a 9 to a 10, in my opinion. Let me know what you think...we can chat about it if you have any ideas or questions :)
Hi Elyse thank you so much for this it makes me feel so much more confident in this piece. I was just wondering i like the idea of adding the metaphorial/symbolic layer with the beautiful imagery and the slightly altering the first scene in the ending to show a particular shift in atmosphere! But im very stuck on how to do that do you have any ideas?
Thanks in advanced :)))
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 01, 2017, 04:47:27 am
Hi Elyse thank you so much for this it makes me feel so much more confident in this piece. I was just wondering i like the idea of adding the metaphorial/symbolic layer with the beautiful imagery and the slightly altering the first scene in the ending to show a particular shift in atmosphere! But im very stuck on how to do that do you have any ideas?
Thanks in advanced :)))
Yay I'm glad! :)
This depends on what you would like to be the biggest discovery in the story. The perceived threat turning into a situation to smile over could just set again with the exact scenery as before, as if the world hadn't changed, but it meant a lot to the character. Y'know? Kind of just bringing it back to a small scenario in a huge scheme of things.
I've used a circular structure before for texts, and the way that I did it was...:
My story started at the kitchen table, having a really basic meal that wife cooked for husband. Wife hates her relationship, her situation, and she's trying to learn how to get out of it. After much turmoil, she realises that all she needs to do is simply exist, so she may as well make the most of her simply existing. So, the ending scene is back at the kitchen table, except this time she cooked a lobster for her husband.
This was for my E2 so this is obviously a ridiculously watered down version, but the importance of the beginning and ending scene being similar bar one change, is that it prompts the reader to think of the beginning again, where it all started, and then they reflect on exactly how far the protagonists and plot have come after the discovery.
What do you think? :)
Post by: Kirri Rule on March 01, 2017, 09:21:04 am
Yay I'm glad! :)
This depends on what you would like to be the biggest discovery in the story. The perceived threat turning into a situation to smile over could just set again with the exact scenery as before, as if the world hadn't changed, but it meant a lot to the character. Y'know? Kind of just bringing it back to a small scenario in a huge scheme of things.
I've used a circular structure before for texts, and the way that I did it was...:
My story started at the kitchen table, having a really basic meal that wife cooked for husband. Wife hates her relationship, her situation, and she's trying to learn how to get out of it. After much turmoil, she realises that all she needs to do is simply exist, so she may as well make the most of her simply existing. So, the ending scene is back at the kitchen table, except this time she cooked a lobster for her husband.
This was for my E2 so this is obviously a ridiculously watered down version, but the importance of the beginning and ending scene being similar bar one change, is that it prompts the reader to think of the beginning again, where it all started, and then they reflect on exactly how far the protagonists and plot have come after the discovery.
What do you think? :)
Would it be bad if i said i didn't know what i wanted the discovery to be ?? AHAH Would you say i should just re-describe the scenery or is that not enough?
Post by: bananna on March 01, 2017, 11:48:58 am
can you please mark this?
I added another aspect of discovery
pls tell me what you think :)
Spoiler
Anniversary
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room.
*
She set the porcelain plates down on each end of the dining table. She smiled at the warm reaction she felt from her husband. She hated cooking, but loved making his favourite meal—beef stroganoff and steamed vegetables. She sat in her chair, the peppery aroma inviting her to pick up her fork. As she stuck her fork into a pasta spiral, she smiled and asked “How’s the food, sweetie?” No response. She imagined him shoveling the food into his mouth like a savage, looking down; she shook her head and chuckled.
She was a woman in her golden years. With deep wrinkle lines that carved a map on her face and thin lips that cracked whenever she smiled. Her thin, pale skin speckled with age spots stretched when she spoke. She used to wear make-up for her husband, but gave in to the passage of time—baring her timeworn face to the world. Not really—she didn’t go out as much. She went out with her husband. A lot. Travelling, walking, folk dancing, wine-tasting. She loved it. She loved him.
He was a poet, a man of words. He left his mark all over the home—writing on the walls in magnificent calligraphy, brainstorming sonnets on the kitchen table. He often looked toward quotes for inspiration, his favourite being “(insert stimulus)”. She never understood it, despite his numerous explanations.
A gentle, lilting voice filled the room. “Thanks for calling, sweetie, I’ll see if I can find that pearl necklace for you”. She smiled as if her daughter was next to her. She picked up her walking stick, and hobbled to her room, a thud accompanying her every step. She stood at the entrance, pencil markings up the doorway, accounting for the growth of her children over the years. She shuffled to her closet and pulled open a drawer, revealing a beautiful, antique jewellery box, embroidered with small metallic flowers and a silver filigree on the crown of the chest. She unlatched it, revealing the fine, scarlet velvet upon which her best jewellery lay. She smiled when she saw it- a thin silver necklace, with white pearls adorning it. She carefully picked it up and laid it on a stool next to her. Beside the small box, her blush and red lipstick stood. She smiled, reminiscing of her date-nights: when despite copious amounts of make-up, her wrinkles stood strong but her husband still complimented her.
She turned to leave when a glimmer caught her eye. Her eyes wondered to a heap of clothes from the back of her closet. Rummaging through articles of clothing, she finally found the source of that which sparked her curiosity.
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room.
A ring. HIS ring. She carefully picked up the irreplaceable metal. Moving her wrist slightly, she looked at the golden band on the finger that connected to her heart. She looked up, and a handsome, familiar face gazed back at her. She looked at her hand once again: the blemishes and freckles and wrinkles were gone: she was looking at a youthful, more radiant hand. She looked up once again.
He was gone.
Once again, she looked at her ring finger. The golden band reminded her of her purpose. The day she trained for. The day she lived out what she was born to do. She slowly lowered herself to sit on her bed and studied the ring. Looking up, she whispered, “you were gone 367 days”, and closed her creased eyelids.
She slid the symbol of marriage off her finger, placing both rings in her slightly shaky palm. The two circles formed an infinity—and immediately she was reminded of their interminable journeys, interminable promises—their interminable love. She looked up, as her eyes scanned the room. A photo frame with the 2 of them, laughing, their eyes creased with joy, a child’s drawing of 3 figures holding hands, and finally, the quote “(insert stimulus)” in his handwriting. She looked at what began as an expectation, a fulfillment of a role, to a partnership that exceeded all expectations, because it was filled with love.
As she sighed lightly, a short, red ribbon caught her eye. She reached over and held the thin, silk cloth. Taking a deep breath, she laced both rings through the ribbon—“clink” and tied a small bow. “Till death do us part”, she whispered. Seeing the two hoops together made her feel weightless, and filled her soul with swelling symphonies. They were finally side by side—where they belonged. Closing her palm, she held tightly onto the rings, hobbling over to the cabinet without her walking stick. She placed a small kiss on her hand, hovered her fingers over the jewelry box—and released the rings. She sighed—a sigh of relief rather than resignation.
She picked up the tube of red lipstick next to the box. She removed the lid, placing it next to the jewelry box. Hobbling over to the small oval mirror, she grimaced. Meticulously, she made up her face. For the first time in a year, she smiled at her reflection. She glanced at the calendar, which was hung next to the mirror. Today’s date was circled and a big red heart drawn next to the small ‘02/02’. “Well, we almost made it to 50”; she smiled and looked up. For the first time in forever, she strode out of her home alone with her walking aid and smelled the fresh, earthy scent left after the harsh rain. She looked up to see colours hovering in the sky—and felt a warm embrace.
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room.
*
She set the porcelain plates down on each end of the dining table. She smiled at the warm reaction she felt from her husband. She hated cooking, but loved making his favourite meal—beef stroganoff and steamed vegetables. She sat in her chair, the peppery aroma inviting her to pick up her fork. As she stuck her fork into a pasta spiral, she smiled and asked “How’s the food, sweetie?” No response. She imagined him shoveling the food into his mouth like a savage, looking down; she shook her head and chuckled.
She was a woman in her golden years. With deep wrinkle lines that carved a map on her face and thin lips that cracked whenever she smiled. Her thin, pale skin speckled with age spots stretched when she spoke. She used to wear make-up for her husband, but gave in to the passage of time—baring her timeworn face to the world. Not really—she didn’t go out as much. She went out with her husband. A lot. Travelling, walking, folk dancing, wine-tasting. She loved it. She loved him.
He was a poet, a man of words. He left his mark all over the home—writing on the walls in magnificent calligraphy, brainstorming sonnets on the kitchen table. He often looked toward quotes for inspiration, his favourite being “(insert stimulus)”. She never understood it, despite his numerous explanations.
A gentle, lilting voice filled the room. “Thanks for calling, sweetie, I’ll see if I can find that pearl necklace for you”. She smiled as if her daughter was next to her. She picked up her walking stick, and hobbled to her room, a thud accompanying her every step. She stood at the entrance, pencil markings up the doorway, accounting for the growth of her children over the years. She shuffled to her closet and pulled open a drawer, revealing a beautiful, antique jewellery box, embroidered with small metallic flowers and a silver filigree on the crown of the chest. She unlatched it, revealing the fine, scarlet velvet upon which her best jewellery lay. She smiled when she saw it- a thin silver necklace, with white pearls adorning it. She carefully picked it up and laid it on a stool next to her. Beside the small box, her blush and red lipstick stood. She smiled, reminiscing of her date-nights: when despite copious amounts of make-up, her wrinkles stood strong but her husband still complimented her.
She turned to leave when a glimmer caught her eye. Her eyes wondered to a heap of clothes from the back of her closet. Rummaging through articles of clothing, she finally found the source of that which sparked her curiosity.
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room.
A ring. HIS ring. She carefully picked up the irreplaceable metal. Moving her wrist slightly, she looked at the golden band on the finger that connected to her heart. She looked up, and a handsome, familiar face gazed back at her. She looked at her hand once again: the blemishes and freckles and wrinkles were gone: she was looking at a youthful, more radiant hand. She looked up once again.
He was gone.
Once again, she looked at her ring finger. The golden band reminded her of her purpose. The day she trained for. The day she lived out what she was born to do. She slowly lowered herself to sit on her bed and studied the ring. Looking up, she whispered, “you were gone 367 days”, and closed her creased eyelids.
She slid the symbol of marriage off her finger, placing both rings in her slightly shaky palm. The two circles formed an infinity—and immediately she was reminded of their interminable journeys, interminable promises—their interminable love. She looked up, as her eyes scanned the room. A photo frame with the 2 of them, laughing, their eyes creased with joy, a child’s drawing of 3 figures holding hands, and finally, the quote “(insert stimulus)” in his handwriting. She looked at what began as an expectation, a fulfillment of a role, to a partnership that exceeded all expectations, because it was filled with love.
As she sighed lightly, a short, red ribbon caught her eye. She reached over and held the thin, silk cloth. Taking a deep breath, she laced both rings through the ribbon—“clink” and tied a small bow. “Till death do us part”, she whispered. Seeing the two hoops together made her feel weightless, and filled her soul with swelling symphonies. They were finally side by side—where they belonged. Closing her palm, she held tightly onto the rings, hobbling over to the cabinet without her walking stick. She placed a small kiss on her hand, hovered her fingers over the jewelry box—and released the rings. She sighed—a sigh of relief rather than resignation.
She picked up the tube of red lipstick next to the box. She removed the lid, placing it next to the jewelry box. Hobbling over to the small oval mirror, she grimaced. Meticulously, she made up her face. For the first time in a year, she smiled at her reflection. She glanced at the calendar, which was hung next to the mirror. Today’s date was circled and a big red heart drawn next to the small ‘02/02’. “Well, we almost made it to 50”; she smiled and looked up. For the first time in forever, she strode out of her home alone with her walking aid and smelled the fresh, earthy scent left after the harsh rain. She looked up to see colours hovering in the sky—and felt a warm embrace.
thanks :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 02, 2017, 06:52:30 am
Would it be bad if i said i didn't know what i wanted the discovery to be ?? AHAH Would you say i should just re-describe the scenery or is that not enough?
I've just read the piece again, and I think that ending the piece with that beginning imagery, except far less words than what you have at the beginning, is a great idea. It'll just round the piece nicely.
I think it is problematic that you don't feel passionate about a particular discovery in your story, only because there isn't a particularly strong one. So, I think the next step is working out how to bring the discovery to the forefront more. What is gained or lost in the exchange between the two main characters? Answering this should give you a clearer idea about what your story has to offer in terms of discovery :) It's all a process, I'd add the new ending in first so that it's all nice and wholistic, and then look more closely at how to weave the discovery in the middle.
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 02, 2017, 07:18:25 am
Hi!
can you please mark this?
I added another aspect of discovery
pls tell me what you think :)
thanks :)
I love reading your work bananna! :)
Spoiler
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room.
*
She set the porcelain plates down on each end of the dining table. She smiled at the warm reaction she felt from her husband. She hated cooking, but loved making his favourite meal—beef stroganoff and steamed vegetables. She sat in her chair, the peppery aroma inviting her to pick up her fork. As she stuck her fork into a pasta spiral, she smiled and asked “How’s the food, sweetie?” No response. She imagined him shoveling the food into his mouth like a savage, looking down; she shook her head and chuckled.
She was a woman in her golden years. With deep wrinkle lines that carved a map on her face and thin lips that cracked whenever she smiled. Her thin, pale skin speckled with age spots that? stretched when she spoke. She used to wear make-up for her husband, but gave in to the passage of time—baring her timeworn face to the world. Not really—she didn’t go out as much. She went out with her husband. A lot. Travelling, walking, folk dancing, wine-tasting. She loved it. She loved him.
He was a poet, a man of words. He left his mark all over the home—writing on the walls in magnificent calligraphy, brainstorming sonnets on the kitchen table. He often looked toward quotes for inspiration, his favourite being “(insert stimulus)”. She never understood it, despite his numerous explanations. Ohhh I love this. I'm enjoying this so so much so far!!!
A gentle, lilting voice filled the room. “Thanks for calling, sweetie, I’ll see if I can find that pearl necklace for you”. She smiled as if her daughter was next to her. She picked up her walking stick, and hobbled to her room, a thud accompanying her every step. She stood at the entrance, pencil markings up the doorway, accounting for the growth of her children over the years. She shuffled to her closet and pulled open a drawer, revealing a beautiful, antique jewellery box, embroidered with small metallic flowers and a silver filigree on the crown of the chest. She unlatched it, revealing the fine, scarlet velvet upon which her best jewellery lay. She smiled when she saw it- a thin silver necklace, with white pearls adorning it. She carefully picked it up and laid it on a stool next to her. Beside the small box, her blush and red lipstick stood. She smiled, reminiscing of her date-nights: when despite copious amounts of make-up, her wrinkles stood strong but her husband still complimented her.
She turned to leave when a glimmer caught her eye. Her eyes wondered to a heap of clothes from the back of her closet. Rummaging through articles of clothing, she finally found the source of that which sparked her curiosity. I'm just not sure that "rummaging" is the right word - if something is sparkling it must be close to the surface, and rummaging just seems a bit too rough? it makes it seem as though she's digging too deep, when I think it's more likely that she's just shifting back the collar of a shirt or something small like that. It's a small detail of course, but it's worth looking into.
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room. I still really like this link back to the first sentence.
A ring. HIS ring. She carefully picked up the irreplaceable metal. Moving her wrist slightly, she looked at the golden band on the finger that connected to her heart. She looked up, and a handsome, familiar face gazed back at her. She looked at her hand once again: the blemishes and freckles and wrinkles were gone: she was looking at a youthful, more radiant hand. She looked up once again.
He was gone.
Once again, she looked at her ring finger. The golden band reminded her of her purpose. The day she trained for. The day she lived out what she was born to do. She slowly lowered herself to sit on her bed and studied the ring. Looking up, she whispered, “you were gone 367 days”, and closed her creased eyelids.
She slid the symbol of marriage off her finger, placing both rings in her slightly shaky palm. The two circles formed an infinity—and immediately she was reminded of their interminable journeys, interminable promises—their interminable love. She looked up, as her eyes scanned the room. A photo frame with the 2 of them, laughing, their eyes creased with joy, a child’s drawing of 3 figures holding hands, and finally, the quote “(insert stimulus)” in his handwriting. She looked at what began as an expectation, a fulfillment of a role, to a partnership that exceeded all expectations, because it was filled with love. YESSS, "Fulfillment role, filled with love." YESSSS.
As she sighed lightly, a short, red ribbon caught her eye. She reached over and held the thin, silk cloth. Taking a deep breath, she laced both rings through the ribbon—“clink” and tied a small bow. “Till death do us part”, she whispered. Seeing the two hoops together made her feel weightless, and filled her soul with swelling symphonies. They were finally side by side—where they belonged. Closing her palm, she held tightly onto the rings, hobbling over to the cabinet without her walking stick. She placed a small kiss on her hand, hovered her fingers over the jewelry box—and released the rings. She sighed—a sigh of relief rather than resignation.
She picked up the tube of red lipstick next to the box. She removed the lid, placing it next to the jewelry jewellery* box. Hobbling over to the small oval mirror, she grimaced. Meticulously, she made up her face. For the first time in a year, she smiled at her reflection. She glanced at the calendar, which was hung next to the mirror. Today’s date was circled and a big red heart drawn next to the small ‘02/02’. “Well, we almost made it to 50”; New line for this dialogue :) she smiled and looked up. For the first time in forever, she strode out of her home alone with her walking aid and smelled the fresh, earthy scent left after the harsh rain. She looked up to see colours hovering in the sky—and felt a warm embrace.
*
She set the porcelain plates down on each end of the dining table. She smiled at the warm reaction she felt from her husband. She hated cooking, but loved making his favourite meal—beef stroganoff and steamed vegetables. She sat in her chair, the peppery aroma inviting her to pick up her fork. As she stuck her fork into a pasta spiral, she smiled and asked “How’s the food, sweetie?” No response. She imagined him shoveling the food into his mouth like a savage, looking down; she shook her head and chuckled.
She was a woman in her golden years. With deep wrinkle lines that carved a map on her face and thin lips that cracked whenever she smiled. Her thin, pale skin speckled with age spots that? stretched when she spoke. She used to wear make-up for her husband, but gave in to the passage of time—baring her timeworn face to the world. Not really—she didn’t go out as much. She went out with her husband. A lot. Travelling, walking, folk dancing, wine-tasting. She loved it. She loved him.
He was a poet, a man of words. He left his mark all over the home—writing on the walls in magnificent calligraphy, brainstorming sonnets on the kitchen table. He often looked toward quotes for inspiration, his favourite being “(insert stimulus)”. She never understood it, despite his numerous explanations. Ohhh I love this. I'm enjoying this so so much so far!!!
A gentle, lilting voice filled the room. “Thanks for calling, sweetie, I’ll see if I can find that pearl necklace for you”. She smiled as if her daughter was next to her. She picked up her walking stick, and hobbled to her room, a thud accompanying her every step. She stood at the entrance, pencil markings up the doorway, accounting for the growth of her children over the years. She shuffled to her closet and pulled open a drawer, revealing a beautiful, antique jewellery box, embroidered with small metallic flowers and a silver filigree on the crown of the chest. She unlatched it, revealing the fine, scarlet velvet upon which her best jewellery lay. She smiled when she saw it- a thin silver necklace, with white pearls adorning it. She carefully picked it up and laid it on a stool next to her. Beside the small box, her blush and red lipstick stood. She smiled, reminiscing of her date-nights: when despite copious amounts of make-up, her wrinkles stood strong but her husband still complimented her.
She turned to leave when a glimmer caught her eye. Her eyes wondered to a heap of clothes from the back of her closet. Rummaging through articles of clothing, she finally found the source of that which sparked her curiosity. I'm just not sure that "rummaging" is the right word - if something is sparkling it must be close to the surface, and rummaging just seems a bit too rough? it makes it seem as though she's digging too deep, when I think it's more likely that she's just shifting back the collar of a shirt or something small like that. It's a small detail of course, but it's worth looking into.
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room. I still really like this link back to the first sentence.
A ring. HIS ring. She carefully picked up the irreplaceable metal. Moving her wrist slightly, she looked at the golden band on the finger that connected to her heart. She looked up, and a handsome, familiar face gazed back at her. She looked at her hand once again: the blemishes and freckles and wrinkles were gone: she was looking at a youthful, more radiant hand. She looked up once again.
He was gone.
Once again, she looked at her ring finger. The golden band reminded her of her purpose. The day she trained for. The day she lived out what she was born to do. She slowly lowered herself to sit on her bed and studied the ring. Looking up, she whispered, “you were gone 367 days”, and closed her creased eyelids.
She slid the symbol of marriage off her finger, placing both rings in her slightly shaky palm. The two circles formed an infinity—and immediately she was reminded of their interminable journeys, interminable promises—their interminable love. She looked up, as her eyes scanned the room. A photo frame with the 2 of them, laughing, their eyes creased with joy, a child’s drawing of 3 figures holding hands, and finally, the quote “(insert stimulus)” in his handwriting. She looked at what began as an expectation, a fulfillment of a role, to a partnership that exceeded all expectations, because it was filled with love. YESSS, "Fulfillment role, filled with love." YESSSS.
As she sighed lightly, a short, red ribbon caught her eye. She reached over and held the thin, silk cloth. Taking a deep breath, she laced both rings through the ribbon—“clink” and tied a small bow. “Till death do us part”, she whispered. Seeing the two hoops together made her feel weightless, and filled her soul with swelling symphonies. They were finally side by side—where they belonged. Closing her palm, she held tightly onto the rings, hobbling over to the cabinet without her walking stick. She placed a small kiss on her hand, hovered her fingers over the jewelry box—and released the rings. She sighed—a sigh of relief rather than resignation.
She picked up the tube of red lipstick next to the box. She removed the lid, placing it next to the jewelry jewellery* box. Hobbling over to the small oval mirror, she grimaced. Meticulously, she made up her face. For the first time in a year, she smiled at her reflection. She glanced at the calendar, which was hung next to the mirror. Today’s date was circled and a big red heart drawn next to the small ‘02/02’. “Well, we almost made it to 50”; New line for this dialogue :) she smiled and looked up. For the first time in forever, she strode out of her home alone with her walking aid and smelled the fresh, earthy scent left after the harsh rain. She looked up to see colours hovering in the sky—and felt a warm embrace.
Yess....Oh Anna this is so beautiful! Congratulations, you've taken a great piece and turned it into a marvellous piece. I'd give you a band 6 for this. The strongest point in your writing is your careful control and manipulation of language. The writing is so delicate but at times so packed with power. If there's anything that I'm left wanting more from, it's the idea of what marriage meant to her originally compared to what it means to her now. I think there's a little more of that to be explored instead of the lighter symbolism of the rings. I'd like to know a slightly deeper relevance of the rings. My favourite part is the role of fulfillment which exceeded expectations because it was filled with love. But I want more - no boring context, but perhaps a little more setting of the scenario so I can appreciate the way that it truly did exceed expectations. Now, it is assumed marriages are full of love. We talk about her duty, but I want a little more of that. Not too much, of course, the story is so delicate. Perhaps it's about how through fulfilling her expected role, she found the ability to grasp love as so much more than a transaction. She never thought that such a rigid structure could produce such a spontaneous emotion...I'm not sure. You're a brilliant writer so I know you'll take this where it is meant to be taken, these are just some of my thoughts! It's improved a lot since last time, even with such small changes!
Post by: bananna on March 02, 2017, 07:31:00 am
I love reading your work bananna! :)SpoilerShe gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room.
*
She set the porcelain plates down on each end of the dining table. She smiled at the warm reaction she felt from her husband. She hated cooking, but loved making his favourite meal—beef stroganoff and steamed vegetables. She sat in her chair, the peppery aroma inviting her to pick up her fork. As she stuck her fork into a pasta spiral, she smiled and asked “How’s the food, sweetie?” No response. She imagined him shoveling the food into his mouth like a savage, looking down; she shook her head and chuckled.
She was a woman in her golden years. With deep wrinkle lines that carved a map on her face and thin lips that cracked whenever she smiled. Her thin, pale skin speckled with age spots that? stretched when she spoke. She used to wear make-up for her husband, but gave in to the passage of time—baring her timeworn face to the world. Not really—she didn’t go out as much. She went out with her husband. A lot. Travelling, walking, folk dancing, wine-tasting. She loved it. She loved him.
He was a poet, a man of words. He left his mark all over the home—writing on the walls in magnificent calligraphy, brainstorming sonnets on the kitchen table. He often looked toward quotes for inspiration, his favourite being “(insert stimulus)”. She never understood it, despite his numerous explanations. Ohhh I love this. I'm enjoying this so so much so far!!!
A gentle, lilting voice filled the room. “Thanks for calling, sweetie, I’ll see if I can find that pearl necklace for you”. She smiled as if her daughter was next to her. She picked up her walking stick, and hobbled to her room, a thud accompanying her every step. She stood at the entrance, pencil markings up the doorway, accounting for the growth of her children over the years. She shuffled to her closet and pulled open a drawer, revealing a beautiful, antique jewellery box, embroidered with small metallic flowers and a silver filigree on the crown of the chest. She unlatched it, revealing the fine, scarlet velvet upon which her best jewellery lay. She smiled when she saw it- a thin silver necklace, with white pearls adorning it. She carefully picked it up and laid it on a stool next to her. Beside the small box, her blush and red lipstick stood. She smiled, reminiscing of her date-nights: when despite copious amounts of make-up, her wrinkles stood strong but her husband still complimented her.
She turned to leave when a glimmer caught her eye. Her eyes wondered to a heap of clothes from the back of her closet. Rummaging through articles of clothing, she finally found the source of that which sparked her curiosity. I'm just not sure that "rummaging" is the right word - if something is sparkling it must be close to the surface, and rummaging just seems a bit too rough? it makes it seem as though she's digging too deep, when I think it's more likely that she's just shifting back the collar of a shirt or something small like that. It's a small detail of course, but it's worth looking into.
She gasped. With tremulous fingers she picked it up. Clink! It fell to the floor. A sunray caught the lustrous metal and a glimmer of colour lit up the black and white room. I still really like this link back to the first sentence.
A ring. HIS ring. She carefully picked up the irreplaceable metal. Moving her wrist slightly, she looked at the golden band on the finger that connected to her heart. She looked up, and a handsome, familiar face gazed back at her. She looked at her hand once again: the blemishes and freckles and wrinkles were gone: she was looking at a youthful, more radiant hand. She looked up once again.
He was gone.
Once again, she looked at her ring finger. The golden band reminded her of her purpose. The day she trained for. The day she lived out what she was born to do. She slowly lowered herself to sit on her bed and studied the ring. Looking up, she whispered, “you were gone 367 days”, and closed her creased eyelids.
She slid the symbol of marriage off her finger, placing both rings in her slightly shaky palm. The two circles formed an infinity—and immediately she was reminded of their interminable journeys, interminable promises—their interminable love. She looked up, as her eyes scanned the room. A photo frame with the 2 of them, laughing, their eyes creased with joy, a child’s drawing of 3 figures holding hands, and finally, the quote “(insert stimulus)” in his handwriting. She looked at what began as an expectation, a fulfillment of a role, to a partnership that exceeded all expectations, because it was filled with love. YESSS, "Fulfillment role, filled with love." YESSSS.
As she sighed lightly, a short, red ribbon caught her eye. She reached over and held the thin, silk cloth. Taking a deep breath, she laced both rings through the ribbon—“clink” and tied a small bow. “Till death do us part”, she whispered. Seeing the two hoops together made her feel weightless, and filled her soul with swelling symphonies. They were finally side by side—where they belonged. Closing her palm, she held tightly onto the rings, hobbling over to the cabinet without her walking stick. She placed a small kiss on her hand, hovered her fingers over the jewelry box—and released the rings. She sighed—a sigh of relief rather than resignation.
She picked up the tube of red lipstick next to the box. She removed the lid, placing it next to the jewelry jewellery* box. Hobbling over to the small oval mirror, she grimaced. Meticulously, she made up her face. For the first time in a year, she smiled at her reflection. She glanced at the calendar, which was hung next to the mirror. Today’s date was circled and a big red heart drawn next to the small ‘02/02’. “Well, we almost made it to 50”; New line for this dialogue :) she smiled and looked up. For the first time in forever, she strode out of her home alone with her walking aid and smelled the fresh, earthy scent left after the harsh rain. She looked up to see colours hovering in the sky—and felt a warm embrace.
Yess....Oh Anna this is so beautiful! Congratulations, you've taken a great piece and turned it into a marvellous piece. I'd give you a band 6 for this. The strongest point in your writing is your careful control and manipulation of language. The writing is so delicate but at times so packed with power. If there's anything that I'm left wanting more from, it's the idea of what marriage meant to her originally compared to what it means to her now. I think there's a little more of that to be explored instead of the lighter symbolism of the rings. I'd like to know a slightly deeper relevance of the rings. My favourite part is the role of fulfillment which exceeded expectations because it was filled with love. But I want more - no boring context, but perhaps a little more setting of the scenario so I can appreciate the way that it truly did exceed expectations. Now, it is assumed marriages are full of love. We talk about her duty, but I want a little more of that. Not too much, of course, the story is so delicate. Perhaps it's about how through fulfilling her expected role, she found the ability to grasp love as so much more than a transaction. She never thought that such a rigid structure could produce such a spontaneous emotion...I'm not sure. You're a brilliant writer so I know you'll take this where it is meant to be taken, these are just some of my thoughts! It's improved a lot since last time, even with such small changes!
yay!! thank you so much, it means a lot :)
also, I feel a bit weird about this sentence: "She sat in her chair, the peppery aroma inviting her to pick up her fork. As she stuck her fork into a pasta spiral, she smiled and asked “How’s the food, sweetie?” "
I use "fork" in two consecutive sentences. How can I modify this? I've tried but I don't think "utensil" really fits haha.
thanks again :)
Post by: Iminschool on March 06, 2017, 08:27:34 pm
My teacher told me to fix the ending and make the effect/presence of the discovery more in depth but i'm struggling to put things together.
Thank you!
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 07, 2017, 12:38:21 am
yay!! thank you so much, it means a lot :)
also, I feel a bit weird about this sentence: "She sat in her chair, the peppery aroma inviting her to pick up her fork. As she stuck her fork into a pasta spiral, she smiled and asked “How’s the food, sweetie?” "
I use "fork" in two consecutive sentences. How can I modify this? I've tried but I don't think "utensil" really fits haha.
thanks again :)
Sorry I somehow overlooked this...I think perhaps you could change fork the first time for "cutlery." That solves that, I think! :)
Post by: Wales on March 07, 2017, 07:39:31 pm
Cheers, Wales
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 09, 2017, 02:13:39 am
Hey, may i get feedback for my creative writing piece?
My teacher told me to fix the ending and make the effect/presence of the discovery more in depth but i'm struggling to put things together.
Thank you!
Hey! Of course you can, I've popped it below with comments throughout ;D
Spoiler
White Walls
Blaine’s pencil was dragging along his paper like a butcher knife through meaty flesh. Tears were forming along the page. Heavy breathing was followed by sporadic sighs. Nice introduction. Sets an emotional state nicely, and very creative. Appreciate a few literary techniques too.
“Bullsh*t!” he exclaimed. I reckon you should make that profanity more impactful. First, write the actual word. If you are going to use it, use it. Also, ditch the "he exclaimed," and just write "Bullshit." More powerful. Finally, move the rest of this paragraph to a new line, make the word really stand out.
Restless and agitated, Blaine’s feet started tapping abruptly and in a threatening tone he shouted “I can’t take this any longer!”. Watch for realistic dialogue - Would someone in the state Blaine is in *actually* say this? In a frenzy, he grabbed and pulled at anything. Strands of hair showered down onto his polished, beige, Swedish crafted desk. “This damn essay is due... tomorrow! And I’ve gotten nowhere!” Blaine muttered half wittedly as he caught his breath. As above, try and put yourself in Blaine's shows - Would you actually say this out loud like that? Also make sure to put new pieces of dialogue on a new line.
“These white walls! They’re closing in on me!” Blaine was exasperated. Feeling more claustrophobic than ever, Blaine’s chest began to tighten and his veins surged beneath the layers of his skin. Hunched in his chair, Blaine buried his head into his hands as he ruminated past failures. Yet again, he thought, another blown opportunity. I'd like to see you do more with imagery and figurative language here, to really make these claustrophobic notions pop off the page.
“When will this end?” he whispered, almost pleadingly. This shorter piece of dialogue feels more real than everything after "Bullshit," - Less dialogue is almost always more effective. If you overuse it, it loses the power.
Blaine’s tongue was rough in its dryness. He tried to rise from his seat to retrieve a glass of water, but felt as if he had weights strapped to his ankles. Tears streamed down his acne ridden cheeks. He was desperate. Heavy metal blared through his headphones. The screaming, the shouting once drowned out the sickening commotion he had tried to escape daily. I feel like we are still where we were when we started the piece. We haven't progressed anywhere. Same ideas, we've not escalated or gained any significant new understandings. Yet.
But now it was amplifying the sharp headache stabbing his left temple. His whitewashed bedroom walls seemed to loom over him, threatening to collapse. Sweat accumulated as beads on his forehead, sliding down his flushed face, filling his eyebrows, tickling his skin uncomfortably. A wave of nausea swept over him.
The term was reaching its close, finals week approaching and pressure only mounting. Blaine was no stranger to regret. His peers were always on task unlike himself. He’d leave everything to the last minute. Cool, flashbacks, I like where we are heading now! As aforementioned I reckon you should do this earlier.
Along with his uniform, Blaine would wear a fake smile to school, hiding his rigid and meaningless life. Blaine was the archetypal fatherless teen. Scraggy and irresponsible. More would be good here - Give an anecdote. Some more details. Give more justification for the emotional state of the character.
It was just over 4 years ago when Blaine’s family finally decayed and split. In retrospect, Blaine couldn’t fathom how it came about in the first place. Everyday had been war. Except there was no victor, and he was what you call collateral damage.
His mother had won the case. Memories of his father were very few, almost non existent. Life was barren for Blaine as he had stumbled across a point in his life where he simply cannot advance. This is a very much 'retold' story - Here is what happened. You'd be better off taking words away from the first half of your story and devoting it here - Showing not telling, giving more realistic pictures for the audience to connect to.
Blaine peered across the room as he heard the playful laughter of a young boy. Blaine approached the window and observed through the venetians. The boy was wearing an oversized Liverpool jersey that covered half of his thigh. Blaine couldn’t piece together the serenity felt by simply watching the boy kicking a ball across the street in the neighbour’s lawn. Perhaps you could have this boy there from the start of the story, always ignored, until the laughter becomes too annoying for Blaine and as he goes to shut the window, he looks out and sees it and starts this thought process. Right now it seems very out there, from nowhere - But you could plant seeds earlier to make this feel more natural!! And more powerful!
“Hmmph” Blaine grunted as he sunk back into his worn out leather chair. Just as he sat down, Blaine noticed that the boy’s laughter was gradually getting louder. “Ball! Ball!” the little boy shouted. Blaine heard the boy and reluctantly got up out of his chair ad walked towards the front door. Blaine and saw the young boy approaching the stairwell entry into the house. Blaine and the young boy made eye contact. Read those last few sentences. That's a significant amount happening in the story - Have you described? Have you painted a picture? Or have you just said, "This happened, this happened, this happened." Try not to fall into retell! The young boy froze, motionless. Blaine was blank and no words were uttered, the boy shyly pointed to the ball lying in the fragrant lavender bush. Blaine retrieved the ball and walked over towards the boy who began to cautiously approach Blaine, looking back at his house every second step. Blaine reached out to give the ball to him and with one swift stride, the young boy grabbed the ball stared into Blaine’s eyes then dashed back into his lawn. Really cool and powerful moment - But I think you could do more with your language to emphasise it.
Blaine felt an inexplicable feeling in his abdominal region. Blaine felt dissatisfied with the ordeal. There’s more to this he felt. Out of curiosity, Blaine followed the boy into his lawn, playfully intercepting the ball and the two then began to exchange passes. Blaine’s old past time passionately ignited before him. His touch, his shot, his dribble, they seemed to all be intact. It’d been years since the last time Blaine played soccer. Blaine felt comfort, like he was apart of the ball, spiritually. The boy reminded him of his younger self. The Blaine who had no worries, the Blaine who’s only wish was to play soccer.
Blaine’s pencil was dragging along his paper like a butcher knife through meaty flesh. Tears were forming along the page. Heavy breathing was followed by sporadic sighs. Nice introduction. Sets an emotional state nicely, and very creative. Appreciate a few literary techniques too.
“Bullsh*t!” he exclaimed. I reckon you should make that profanity more impactful. First, write the actual word. If you are going to use it, use it. Also, ditch the "he exclaimed," and just write "Bullshit." More powerful. Finally, move the rest of this paragraph to a new line, make the word really stand out.
Restless and agitated, Blaine’s feet started tapping abruptly and in a threatening tone he shouted “I can’t take this any longer!”. Watch for realistic dialogue - Would someone in the state Blaine is in *actually* say this? In a frenzy, he grabbed and pulled at anything. Strands of hair showered down onto his polished, beige, Swedish crafted desk. “This damn essay is due... tomorrow! And I’ve gotten nowhere!” Blaine muttered half wittedly as he caught his breath. As above, try and put yourself in Blaine's shows - Would you actually say this out loud like that? Also make sure to put new pieces of dialogue on a new line.
“These white walls! They’re closing in on me!” Blaine was exasperated. Feeling more claustrophobic than ever, Blaine’s chest began to tighten and his veins surged beneath the layers of his skin. Hunched in his chair, Blaine buried his head into his hands as he ruminated past failures. Yet again, he thought, another blown opportunity. I'd like to see you do more with imagery and figurative language here, to really make these claustrophobic notions pop off the page.
“When will this end?” he whispered, almost pleadingly. This shorter piece of dialogue feels more real than everything after "Bullshit," - Less dialogue is almost always more effective. If you overuse it, it loses the power.
Blaine’s tongue was rough in its dryness. He tried to rise from his seat to retrieve a glass of water, but felt as if he had weights strapped to his ankles. Tears streamed down his acne ridden cheeks. He was desperate. Heavy metal blared through his headphones. The screaming, the shouting once drowned out the sickening commotion he had tried to escape daily. I feel like we are still where we were when we started the piece. We haven't progressed anywhere. Same ideas, we've not escalated or gained any significant new understandings. Yet.
But now it was amplifying the sharp headache stabbing his left temple. His whitewashed bedroom walls seemed to loom over him, threatening to collapse. Sweat accumulated as beads on his forehead, sliding down his flushed face, filling his eyebrows, tickling his skin uncomfortably. A wave of nausea swept over him.
The term was reaching its close, finals week approaching and pressure only mounting. Blaine was no stranger to regret. His peers were always on task unlike himself. He’d leave everything to the last minute. Cool, flashbacks, I like where we are heading now! As aforementioned I reckon you should do this earlier.
Along with his uniform, Blaine would wear a fake smile to school, hiding his rigid and meaningless life. Blaine was the archetypal fatherless teen. Scraggy and irresponsible. More would be good here - Give an anecdote. Some more details. Give more justification for the emotional state of the character.
It was just over 4 years ago when Blaine’s family finally decayed and split. In retrospect, Blaine couldn’t fathom how it came about in the first place. Everyday had been war. Except there was no victor, and he was what you call collateral damage.
His mother had won the case. Memories of his father were very few, almost non existent. Life was barren for Blaine as he had stumbled across a point in his life where he simply cannot advance. This is a very much 'retold' story - Here is what happened. You'd be better off taking words away from the first half of your story and devoting it here - Showing not telling, giving more realistic pictures for the audience to connect to.
Blaine peered across the room as he heard the playful laughter of a young boy. Blaine approached the window and observed through the venetians. The boy was wearing an oversized Liverpool jersey that covered half of his thigh. Blaine couldn’t piece together the serenity felt by simply watching the boy kicking a ball across the street in the neighbour’s lawn. Perhaps you could have this boy there from the start of the story, always ignored, until the laughter becomes too annoying for Blaine and as he goes to shut the window, he looks out and sees it and starts this thought process. Right now it seems very out there, from nowhere - But you could plant seeds earlier to make this feel more natural!! And more powerful!
“Hmmph” Blaine grunted as he sunk back into his worn out leather chair. Just as he sat down, Blaine noticed that the boy’s laughter was gradually getting louder. “Ball! Ball!” the little boy shouted. Blaine heard the boy and reluctantly got up out of his chair ad walked towards the front door. Blaine and saw the young boy approaching the stairwell entry into the house. Blaine and the young boy made eye contact. Read those last few sentences. That's a significant amount happening in the story - Have you described? Have you painted a picture? Or have you just said, "This happened, this happened, this happened." Try not to fall into retell! The young boy froze, motionless. Blaine was blank and no words were uttered, the boy shyly pointed to the ball lying in the fragrant lavender bush. Blaine retrieved the ball and walked over towards the boy who began to cautiously approach Blaine, looking back at his house every second step. Blaine reached out to give the ball to him and with one swift stride, the young boy grabbed the ball stared into Blaine’s eyes then dashed back into his lawn. Really cool and powerful moment - But I think you could do more with your language to emphasise it.
Blaine felt an inexplicable feeling in his abdominal region. Blaine felt dissatisfied with the ordeal. There’s more to this he felt. Out of curiosity, Blaine followed the boy into his lawn, playfully intercepting the ball and the two then began to exchange passes. Blaine’s old past time passionately ignited before him. His touch, his shot, his dribble, they seemed to all be intact. It’d been years since the last time Blaine played soccer. Blaine felt comfort, like he was apart of the ball, spiritually. The boy reminded him of his younger self. The Blaine who had no worries, the Blaine who’s only wish was to play soccer.
Some really cool use of language and concepts in here, thanks for posting it! ;D
So I can see why the teacher has made the suggestions they have, and I think they are related. Essentially, your Discovery only takes place at the end of your story, the final paragraph. So as a result, the ending is rushed ("fix the ending") and the Discovery lacks detail ("make the effect/presence of Discovery more in depth") - You can't get the conceptual depth you need in a single paragraph!
I've made a few suggestions throughout on things you can do, but I think you just need to play with the structure of the Discovery. Some ideas:
- Shift the story around to make the interaction with the boy longer - Have the feelings expressed in the last paragraph develop throughout the interaction not just all be listed at the end. Like, have the memories of soccer flood back when he first grabs the ball. Etc, etc. Do some flashbacks to times before the story occurs when soccer was played, maybe with the parents there cheering him on. You need to plant seeds!
- Have the boy appear near the start of the story and keep reappearing so the introduction of him as a main character feels less forced. Just the laughter in the background, "Wish that boy would shut up so I could get this crap done." That sort of thing.
- Have the story occur over multiple interactions with the boy - Stretch this out over a much longer period of time.
As a final suggestion, have you considered swapping to 1st person? It could help you remove some of that forced dialogue and replace it with just internal monologue - Which usually works better ;D
I hope this feedback is helpful to you! Be sure to let me know if you wanted me to clarify any of it! :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 09, 2017, 12:20:21 pm
I've been struggling at a Creative Piece for a while now. I keep feeling that the flow of the story is constantly a bit off. I would love somebody to take a read and tell me what they think. The flow, description, link to discovery. Half Year's approaching and Creative is 1/3rd of it so I need to smash it :)
Cheers, Wales
Hey Wales!! Sure thing, I'll pop the Creative below with some comments throughout:
Spoiler
The polished floor emanated a musky aroma as I stepped onto the stage. The echo of my shoes trailed my shadow as I made my way to the center. There it stood, embraced in pride and brilliance. My dark glossy reflection haunted me, examining my disparated expression of anguish and contempt. The piano loomed over me as the perfections of ivory taunted me, begging to be played. The intensity of the stage lights gave warmth to the tension in the room. Nice use of imagery in these opening sentences - Sets the tone and the scene nicely. Effectively intrigues the reader. I could hear whispers in the crowd “Look, it’s the human metronome himself”, “Has he really recovered?”. Be sure to start dialogue on its own line, and further, watch for realistic dialogue. I don't quite believe those two pieces of speech - They seem fake and forced, a little cheesy. You could replace it with a description of "shocked whispers" if you preferred - If you use dialogue, spend a lot of time thinking, what would people actually say? I planted myself in the chair, simultaneously undoing my lower suit button and inhaled the sultry air. I gracefully allowed my fingers to rest on the keys and whispered “For you” and so began my final piece. Etude Op. 25 No. 5 - Wrong Note by Chopin. I'd like to see you cut the sentence length as you approach the end here. Build a bit of a tension by having short, punchy sentences. Also make sure "For you" starts its own line.
All I could recall were the times my mother would hit me, inflicting me with emotional and physical scars that carried through to my adolescence. I remembered my resentful indignance I held to her for making me a slave to the score only to please the judges, depriving me of any creativity or emotion. Show, not tell - This is an area where you need to try and use the imagery you used above. In fact, it is probably MORE important here, because you are now actually going to explore some Discovery related conceptual elements. Growing up I often questioned myself, Is this the way music is meant to be played?, Why is my mother so harsh..? I like these rhetorical question. I could remember the traumatic experiences of when she would punish me for playing a note wrong, for being off tempo, for pouring my emotions into the piano. Describe one of these - Perhaps a flashback to a specific instance? I could feel her watching over me right now, frowning at how I was putting anger into my playing. Looove that. It felt therapeutic in a way, finally allowing music to become a medium between my emotions and reality. My enraged fingers thumped the keys as if demanding them for an answer, an answer to my mother’s years of unexplained cruelness. I really like the direction you are going with this - So far, I think this is a great response and you are setting up a nice conceptual basis.
I could feel the audience embrace the power in my playing, the supremacy I asserted onto the keys. For once I felt like I truly possessed authority, autonomy, presence. Show now tell - Give me a bit more description of this power and these emotions being experienced. No longer a puppet, a slave to the score. "Slave to the score" - That's gold right there. Need a title? That has to be it.
It was then I asked myself, is this the way Chopin would have wanted this piece to be played? The sterling rectangles of ivory frantically reflected under the luminosity of the stage lights. Up until this moment music to me was this monotone canvas deprived of any emotion and now each note I was playing was like oversaturating a painting. I was coming to the realisation that music required balance and equanimity, that each key needed to be calibrated to my sentient mind and that even though the notes were right, the sound was wrong. So here we are doing something that is really tough not to do - We are just walking through the Discovery by saying it directly. The giveaway? 'I was coming to the realisation...' You need to be more subtle - The super sophisticated pieces will communicate the exact ideas you want to communicate here, without stepping the audience through it. Now don't get me wrong - This is NOT bad, but if you want to elevate, this is the sort of thing you need to consider. Subtlety and sophistication.
The Coda was approaching. My right arm twitched. The eldritch shadow of my mother looming over the piano with her walking stick transfigured my confidence into nothing more than a mound of disheveled ash ravaged by a vengeful blaze. I'd split this from the next bit to make it clear you are about to go back into reflection of a prior situation. Just for a bit more structural clarity.
Each time the Coda began my right arm would be flogged. I could never get the Tempo right. Andante was how she wanted it. On the occasion I managed to correctly perform the Coda she would uncharacteristically congratulate me, out of sympathy perhaps. Again, just breaking this big chunk of writing up a little. It might be personal preference, but I'm always a fan of avoiding huge slabs of writing in a Creative.
The deepening bass of the pedals intruded upon the dissonant sound of the piano, it was reminiscent of the cadent cracks of my mother's walking stick connecting against my right arm. The thought of my mother struck a chord of empathy. It was reminded me that she wasn’t composed entirely of malice, I began to remember my upbringing. I had always found it impossible to comprehend or justify her actions. I would constantly ask myself why I was being tormented. Previously I had thought her aggressive and demanding persona was her wanting to demoralise me but I now realised that it was not to dehumanise me but rather out of love. So here is another example of putting the Discovery on a platter for the audience - You are literally saying what the persona realises. You don't want to tell it - You want to show it. I now suspected that she didn’t want to let me go unprepared and unable to sustain myself as any mother would. She wanted to leave me with this divine gift and hoped I would be able to foster my piano talent into a living and that just maybe I would take to become a pianist. I had gained a new insight to my mother’s intentions, it was no longer vile and selfish, instead I began to understand the virtuosity behind it all. Again, some beautiful statements and language choices, but it is just too direct. You need to try and take a more subtle approach. I could sense her genuine love for me and it was through that love she so desperately wanted me to grow. All those hours of peril and disparage came together. I felt foolish for recognising it far too late, so late that I could not even thank her. I didn’t want to imagine what she was feeling when I showed resentment to her love. See below.
The piano now preached a splendorous sound I’ve never known. All my emotions harmonised in this symphony. This rainbow coloured symphony. Was it really the end? No, it was just the beginning of my life. A proper goodbye to my past. Something I’ve struggled to leave behind. My fingers gracefully floated across the innocent keys of ivory, conjuring the last of the empowering octaves. I felt calm, shocked, grateful as the final chord resonated within the hall making way for the silence that followed. The lustrous lights exposed my shadow as I sauntered to the stage and bowed.
Farewell Mother. Powerful finish - I like it.
All I could recall were the times my mother would hit me, inflicting me with emotional and physical scars that carried through to my adolescence. I remembered my resentful indignance I held to her for making me a slave to the score only to please the judges, depriving me of any creativity or emotion. Show, not tell - This is an area where you need to try and use the imagery you used above. In fact, it is probably MORE important here, because you are now actually going to explore some Discovery related conceptual elements. Growing up I often questioned myself, Is this the way music is meant to be played?, Why is my mother so harsh..? I like these rhetorical question. I could remember the traumatic experiences of when she would punish me for playing a note wrong, for being off tempo, for pouring my emotions into the piano. Describe one of these - Perhaps a flashback to a specific instance? I could feel her watching over me right now, frowning at how I was putting anger into my playing. Looove that. It felt therapeutic in a way, finally allowing music to become a medium between my emotions and reality. My enraged fingers thumped the keys as if demanding them for an answer, an answer to my mother’s years of unexplained cruelness. I really like the direction you are going with this - So far, I think this is a great response and you are setting up a nice conceptual basis.
I could feel the audience embrace the power in my playing, the supremacy I asserted onto the keys. For once I felt like I truly possessed authority, autonomy, presence. Show now tell - Give me a bit more description of this power and these emotions being experienced. No longer a puppet, a slave to the score. "Slave to the score" - That's gold right there. Need a title? That has to be it.
It was then I asked myself, is this the way Chopin would have wanted this piece to be played? The sterling rectangles of ivory frantically reflected under the luminosity of the stage lights. Up until this moment music to me was this monotone canvas deprived of any emotion and now each note I was playing was like oversaturating a painting. I was coming to the realisation that music required balance and equanimity, that each key needed to be calibrated to my sentient mind and that even though the notes were right, the sound was wrong. So here we are doing something that is really tough not to do - We are just walking through the Discovery by saying it directly. The giveaway? 'I was coming to the realisation...' You need to be more subtle - The super sophisticated pieces will communicate the exact ideas you want to communicate here, without stepping the audience through it. Now don't get me wrong - This is NOT bad, but if you want to elevate, this is the sort of thing you need to consider. Subtlety and sophistication.
The Coda was approaching. My right arm twitched. The eldritch shadow of my mother looming over the piano with her walking stick transfigured my confidence into nothing more than a mound of disheveled ash ravaged by a vengeful blaze. I'd split this from the next bit to make it clear you are about to go back into reflection of a prior situation. Just for a bit more structural clarity.
Each time the Coda began my right arm would be flogged. I could never get the Tempo right. Andante was how she wanted it. On the occasion I managed to correctly perform the Coda she would uncharacteristically congratulate me, out of sympathy perhaps. Again, just breaking this big chunk of writing up a little. It might be personal preference, but I'm always a fan of avoiding huge slabs of writing in a Creative.
The deepening bass of the pedals intruded upon the dissonant sound of the piano, it was reminiscent of the cadent cracks of my mother's walking stick connecting against my right arm. The thought of my mother struck a chord of empathy. It was reminded me that she wasn’t composed entirely of malice, I began to remember my upbringing. I had always found it impossible to comprehend or justify her actions. I would constantly ask myself why I was being tormented. Previously I had thought her aggressive and demanding persona was her wanting to demoralise me but I now realised that it was not to dehumanise me but rather out of love. So here is another example of putting the Discovery on a platter for the audience - You are literally saying what the persona realises. You don't want to tell it - You want to show it. I now suspected that she didn’t want to let me go unprepared and unable to sustain myself as any mother would. She wanted to leave me with this divine gift and hoped I would be able to foster my piano talent into a living and that just maybe I would take to become a pianist. I had gained a new insight to my mother’s intentions, it was no longer vile and selfish, instead I began to understand the virtuosity behind it all. Again, some beautiful statements and language choices, but it is just too direct. You need to try and take a more subtle approach. I could sense her genuine love for me and it was through that love she so desperately wanted me to grow. All those hours of peril and disparage came together. I felt foolish for recognising it far too late, so late that I could not even thank her. I didn’t want to imagine what she was feeling when I showed resentment to her love. See below.
The piano now preached a splendorous sound I’ve never known. All my emotions harmonised in this symphony. This rainbow coloured symphony. Was it really the end? No, it was just the beginning of my life. A proper goodbye to my past. Something I’ve struggled to leave behind. My fingers gracefully floated across the innocent keys of ivory, conjuring the last of the empowering octaves. I felt calm, shocked, grateful as the final chord resonated within the hall making way for the silence that followed. The lustrous lights exposed my shadow as I sauntered to the stage and bowed.
Farewell Mother. Powerful finish - I like it.
So this is a REALLY effective story to be telling for Discovery. It is simple, the premise is powerful, and it is super character focused. Don't you dare change the idea unless you absolutely have to for a stimulus, because if keep working on this piece, you will get 15. The story is there, the concepts are there - Now it is just about execution.
My biggest comment is on the obvious nature of the Discovery. So that paragraph where I wrote "See below" - That is the sort of paragraph that appears in a lot of responses - And it is an escape paragraph. It's a, "Shit, I need to make sure they know what the Discovery is," so near the end, a heap of students put a paragraph like this that steps through the thought process and the Discovery in its entirety. This isn't a bad thing, but it isn't the sophisticated approach. You need to show restraint, make these ideas obvious to the reader without saying them. You can make reflective statements, but make them subtle. See this:
"I could still see the scars on my hands from the cracks of the cane. They sickened me still. But then, here those scarred hands were, playing on stage. They never faltered. Battle hardened."
This NEVER directly acknowledges the positive intentions to the mothers actions. But you know that it is there - The persona is acknowledging the benefits of the harsh practice ever so subtly, but it is enough. Now I pulled that out of nowhere and it isn't perfect, but THAT is the sort of stuff I need more of from you.
I think the flow is great, though I'd like to see more time spent on flashbacks and a more obvious distinction between the two. Perhaps, have a play with it and see! I think you need more description in the parts I've indicated above - Again, proper flashbacks. I think having distinct sections where you are flash-backing to a specific scene that shows something you want to see, then back to current, back again, etc etc. That would give you better flow. It could be:
- Current Day getting on stage
- Flashback to practice
- Modern day - Reflection and coda
- Flashback to practicing coda
- Modern Day
- End
Or something. But that is something to explore ;D
You've got the makings of something special here. Reign it in a little, work on being subtle - Gentle taps, not a hammer swing. And just keep playing with the structure until you are happy ;D
Post by: jama11 on March 09, 2017, 12:45:32 pm
Could I get feedback on my creative writing please? I am not sure it flows as well and if the discovery theme is obvious enough.
Thanks
Post by: sina_wildr99 on March 09, 2017, 11:58:52 pm
For the thirteenth year in a row, we sit in the same crowded restaurant for this occasion. One this day, thirteen years ago, we moved. A move that I could never forgive my parents about. A move across 16 473 km, across two continents and 21 hours of sitting in a plane. A move from Germany, to Australia. In the outer suburbs of Western Sydney, a place that now fulfills the purpose of “home” we celebrate this great opportunity. An opportunity i wish was left behind, never reached for and grasped with open arms. For i, do not belong. I belong where I was born, in my hometown, with my friends and relatives; not on the opposite half of the world. But, acceptant of my fate, i sit patiently, for the thirteenth year in a row picking at a the mounds of soft, mashed potato on my plate, which could easily be mounds of soft snow in my place of birth.
Returning to my Oma and Opa’s white clad house, i escaped to the spare room, one full of memorabilia from the golden times, the life I got taken away from, my upbringing and birthright country, Germany. Uncomfortably sitting in the corner, surrounded by boxes that have never been unpacked, piling like mountains, bringing back the memories of the mountainous ranges near my hometown. A suggestion from my younger brother Eric, to look through my mother's old photo albums presents a good case.
Sitting under the yellow incandescent light bulb in the cold, still room, black and white photographs bring back the memories of my mothers childhood, and stimulate a period of contemplation of my life if we had stayed in Germany. Where would I be now? What would I have achieved by now apart from moving house seven times and starting my third high school? Would life be different if I have had a stable environment to settle into? Flicking through the images protected by plastic, a progression through the years displays the transformation of y grandparents and mother through the decades, and the growth of me, throughout my childhood.
Amidst passing through the pleasant memories of my youth in Germany, a faded sepia book slip out of one of the piles of photo albums resting on my lap. My younger brother is quick to grab the newly rediscovered object. Clearly aged and cherished, Eric slowly examines the exterior of the item before revealing a thrilled expression on his face.
“Check this out”, he says, passing the carefully bound together parchment pieces. With a quick glance across the cover of the book, it reveals the faded remnants of a fountain pen ink, hiding ta name, CLAUDIA. Opening the yellowed page, the delicate writings of an ink pen alleviated the suspense in the room.
“Diary - personal and private contents of C.W. permission required”
Looking up to see my brothers face gleaming, it is clear that we have come across my mother's diary”
Flicking through the endless diary entries, black and white photographs and filed letters received during the early 80s reveal my mother in her teenage years, around the age of 18, as i myself am at the moment.
Calls from the adjoining rooms indicate it is time for us to leave. Scrambling to conceal the discovery, i hid the diary under my crinkled leather jacket, just as my mother bust into the room, the old floorboards creaking beneath her weight. As if my telepathic communication, my brother and i turn towards each other,, agreeing to keep our find a secret. The hurried goodbyes on a chilly october night allow me to conceal the item under my jacket safely too the car.
Continued throughout the silence of the night, as all is calm and no one is awake, i slide out the diary and continue to read from where i left off. Skimming through the pages with avidity, i am surprised to find pages filled up with lyrics of songs, letters sent from pen pals across Europe, photographs and diary entries encounting a teenage girl's life. A common theme, however, is present throughout all the lyrics and topics of conversation in the letters. Love.
I slowed as a particular poem in one entry’s caught my eye. Stuck onto the page, on a yellowed, coffee stained piece of paper, was a handwritten poem, one of distinctive font, my mother's font
“These feelings are crazy and all too confused
But that's how I feel when your heart’s been abused”
An unusual feeling in my heart brought the sudden realisation that i have felt similarly. The way that when we moved, all emotion had be torn from my body, leaving my friends and all connections behind, having to establish a new life, new foundations. All the emotions leaving me confused, as to how embrace the opportunity, yet i cannot forget what i have left behind. The words of the poem, resonating with my mind, it registers my mother has also had many difficulties inflicting her experiences growing up.
Struggling with my findings, I now know how my mother was so strong in assisting me and teaching me to be resilient through difficult times. She too, has faced many challenges and barriers to overcome, such have I, so I have to learn and appreciate the challenges to build strength. I now comprehend what has occurred, and appreciate my mother for all she has done for me.
Closing the diary, i feel content. At that moment i hear the handle only door open slowly as my mother enters the room. Suddenly she looks different. I smile and ask how her day was. Listening to her recount of events, i question what person i would be and what relationship i’d have with my mother if it weren't for our shared human experience about connection.
Post by: Wales on March 10, 2017, 10:56:21 am
Hey Wales!! Sure thing, I'll pop the Creative below with some comments throughout:SpoilerThe polished floor emanated a musky aroma as I stepped onto the stage. The echo of my shoes trailed my shadow as I made my way to the center. There it stood, embraced in pride and brilliance. My dark glossy reflection haunted me, examining my disparated expression of anguish and contempt. The piano loomed over me as the perfections of ivory taunted me, begging to be played. The intensity of the stage lights gave warmth to the tension in the room. Nice use of imagery in these opening sentences - Sets the tone and the scene nicely. Effectively intrigues the reader. I could hear whispers in the crowd “Look, it’s the human metronome himself”, “Has he really recovered?”. Be sure to start dialogue on its own line, and further, watch for realistic dialogue. I don't quite believe those two pieces of speech - They seem fake and forced, a little cheesy. You could replace it with a description of "shocked whispers" if you preferred - If you use dialogue, spend a lot of time thinking, what would people actually say? I planted myself in the chair, simultaneously undoing my lower suit button and inhaled the sultry air. I gracefully allowed my fingers to rest on the keys and whispered “For you” and so began my final piece. Etude Op. 25 No. 5 - Wrong Note by Chopin. I'd like to see you cut the sentence length as you approach the end here. Build a bit of a tension by having short, punchy sentences. Also make sure "For you" starts its own line.
All I could recall were the times my mother would hit me, inflicting me with emotional and physical scars that carried through to my adolescence. I remembered my resentful indignance I held to her for making me a slave to the score only to please the judges, depriving me of any creativity or emotion. Show, not tell - This is an area where you need to try and use the imagery you used above. In fact, it is probably MORE important here, because you are now actually going to explore some Discovery related conceptual elements. Growing up I often questioned myself, Is this the way music is meant to be played?, Why is my mother so harsh..? I like these rhetorical question. I could remember the traumatic experiences of when she would punish me for playing a note wrong, for being off tempo, for pouring my emotions into the piano. Describe one of these - Perhaps a flashback to a specific instance? I could feel her watching over me right now, frowning at how I was putting anger into my playing. Looove that. It felt therapeutic in a way, finally allowing music to become a medium between my emotions and reality. My enraged fingers thumped the keys as if demanding them for an answer, an answer to my mother’s years of unexplained cruelness. I really like the direction you are going with this - So far, I think this is a great response and you are setting up a nice conceptual basis.
I could feel the audience embrace the power in my playing, the supremacy I asserted onto the keys. For once I felt like I truly possessed authority, autonomy, presence. Show now tell - Give me a bit more description of this power and these emotions being experienced. No longer a puppet, a slave to the score. "Slave to the score" - That's gold right there. Need a title? That has to be it.
It was then I asked myself, is this the way Chopin would have wanted this piece to be played? The sterling rectangles of ivory frantically reflected under the luminosity of the stage lights. Up until this moment music to me was this monotone canvas deprived of any emotion and now each note I was playing was like oversaturating a painting. I was coming to the realisation that music required balance and equanimity, that each key needed to be calibrated to my sentient mind and that even though the notes were right, the sound was wrong. So here we are doing something that is really tough not to do - We are just walking through the Discovery by saying it directly. The giveaway? 'I was coming to the realisation...' You need to be more subtle - The super sophisticated pieces will communicate the exact ideas you want to communicate here, without stepping the audience through it. Now don't get me wrong - This is NOT bad, but if you want to elevate, this is the sort of thing you need to consider. Subtlety and sophistication.
The Coda was approaching. My right arm twitched. The eldritch shadow of my mother looming over the piano with her walking stick transfigured my confidence into nothing more than a mound of disheveled ash ravaged by a vengeful blaze. I'd split this from the next bit to make it clear you are about to go back into reflection of a prior situation. Just for a bit more structural clarity.
Each time the Coda began my right arm would be flogged. I could never get the Tempo right. Andante was how she wanted it. On the occasion I managed to correctly perform the Coda she would uncharacteristically congratulate me, out of sympathy perhaps. Again, just breaking this big chunk of writing up a little. It might be personal preference, but I'm always a fan of avoiding huge slabs of writing in a Creative.
The deepening bass of the pedals intruded upon the dissonant sound of the piano, it was reminiscent of the cadent cracks of my mother's walking stick connecting against my right arm. The thought of my mother struck a chord of empathy. It was reminded me that she wasn’t composed entirely of malice, I began to remember my upbringing. I had always found it impossible to comprehend or justify her actions. I would constantly ask myself why I was being tormented. Previously I had thought her aggressive and demanding persona was her wanting to demoralise me but I now realised that it was not to dehumanise me but rather out of love. So here is another example of putting the Discovery on a platter for the audience - You are literally saying what the persona realises. You don't want to tell it - You want to show it. I now suspected that she didn’t want to let me go unprepared and unable to sustain myself as any mother would. She wanted to leave me with this divine gift and hoped I would be able to foster my piano talent into a living and that just maybe I would take to become a pianist. I had gained a new insight to my mother’s intentions, it was no longer vile and selfish, instead I began to understand the virtuosity behind it all. Again, some beautiful statements and language choices, but it is just too direct. You need to try and take a more subtle approach. I could sense her genuine love for me and it was through that love she so desperately wanted me to grow. All those hours of peril and disparage came together. I felt foolish for recognising it far too late, so late that I could not even thank her. I didn’t want to imagine what she was feeling when I showed resentment to her love. See below.
The piano now preached a splendorous sound I’ve never known. All my emotions harmonised in this symphony. This rainbow coloured symphony. Was it really the end? No, it was just the beginning of my life. A proper goodbye to my past. Something I’ve struggled to leave behind. My fingers gracefully floated across the innocent keys of ivory, conjuring the last of the empowering octaves. I felt calm, shocked, grateful as the final chord resonated within the hall making way for the silence that followed. The lustrous lights exposed my shadow as I sauntered to the stage and bowed.
Farewell Mother. Powerful finish - I like it.
So this is a REALLY effective story to be telling for Discovery. It is simple, the premise is powerful, and it is super character focused. Don't you dare change the idea unless you absolutely have to for a stimulus, because if keep working on this piece, you will get 15. The story is there, the concepts are there - Now it is just about execution.
My biggest comment is on the obvious nature of the Discovery. So that paragraph where I wrote "See below" - That is the sort of paragraph that appears in a lot of responses - And it is an escape paragraph. It's a, "Shit, I need to make sure they know what the Discovery is," so near the end, a heap of students put a paragraph like this that steps through the thought process and the Discovery in its entirety. This isn't a bad thing, but it isn't the sophisticated approach. You need to show restraint, make these ideas obvious to the reader without saying them. You can make reflective statements, but make them subtle. See this:
"I could still see the scars on my hands from the cracks of the cane. They sickened me still. But then, here those scarred hands were, playing on stage. They never faltered. Battle hardened."
This NEVER directly acknowledges the positive intentions to the mothers actions. But you know that it is there - The persona is acknowledging the benefits of the harsh practice ever so subtly, but it is enough. Now I pulled that out of nowhere and it isn't perfect, but THAT is the sort of stuff I need more of from you.
I think the flow is great, though I'd like to see more time spent on flashbacks and a more obvious distinction between the two. Perhaps, have a play with it and see! I think you need more description in the parts I've indicated above - Again, proper flashbacks. I think having distinct sections where you are flash-backing to a specific scene that shows something you want to see, then back to current, back again, etc etc. That would give you better flow. It could be:
- Current Day getting on stage
- Flashback to practice
- Modern day - Reflection and coda
- Flashback to practicing coda
- Modern Day
- End
Or something. But that is something to explore ;D
You've got the makings of something special here. Reign it in a little, work on being subtle - Gentle taps, not a hammer swing. And just keep playing with the structure until you are happy ;D
Thank you very much for the feedback :) I'm glad the concept is good. I'll continue to polish this up, 3 weeks to perfect this. As for the stimulus, I've actually already received it (I feel like it makes the exam a bit too easy but hey) and I'll attach it here and if you wouldn't mind giving me some pointers as to how to adapt it. I feel like I drew enough parallels but there's always room for improvement.
I just find it difficult to convey all those emotions without directly telling. I can do what you mention but I seem to struggle with conveying his emotions toward his mother without directly telling. Anyway, I'll work on it and post back in a week or two (15 posts later :P) and hope you won't have to suggest much cause I've fixed most of it haha. Also, I had my teacher mark a previous version of this (One I rushed out at 2 am the night before) and scored 12. I'm sure with your comments into account I will push this to a 15/15.
Cheers for the brilliant feedback, I wont disappoint you :)
Regards, Wales
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 10, 2017, 11:03:16 am
Thank you very much for the feedback :) I'm glad the concept is good. I'll continue to polish this up, 3 weeks to perfect this. As for the stimulus, I've actually already received it (I feel like it makes the exam a bit too easy but hey) and I'll attach it here and if you wouldn't mind giving me some pointers as to how to adapt it. I feel like I drew enough parallels but there's always room for improvement.
...
Regards, Wales
I'm glad the feedback was useful!! I feel like you've made that stimulus work - What it is saying (to me) is that reflection is a never ending process. You can always go deeper. Perhaps you could re-frame the story slightly to say that the player will continue to learn even after the story is finished, somehow? Maybe he only partially forgives his mother but acknowledges there is more to go? Something like that - That's how I would personally manipulate it to match ;D
Post by: Wales on March 10, 2017, 08:15:40 pm
Hi, would you be able to check my creative to make sure it flows well or suggest any areas of improvement, like tense or where to add more language features? Thank you so much :)
For the thirteenth year in a row, we sit in the same crowded restaurant for this occasion. One this day, thirteen years ago, we moved. A move that I could never forgive my parents about. A move across 16 473 km, across two continents and 21 hours of sitting in a plane. A move from Germany, to Australia. In the outer suburbs of Western Sydney, a place that now fulfills the purpose of “home” we celebrate this great opportunity. An opportunity i wish was left behind, never reached for and grasped with open arms. For i, do not belong. I belong where I was born, in my hometown, with my friends and relatives; not on the opposite half of the world. But, acceptant of my fate, i sit patiently, for the thirteenth year in a row picking at a the mounds of soft, mashed potato on my plate, which could easily be mounds of soft snow in my place of birth.
Returning to my Oma and Opa’s white clad house, i escaped to the spare room, one full of memorabilia from the golden times, the life I got taken away from, my upbringing and birthright country, Germany. Uncomfortably sitting in the corner, surrounded by boxes that have never been unpacked, piling like mountains, bringing back the memories of the mountainous ranges near my hometown. A suggestion from my younger brother Eric, to look through my mother's old photo albums presents a good case.
Sitting under the yellow incandescent light bulb in the cold, still room, black and white photographs bring back the memories of my mothers childhood, and stimulate a period of contemplation of my life if we had stayed in Germany. Where would I be now? What would I have achieved by now apart from moving house seven times and starting my third high school? Would life be different if I have had a stable environment to settle into? Flicking through the images protected by plastic, a progression through the years displays the transformation of y grandparents and mother through the decades, and the growth of me, throughout my childhood.
Amidst passing through the pleasant memories of my youth in Germany, a faded sepia book slip out of one of the piles of photo albums resting on my lap. My younger brother is quick to grab the newly rediscovered object. Clearly aged and cherished, Eric slowly examines the exterior of the item before revealing a thrilled expression on his face.
“Check this out”, he says, passing the carefully bound together parchment pieces. With a quick glance across the cover of the book, it reveals the faded remnants of a fountain pen ink, hiding ta name, CLAUDIA. Opening the yellowed page, the delicate writings of an ink pen alleviated the suspense in the room.
“Diary - personal and private contents of C.W. permission required”
Looking up to see my brothers face gleaming, it is clear that we have come across my mother's diary”
Flicking through the endless diary entries, black and white photographs and filed letters received during the early 80s reveal my mother in her teenage years, around the age of 18, as i myself am at the moment.
Calls from the adjoining rooms indicate it is time for us to leave. Scrambling to conceal the discovery, i hid the diary under my crinkled leather jacket, just as my mother bust into the room, the old floorboards creaking beneath her weight. As if my telepathic communication, my brother and i turn towards each other,, agreeing to keep our find a secret. The hurried goodbyes on a chilly october night allow me to conceal the item under my jacket safely too the car.
Continued throughout the silence of the night, as all is calm and no one is awake, i slide out the diary and continue to read from where i left off. Skimming through the pages with avidity, i am surprised to find pages filled up with lyrics of songs, letters sent from pen pals across Europe, photographs and diary entries encounting a teenage girl's life. A common theme, however, is present throughout all the lyrics and topics of conversation in the letters. Love.
I slowed as a particular poem in one entry’s caught my eye. Stuck onto the page, on a yellowed, coffee stained piece of paper, was a handwritten poem, one of distinctive font, my mother's font
“These feelings are crazy and all too confused
But that's how I feel when your heart’s been abused”
An unusual feeling in my heart brought the sudden realisation that i have felt similarly. The way that when we moved, all emotion had be torn from my body, leaving my friends and all connections behind, having to establish a new life, new foundations. All the emotions leaving me confused, as to how embrace the opportunity, yet i cannot forget what i have left behind. The words of the poem, resonating with my mind, it registers my mother has also had many difficulties inflicting her experiences growing up.
Struggling with my findings, I now know how my mother was so strong in assisting me and teaching me to be resilient through difficult times. She too, has faced many challenges and barriers to overcome, such have I, so I have to learn and appreciate the challenges to build strength. I now comprehend what has occurred, and appreciate my mother for all she has done for me.
Closing the diary, i feel content. At that moment i hear the handle only door open slowly as my mother enters the room. Suddenly she looks different. I smile and ask how her day was. Listening to her recount of events, i question what person i would be and what relationship i’d have with my mother if it weren't for our shared human experience about connection.
Just a heads up, there is a requirement of 15 posts per essay to be marked. You should post around, contribute some and then somebody here would mark it. If they aren't particularly busy you might be lucky enough though :) Post around regardless, it's an awesome community.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 10, 2017, 08:22:10 pm
Just a heads up, there is a requirement of 15 posts per essay to be marked. You should post around, contribute some and then somebody here would mark it. If they aren't particularly busy you might be lucky enough though :) Post around regardless, it's an awesome community.
Thanks Wales, I forgot to do the reminder ;D
jama11 and sina_wildr99, welcome to the forums! As Wales said, we do have a requirement that you have 15 posts on ATAR Notes for every piece you'd like marked. This is just so the markers can keep up with demand and still be able to spend the 30 mins-1 hour we like to spend on giving feedback to each piece ;D
So hang around the forums! Ask questions, have a chat, and benefit from all the awesome resources. I'd be more than happy to give you some feedback once you hit the 15 post requirement ;D
Post by: eric11588 on March 11, 2017, 10:40:06 pm
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So I have some feedback from my friends about this creative. All together
1.they didn't like the part about the bakery and flour because nobody would say that in real life.
2. Towards the end of the story was a paragraph and my friends said it would be better that throughout the last part of the story it becomes shorter and shorter (not spoiling thee ending )
3. The character "Janis Joplin" and the setting. so for this I picked janis Joplin because the setting was based around like WW1 or 2 (when janis Joplin died) and my friends said why was there war in America and stuff like that so I need help on this one bad. I thought I put War in America because its a creative but apparently they didn't seem to like it.
4. They said my story was like everywhere. They said they only fully understand my story because I explained to them about it. And they told me to try make it less complex which idk how.
So if anyone could help with my creative I would be so so so happy I am struggling with this creative and I wanna get the best mark because my rank is like 199 or something out of 230. I WANT TO IMPROVE!!! )) Without further ado here is my creative (PS I cant think of a title for it so any suggestions would be great thanks <3 the ATAR Members you are awesome for helping me in many posts)
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Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Sugar is sweet,
And so are you.
Written by Sir Edmund Spenser in the 1590, the rhyme has been repeated since the 19th century. Since then, every couple has deconstructed, reused, and rewritten the miniature poem to better suit their individual context. In her eyes, this notion of Love was just an illusion to bring sorrow into families’ lives.
***
“Next on the news is the death of a famous singer Janis Joplin, reporters claimed that Janis died in an accidental heroin overdose at a hotel in Hollywood’s Landmark Hotel. However, there is no hard evidence to prove this caused her death, it could be…Buzz”
The television turned off as the girl’s reflection emerges from it.
Staring into her eyes, I knew her loneliness; inside that body was a trapped soul who yearned for love but could never find what it is she was looking for. I put aside the remote and went to the shower to cleanse the sins I had committed. Reverently walking into the cleansing shower, every day I see that same girl who just wants to love, trapped in this body. Her childhood was just as bad as mine, almost exactly the same but she did not have any recollection of the vivid memories.
***
The sun rose from the ocean, passing its light through the gossamer, white curtains. Even the Sun could escape the deep sea, but why could I never escape the war? The ground growls with the synchronised stomping of a thousand men. The engine of the tank thunders across the streets; cutting the landscape into segments, sectors, and constructed lines.
They have arrived.
Our time is up.
Empty bullets clinking on the broken roads, glass shattering and barricaded doors falling. The screams of terror echo across the city as child is torn from mother to serve the military. They took my mother away and hid any evidence that led to their identity. I knew this for a fact, because I saw it with my own naked eyes. Walking into the Hollywood’s Landmark Hotel, to feel the cooling air splashing onto my skin like jumping into the ocean. My eyes were directed towards the soldier that seemed to be attacked. His right arm was covered in white and his face had small scratches at the front.
My hands laying onto his arms I asked “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I found a couple of drug dealers and tried to chase them down. Unfortunately they were able to get away and threw a sack of flour on me while passing through a bakery store.”
We parted our ways as he turns his head with a smile. A smile of a criminal. But something made me feel uneasy, a soldier that chased drug dealers through a bakery store, there was not a single bakery store around the Hotel so how or even better yet why would he come here?
The lights flickered and I was transported to the 16th floor, having that scenario at the back of my mind made me wonder. I went to see my mother in the room 642 to find the door was open. She must have went out? Or maybe she was just talking to the cleaner? I approached to room to find white flour everywhere, lying on the filthy ground where my mother laid.
-
“Freeze! Put your hands in the air and don’t move!”
They were the murderers and I was the victim. To see my mother dead from the hands of a soldier is unforgivable. This country is full of lies. There is no such thing as the American dream.
Soldiers escorted me and the kidnapped families to the beach where we got on our knees staring at the beautiful sun.
“Don’t look behind you. Say your last prayers before you go to the underworld.”
Witnessing my mother’s death in front of my eyes made me want to burn them in hell. Never to exist in this country where lies were created by them.
The first victim fell to the ground…
Everyone screamed at the top of their lungs, begging for mercy, begging for freedom. In a world like this, there is no such thing as freedom.
Next the second…
I have no emotions to let out. Everything in my life had been taken by them. They made me suffer in loneliness.
After came the third…
Everyone started to cry, still in search for help. Families watching from the back begging them to stop. I have no one. Nobody in my life. My mother and I should have left this place a long time during her world tour. The guns reloaded.
“Ready. Aim. Fire!”
I was next in line.
I am ready. I will never see them again. I am glad this is happening to me. After all the troubles they put me through this was the least they could do to make me happy. The sun is sinking back into the ocean, where the dark had won over the light. I will be reunited with my mother again, who knows? I may have a family dinner again. God gave me this path and I shall follow it. God is giving me the chance to meet my family in the heavens.
*Guns reloading*
Wait for me mother. I am coming.
Post by: Wales on March 12, 2017, 12:06:31 pm
Hey Wales!! Sure thing, I'll pop the Creative below with some comments throughout:Spoiler
The deepening bass of the pedals intruded upon the dissonant sound of the piano, it was reminiscent of the cadent cracks of my mother's walking stick connecting against my right arm. The thought of my mother struck a chord of empathy. It was reminded me that she wasn’t composed entirely of malice, I began to remember my upbringing. I had always found it impossible to comprehend or justify her actions. I would constantly ask myself why I was being tormented. Previously I had thought her aggressive and demanding persona was her wanting to demoralise me but I now realised that it was not to dehumanise me but rather out of love. So here is another example of putting the Discovery on a platter for the audience - You are literally saying what the persona realises. You don't want to tell it - You want to show it. I now suspected that she didn’t want to let me go unprepared and unable to sustain myself as any mother would. She wanted to leave me with this divine gift and hoped I would be able to foster my piano talent into a living and that just maybe I would take to become a pianist. I had gained a new insight to my mother’s intentions, it was no longer vile and selfish, instead I began to understand the virtuosity behind it all. Again, some beautiful statements and language choices, but it is just too direct. You need to try and take a more subtle approach. I could sense her genuine love for me and it was through that love she so desperately wanted me to grow. All those hours of peril and disparage came together. I felt foolish for recognising it far too late, so late that I could not even thank her. I didn’t want to imagine what she was feeling when I showed resentment to her love. See below.
The piano now preached a splendorous sound I’ve never known. All my emotions harmonised in this symphony. This rainbow coloured symphony. Was it really the end? No, it was just the beginning of my life. A proper goodbye to my past. Something I’ve struggled to leave behind. My fingers gracefully floated across the innocent keys of ivory, conjuring the last of the empowering octaves. I felt calm, shocked, grateful as the final chord resonated within the hall making way for the silence that followed. The lustrous lights exposed my shadow as I sauntered to the stage and bowed.
Farewell Mother. Powerful finish - I like it.
So this is a REALLY effective story to be telling for Discovery. It is simple, the premise is powerful, and it is super character focused. Don't you dare change the idea unless you absolutely have to for a stimulus, because if keep working on this piece, you will get 15. The story is there, the concepts are there - Now it is just about execution.
My biggest comment is on the obvious nature of the Discovery. So that paragraph where I wrote "See below" - That is the sort of paragraph that appears in a lot of responses - And it is an escape paragraph. It's a, "Shit, I need to make sure they know what the Discovery is," so near the end, a heap of students put a paragraph like this that steps through the thought process and the Discovery in its entirety. This isn't a bad thing, but it isn't the sophisticated approach. You need to show restraint, make these ideas obvious to the reader without saying them. You can make reflective statements, but make them subtle. See this:
"I could still see the scars on my hands from the cracks of the cane. They sickened me still. But then, here those scarred hands were, playing on stage. They never faltered. Battle hardened."
This NEVER directly acknowledges the positive intentions to the mothers actions. But you know that it is there - The persona is acknowledging the benefits of the harsh practice ever so subtly, but it is enough. Now I pulled that out of nowhere and it isn't perfect, but THAT is the sort of stuff I need more of from you.
I think the flow is great, though I'd like to see more time spent on flashbacks and a more obvious distinction between the two. Perhaps, have a play with it and see! I think you need more description in the parts I've indicated above - Again, proper flashbacks. I think having distinct sections where you are flash-backing to a specific scene that shows something you want to see, then back to current, back again, etc etc. That would give you better flow. It could be:
- Current Day getting on stage
- Flashback to practice
- Modern day - Reflection and coda
- Flashback to practicing coda
- Modern Day
- End
Or something. But that is something to explore ;D
You've got the makings of something special here. Reign it in a little, work on being subtle - Gentle taps, not a hammer swing. And just keep playing with the structure until you are happy ;D
Sorry to bother you again. The "Oh shit" paragraph you mentioned. How do you think the idea of dialogue between say the Mother and Piano teacher would be?
-
During the late night practice sessions when she would reprimand me, she would choke on her words. When she would hit me there would be a tinge of guilt residing in her bloodshot eyes. I could vividly recall the night when my mother was talking to my piano teacher in the other room.
“Why, why are you so harsh on him?”
“Do you think I can live with myself if I leave him like this? What if he fails school? What if he doesn’t find a job? The piano is his only saving grace and it is all that I can offer him..”
(My fingers softened ... )
-
Would it be more effective compared to the "Oh Shit paragraph"? Obviously the quote could be refined but I feel as if it completely renders the paragraph useless. I could follow that up directly with him softening his playing, directly implying he realises his mothers intentions? On the one side I feel like cutting such a significant chunk of text feels wrong however I also feel the quote along with the next paragraph DIRECTLY implies everything the paragraph said and in perhaps a more effective manner. Also note I'm hitting 1200 words and need to cut down. My last creative was 1350 and I'm never attempting to write that word amount in 45 minutes again...
Cheers, Wales
Post by: stephjones on March 12, 2017, 01:10:57 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 13, 2017, 02:57:52 pm
Sorry this is going to be a repeat post from like the 7 minute post but I made 15 posts XD so yeh. Hi admin/marker/person who is gonna help me with this.
So if anyone could help with my creative I would be so so so happy I am struggling with this creative and I wanna get the best mark because my rank is like 199 or something out of 230. I WANT TO IMPROVE!!! )) Without further ado here is my creative (PS I cant think of a title for it so any suggestions would be great thanks <3 the ATAR Members you are awesome for helping me in many posts)
Hey Eric! Would be happy to give you a hand with your Creative, I've attached it below in the spoiler with comments in bold:
Spoiler
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Sugar is sweet,
And so are you.
Written by Sir Edmund Spenser in the 1590, the rhyme has been repeated since the 19th century. Since then, every couple has deconstructed, reused, and rewritten the miniature poem to better suit their individual context. In her eyes, this notion of Love was just an illusion to bring sorrow into families’ lives. Very interesting start - Reflective. It sets up a third person omnipotent narrator, meaning, this seems like it comes from a narrator who knows the story already. Definitely sets intrigue!
***
“Next on the news is the death of a famous singer Janis Joplin, reporters claimed that Janis died in an accidental heroin overdose at a hotel in Hollywood’s Landmark Hotel. However, there is no hard evidence to prove this caused her death, it could be…Buzz” I'd not include the 'buzz' here, it just seems awkward. Perhaps amend the next part with "The television crackled into lifelessness as the girl's..." or something, if you want the noise there.
The television turned off as the girl’s reflection emerges from it.
Staring into her eyes, I knew her loneliness; inside that body was a trapped soul who yearned for love but could never find what it is she was looking for. I put aside the remote and went to the shower to cleanse the sins I had committed. Reverently walking into the cleansing shower, every day I see that same girl who just wants to love, trapped in this body. Her childhood was just as bad as mine, almost exactly the same but she did not have any recollection of the vivid memories. So this paragraph is interesting - You're trying to set up story arcs. Problem is, you are TELLING, when you should try to be SHOWING. Don't tell me that this character wants to love, show me that they do. Give me flashbacks or internal reflection or something that shows me this, without just saying it directly.
***
The sun rose from the ocean, passing its light through the gossamer, white curtains. Even the Sun could escape the deep sea, but why could I never escape the war? The ground growls with the synchronised stomping of a thousand men. The engine of the tank thunders across the streets; cutting the landscape into segments, sectors, and constructed lines. I'm a little confused as to how this fits with the previous parts of the story - We are very fragmented. There is no indication as to how the different sections are fitting together.
They have arrived.
Our time is up. Nice play on sentence length here.
Empty bullets clinking on the broken roads, glass shattering and barricaded doors falling. The screams of terror echo across the city as child is torn from mother to serve the military. Excellent use of auditory imagery there. They took my mother away and hid any evidence that led to their identity. I knew this for a fact, because I saw it with my own naked eyes. Walking into the Hollywood’s Landmark Hotel, to feel the cooling air splashing onto my skin like jumping into the ocean. My eyes were directed towards the soldier that seemed to be attacked. His right arm was covered in white and his face had small scratches at the front.
My hands laying onto his arms I asked “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I found a couple of drug dealers and tried to chase them down. Unfortunately they were able to get away and threw a sack of flour on me while passing through a bakery store.” Try to think when writing dialogue, "Is this really what they would say?" The word choices here, particularly 'unfortunately,' just don't seem natural for an injured soldier. It's too formal, too 'speechy.' Try to always write dialogue that would be sensible in the given situation.
We parted our ways as he turns his head with a smile. A smile of a criminal. But something made me feel uneasy, a soldier that chased drug dealers through a bakery store, there was not a single bakery store around the Hotel so how or even better yet why would he come here? This is a very PLOT driven narrative - There's a lot happening here, and you have to explain a LOT to the reader to keep them in the loop. In general, you don't want to be needing to just present information to the reader for the story to make sense. The story should play out and the reader should be able to fill in the gaps themselves.
The lights flickered and I was transported to the 16th floor, having that scenario at the back of my mind made me wonder. I went to see my mother in the room 642 to find the door was open. She must have went out? Or maybe she was just talking to the cleaner? I approached to room to find white flour everywhere, lying on the filthy ground where my mother laid.
-
“Freeze! Put your hands in the air and don’t move!” I'd like to see you describe HOW this was said, given it is such a key line.
They were the murderers and I was the victim. To see my mother dead from the hands of a soldier is unforgivable. This country is full of lies. There is no such thing as the American dream. This is a lot of information - I feel like I'm being overloaded with concepts and ideas and none of them are getting the chance to fully be appreciated
Soldiers escorted me and the kidnapped families to the beach where we got on our knees staring at the beautiful sun.
“Don’t look behind you. Say your last prayers before you go to the underworld.” Again - Watch for realistic dialogue.
Witnessing my mother’s death in front of my eyes made me want to burn them in hell. Never to exist in this country where lies were created by them.
The first victim fell to the ground…
Everyone screamed at the top of their lungs, begging for mercy, begging for freedom. In a world like this, there is no such thing as freedom.
Next the second…
I have no emotions to let out. Everything in my life had been taken by them. They made me suffer in loneliness.
After came the third… I like what you are doing here with the count and the ellipsis, with the reflection in between. That's really powerful!
Everyone started to cry, still in search for help. Families watching from the back begging them to stop. I have no one. Nobody in my life. My mother and I should have left this place a long time during her world tour. The guns reloaded.
“Ready. Aim. Fire!” Realistic dialogue - This seems cheesy.
I was next in line.
I am ready. I will never see them again. I am glad this is happening to me. After all the troubles they put me through this was the least they could do to make me happy. The sun is sinking back into the ocean, where the dark had won over the light. I will be reunited with my mother again, who knows? I may have a family dinner again. God gave me this path and I shall follow it. God is giving me the chance to meet my family in the heavens.
*Guns reloading* This sort of 'sound description' doesn't work in a narrative - It only really works in plays. Replace it with "I heard the clicks as the guns were reloaded." or something.
Wait for me mother. I am coming.
Violets are blue,
Sugar is sweet,
And so are you.
Written by Sir Edmund Spenser in the 1590, the rhyme has been repeated since the 19th century. Since then, every couple has deconstructed, reused, and rewritten the miniature poem to better suit their individual context. In her eyes, this notion of Love was just an illusion to bring sorrow into families’ lives. Very interesting start - Reflective. It sets up a third person omnipotent narrator, meaning, this seems like it comes from a narrator who knows the story already. Definitely sets intrigue!
***
“Next on the news is the death of a famous singer Janis Joplin, reporters claimed that Janis died in an accidental heroin overdose at a hotel in Hollywood’s Landmark Hotel. However, there is no hard evidence to prove this caused her death, it could be…Buzz” I'd not include the 'buzz' here, it just seems awkward. Perhaps amend the next part with "The television crackled into lifelessness as the girl's..." or something, if you want the noise there.
The television turned off as the girl’s reflection emerges from it.
Staring into her eyes, I knew her loneliness; inside that body was a trapped soul who yearned for love but could never find what it is she was looking for. I put aside the remote and went to the shower to cleanse the sins I had committed. Reverently walking into the cleansing shower, every day I see that same girl who just wants to love, trapped in this body. Her childhood was just as bad as mine, almost exactly the same but she did not have any recollection of the vivid memories. So this paragraph is interesting - You're trying to set up story arcs. Problem is, you are TELLING, when you should try to be SHOWING. Don't tell me that this character wants to love, show me that they do. Give me flashbacks or internal reflection or something that shows me this, without just saying it directly.
***
The sun rose from the ocean, passing its light through the gossamer, white curtains. Even the Sun could escape the deep sea, but why could I never escape the war? The ground growls with the synchronised stomping of a thousand men. The engine of the tank thunders across the streets; cutting the landscape into segments, sectors, and constructed lines. I'm a little confused as to how this fits with the previous parts of the story - We are very fragmented. There is no indication as to how the different sections are fitting together.
They have arrived.
Our time is up. Nice play on sentence length here.
Empty bullets clinking on the broken roads, glass shattering and barricaded doors falling. The screams of terror echo across the city as child is torn from mother to serve the military. Excellent use of auditory imagery there. They took my mother away and hid any evidence that led to their identity. I knew this for a fact, because I saw it with my own naked eyes. Walking into the Hollywood’s Landmark Hotel, to feel the cooling air splashing onto my skin like jumping into the ocean. My eyes were directed towards the soldier that seemed to be attacked. His right arm was covered in white and his face had small scratches at the front.
My hands laying onto his arms I asked “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I found a couple of drug dealers and tried to chase them down. Unfortunately they were able to get away and threw a sack of flour on me while passing through a bakery store.” Try to think when writing dialogue, "Is this really what they would say?" The word choices here, particularly 'unfortunately,' just don't seem natural for an injured soldier. It's too formal, too 'speechy.' Try to always write dialogue that would be sensible in the given situation.
We parted our ways as he turns his head with a smile. A smile of a criminal. But something made me feel uneasy, a soldier that chased drug dealers through a bakery store, there was not a single bakery store around the Hotel so how or even better yet why would he come here? This is a very PLOT driven narrative - There's a lot happening here, and you have to explain a LOT to the reader to keep them in the loop. In general, you don't want to be needing to just present information to the reader for the story to make sense. The story should play out and the reader should be able to fill in the gaps themselves.
The lights flickered and I was transported to the 16th floor, having that scenario at the back of my mind made me wonder. I went to see my mother in the room 642 to find the door was open. She must have went out? Or maybe she was just talking to the cleaner? I approached to room to find white flour everywhere, lying on the filthy ground where my mother laid.
-
“Freeze! Put your hands in the air and don’t move!” I'd like to see you describe HOW this was said, given it is such a key line.
They were the murderers and I was the victim. To see my mother dead from the hands of a soldier is unforgivable. This country is full of lies. There is no such thing as the American dream. This is a lot of information - I feel like I'm being overloaded with concepts and ideas and none of them are getting the chance to fully be appreciated
Soldiers escorted me and the kidnapped families to the beach where we got on our knees staring at the beautiful sun.
“Don’t look behind you. Say your last prayers before you go to the underworld.” Again - Watch for realistic dialogue.
Witnessing my mother’s death in front of my eyes made me want to burn them in hell. Never to exist in this country where lies were created by them.
The first victim fell to the ground…
Everyone screamed at the top of their lungs, begging for mercy, begging for freedom. In a world like this, there is no such thing as freedom.
Next the second…
I have no emotions to let out. Everything in my life had been taken by them. They made me suffer in loneliness.
After came the third… I like what you are doing here with the count and the ellipsis, with the reflection in between. That's really powerful!
Everyone started to cry, still in search for help. Families watching from the back begging them to stop. I have no one. Nobody in my life. My mother and I should have left this place a long time during her world tour. The guns reloaded.
“Ready. Aim. Fire!” Realistic dialogue - This seems cheesy.
I was next in line.
I am ready. I will never see them again. I am glad this is happening to me. After all the troubles they put me through this was the least they could do to make me happy. The sun is sinking back into the ocean, where the dark had won over the light. I will be reunited with my mother again, who knows? I may have a family dinner again. God gave me this path and I shall follow it. God is giving me the chance to meet my family in the heavens.
*Guns reloading* This sort of 'sound description' doesn't work in a narrative - It only really works in plays. Replace it with "I heard the clicks as the guns were reloaded." or something.
Wait for me mother. I am coming.
So to respond to the bits of feedback you were given (which I've ignored until now, wanted to start fresh):
Quote
So I have some feedback from my friends about this creative. All together
1.they didn't like the part about the bakery and flour because nobody would say that in real life.
2. Towards the end of the story was a paragraph and my friends said it would be better that throughout the last part of the story it becomes shorter and shorter (not spoiling thee ending )
3. The character "Janis Joplin" and the setting. so for this I picked janis Joplin because the setting was based around like WW1 or 2 (when janis Joplin died) and my friends said why was there war in America and stuff like that so I need help on this one bad. I thought I put War in America because its a creative but apparently they didn't seem to like it.
4. They said my story was like everywhere. They said they only fully understand my story because I explained to them about it. And they told me to try make it less complex which idk how.
1. Yep, I picked this up too. See above. The situation is a bit far fetched, but further, how it was said just didn't seem like a natural piece of speech, given the character.
2. I do think the last part of the story should be broken up, to create some tension and suspense. It's the most powerful part of the story by far.
3. The inclusion of Janis Joplin really didn't make sense to me - I've no issue with the setting itself but it doesn't quite fit in with the greater narrative?
4. I definitely agree - The parts of your story don't really fit together. How does the poem at the start link to the rest of the story? How does the short part with the television relate to the later narrative?
Basically I think you have two things to work on. It's not your writing style - You are doing some powerful things with language, particularly towards the end.
First, I agree with the feedback you were given that the story is "everywhere." There isn't a cohesive flow through the whole thing; I was only able to start following along when the character walked into the hotel. You definitely need to drastically simplify - Unfortunately, I don't think your story idea in its current form will work. There are too many elements, and it is very PLOT driven (meaning you spend a lot of time explaining what is happening, rather than focusing on conceptual Discovery stuff). You can definitely use aspects of the story, but I have to be honest with you and say that right now the story just has too much going on to be conceptually effective :)
Go right back to bare bones. What you were doing at the execution scene in the end there was FANTASTIC - Why don't you make that the whole story? Have the character waiting to be killed and reflecting on their life, their mother, their country - The same ideas you explored in your story but purely through flashbacks and reflection in that one scene. That is much simpler, and much less plot driven (The plot is, "Character is going to die and is reflecting on stuff" Almost no time spent one explaining that, all your time spent on Discovery!)
And that's the 2nd issue - conceptual strength. You don't have a clear Discovery concept. You give sprinkles of it in places, but again there is just too much going on for it to get the attention it needs.
Simplifying your story will do wonders. Remove the complicated plot elements, remember to show and not tell, and focus on a simple scenario that maximises the time you can spend writing conceptually. You are an effective writer - You just need to adjust WHAT you are writing ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 13, 2017, 03:02:50 pm
Sorry to bother you again. The "Oh shit" paragraph you mentioned. How do you think the idea of dialogue between say the Mother and Piano teacher would be?
-
During the late night practice sessions when she would reprimand me, she would choke on her words. When she would hit me there would be a tinge of guilt residing in her bloodshot eyes. I could vividly recall the night when my mother was talking to my piano teacher in the other room.
“Why, why are you so harsh on him?”
“Do you think I can live with myself if I leave him like this? What if he fails school? What if he doesn’t find a job? The piano is his only saving grace and it is all that I can offer him..”
(My fingers softened ... )
-
Would it be more effective compared to the "Oh Shit paragraph"? Obviously the quote could be refined but I feel as if it completely renders the paragraph useless. I could follow that up directly with him softening his playing, directly implying he realises his mothers intentions? On the one side I feel like cutting such a significant chunk of text feels wrong however I also feel the quote along with the next paragraph DIRECTLY implies everything the paragraph said and in perhaps a more effective manner. Also note I'm hitting 1200 words and need to cut down. My last creative was 1350 and I'm never attempting to write that word amount in 45 minutes again...
Cheers, Wales
If you are needing to cut back, I think cutting the chunk of text would be a good move! If you believe you can communicate the same ideas in less words, then it is almost always a good idea to do so. Less is more, and having less words gives you more time to adapt to the question on the day if you need to ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 13, 2017, 03:06:29 pm
Hey! I don't need my creative marked (yet) but I was wondering about incorporating the stimulus. What actually classifies as a sophisticated inclusion of the stimulus? And if it's a quote that pretty much sums up the entire theme of your story, could you just include it as an opening quote or is that too basic?
Hey Steph!
So I got what I think is great advice on stimuli - Pretend you've got a few to choose from (like they did in the HSC last year). The incorporation of your stimulus should be obvious enough that a marker who has the stimuli knows what you picked, but subtle enough that I, as an Advanced student reading your story blind and WITHOUT the stimulus, can't guess what the stimulus was. If I notice out of place cues or dialogue, and can guess the stimulus (roughly) based on that, then you know you haven't used it in a sophisticated way. Sophisticated incorporation is about incorporating it into your story in a way that it doesn't seem like you are doing anything at all :)
So on the quote, does it seem natural to start your story with the quote? Does it honestly fit? If it does, great, do that! If not, then it is better not to - And MOST cases I'd say that just putting the quote at the start is too basic :)
Post by: stephjones on March 13, 2017, 06:39:02 pm
Hey Steph!
So I got what I think is great advice on stimuli - Pretend you've got a few to choose from (like they did in the HSC last year). The incorporation of your stimulus should be obvious enough that a marker who has the stimuli knows what you picked, but subtle enough that I, as an Advanced student reading your story blind and WITHOUT the stimulus, can't guess what the stimulus was. If I notice out of place cues or dialogue, and can guess the stimulus (roughly) based on that, then you know you haven't used it in a sophisticated way. Sophisticated incorporation is about incorporating it into your story in a way that it doesn't seem like you are doing anything at all :)
So on the quote, does it seem natural to start your story with the quote? Does it honestly fit? If it does, great, do that! If not, then it is better not to - And MOST cases I'd say that just putting the quote at the start is too basic :)
Awesome, thank you! That makes a lot of sense :)
Post by: K9810 on March 19, 2017, 02:56:05 pm
Any ideas on what I can talk about for my creative for this stimulus?
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 19, 2017, 07:11:00 pm
Hey,
Any ideas on what I can talk about for my creative for this stimulus?
Do you have a Creative you are looking to tailor or do you need a totally new idea? ;D
Post by: K9810 on March 19, 2017, 08:02:13 pm
Do you have a Creative you are looking to tailor or do you need a totally new idea? ;D
I am stuck as to choosing a new idea :(
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 19, 2017, 09:11:50 pm
I am stuck as to choosing a new idea :(
Cool! Well you could work with the setting, perhaps someone reminiscing on their life as they lie in their bed, or something like that? I don't want to suggest anything too specific because like, you writing my idea won't be as effective as you writing your idea for your vision. But try and look metaphorically too - Like, that quote below the image might represent discovering some previously unknown truth? The image is pretty literal, but you can twist the quote to do all sorts of things!
You should also check out this guide Elyse wrote - It covers a few things you should consider when coming up with your Creative ideas - It could help you brainstorm! :)
Post by: Wales on March 19, 2017, 09:49:25 pm
I've given my creative to a friend to read and she's noted that the recurring metaphor/motif of the painting to show various aspects of the music seems a bit forced. I can see where she's coming from.
Do you think it's too unnatural and awkward from a contextual standpoint? It feels like I'm trying too hard to integrate the stimulus (which includes a mirror/painting). If so, do you have any alternative suggestions? I need a way to convey the concept of color being integrated into the music and I can only think of the canvas and the colors. Would something as blunt as directly describing the notes as colorful be a step backward?
Cheers, Wales
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 19, 2017, 10:33:39 pm
Hey Jamon~!
I've given my creative to a friend to read and she's noted that the recurring metaphor/motif of the painting to show various aspects of the music seems a bit forced. I can see where she's coming from.
Do you think it's too unnatural and awkward from a contextual standpoint? It feels like I'm trying too hard to integrate the stimulus (which includes a mirror/painting). If so, do you have any alternative suggestions? I need a way to convey the concept of color being integrated into the music and I can only think of the canvas and the colors. Would something as blunt as directly describing the notes as colorful be a step backward?
Cheers, Wales
If your friend thinks it is too forced, chances are it is too forced. Peers normally have a good intuition for that sort of thing, because as soon as it becomes obvious to them, imagine how obvious it would be to a teacher?
I think describing the notes as colourful would be a little simplistic - Perhaps different sections of the song can carry a different emotional weight and cause recollection of scenes with different colours? Bright colours for happy, dark for sad, something like that? :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 20, 2017, 05:18:36 am
could you please mark this for me
thank you!
Sure can Hanaacdr :)
Comments are in bold font throughout! :)
Spoiler
“I am very pleased to be here today at the launch of Australia’s celebration of 1993 International year of the World’s Indigenous people”
His heartbeat echoed in his ears as the “leader” of “our” nation, Hon. Paul Keating attempted to apologise, a grim reminder of his own mortality. It beat so loudly that it seemed to want to escape his chest, suffocating in his own breath. His eyes were flashing with anger, his face scrunched tight in anticipation of something bad and he clenched his fist as hard as he could.
He felt uneasy and uncomfortable but he did not change his stance. Anger and rage spurred within him like an alien child that welled and wanted release. He adjusted his suit and collar and prayed for him to leave the stage microphone after everything they had done. Refusing to look him in the eye he stared at his feet hoping he would never hear his “nationalistic pride” voice again. "would never hear his voice full of "nationalistic pride" again." This might suit better - nationalistic pride doesn't work as an adjective to the noun of voice. Nationalistic is an adjective, pride is a noun, then voice is a noun. Two nouns in a row don't suit. But you've quoted it, so it works a little better, but I think adjusting the syntax is the best way to avoid it jarring!
We understand you are doing this for the “political regime,” but what about our language? What about our health? What about our education? There was no way Australia was going to change, Maybe a full stop here to declare the definitiveness? it was simple, Australia will forever be divided and indigenous Australians will be mistreated, Benny had no doubt about this.
He could not leave now, he was well into the speech and there was no way he was going to leave, Benny stood there in disbelief. All he wanted was recognition and an apology that came from the heart and not from the ground. Nice!
Why couldn’t the “leader” of our country see a place in the Australian narrative for me and my community? I have an urge for this to be more powerful, and maybe this will come later in the story - but Indigenous Australians are not just a preface for a narrative, they are the setting, the plot, and everything more, and then the conclusion is where we are now. Maybe you could run this idea through your story? Indicating the length and strength of Indigenous culture in Australia as being ongoing, and wanting to be acknowledged for this, rather than their culture just being a preface for the modern Australian narrative. Could be a good metaphor!
“We committed the murders
We took the children from their mothers
We practiced discrimination and exclusion
it was our ignorance and our prejudice”
He could not believe it, finally a necessary recognition, a rectification for society. He tilted his head up, and looked him in the eye. He turned around to his brothers and sisters to the people who shared his hardships and struggles, clapping and cheering with large smiles stretched from ear to ear the closest thing they would get to an apology.
Unforgiving and cruel thoughts raced through his mind, Benny felt thoughts lingering upon his skin as goose bumps covered his skin, shiver run down his spine as he agitated as flashbacks of the past appeared once again. He could not stop thinking about the hardships he had to endure, the “discrimination and exclusion” when he asked for pastoral leases and land under his name of which he was denied. He knew for reconciliation he had to leave his past behind and progress forward without any doubts.
This “apology” could have been done earlier, but hearing the saddened and pure tone of Hon. Keating gave me second thoughts.
The 3 seconds of silence was all Benny required to say a quick prayer to his ancestors. Slowly he felt himself breathing freely and unclenching his fist, feeling a sense of ease.
Where had time gone, he took a second to look down at his watch as he looked up applauses and laughs filled the air once again. Smiles of his brothers and sisters made Benny feel a sense of contentment and pleasure. He wished he could cherish this moment for as long as he can remember.
“there is everything to gain.
Even the unhappy past speaks for this”
Could us, Aboriginals find solidarity and commit to a common cause of social progression? Could the sceptical non- Aboriginal population celebrate the egalitarian values of Australian society as a justification for his efforts? Could we really close the gap between indigenous and non- indigenous Australian and change for the better as a society? The only way to slowly close the distance of this gap is to display sympathy to the Aboriginal people.
Benny felt a sense of urgency as his heart raced faster and faster, as he turns around to his brothers and sisters to all those equally as moved as the white Australians and the indigenous Australians reconcile, he looks down at his three children and smiles at his wife as he put his arm around her and gives her a kiss as a proud tear rolled down his face and a sweet breeze gushed passed his smiling face full of emotion.
Finally, the light at the end of the tunnel, as they got closer and closer he was greeted by a sparkly look of solicitude in his eyes, the smile was an incarnation of his ecstatic feelings to be a “Proud Indigenous Australian”
And maybe we can achieve this equality he talks about.
“we cannot imagine that we will fail.
And with that spirit that is here today I am confident that we won’t.
I am confident that we will succeed in this decade”
His heartbeat echoed in his ears as the “leader” of “our” nation, Hon. Paul Keating attempted to apologise, a grim reminder of his own mortality. It beat so loudly that it seemed to want to escape his chest, suffocating in his own breath. His eyes were flashing with anger, his face scrunched tight in anticipation of something bad and he clenched his fist as hard as he could.
He felt uneasy and uncomfortable but he did not change his stance. Anger and rage spurred within him like an alien child that welled and wanted release. He adjusted his suit and collar and prayed for him to leave the stage microphone after everything they had done. Refusing to look him in the eye he stared at his feet hoping he would never hear his “nationalistic pride” voice again. "would never hear his voice full of "nationalistic pride" again." This might suit better - nationalistic pride doesn't work as an adjective to the noun of voice. Nationalistic is an adjective, pride is a noun, then voice is a noun. Two nouns in a row don't suit. But you've quoted it, so it works a little better, but I think adjusting the syntax is the best way to avoid it jarring!
We understand you are doing this for the “political regime,” but what about our language? What about our health? What about our education? There was no way Australia was going to change, Maybe a full stop here to declare the definitiveness? it was simple, Australia will forever be divided and indigenous Australians will be mistreated, Benny had no doubt about this.
He could not leave now, he was well into the speech and there was no way he was going to leave, Benny stood there in disbelief. All he wanted was recognition and an apology that came from the heart and not from the ground. Nice!
Why couldn’t the “leader” of our country see a place in the Australian narrative for me and my community? I have an urge for this to be more powerful, and maybe this will come later in the story - but Indigenous Australians are not just a preface for a narrative, they are the setting, the plot, and everything more, and then the conclusion is where we are now. Maybe you could run this idea through your story? Indicating the length and strength of Indigenous culture in Australia as being ongoing, and wanting to be acknowledged for this, rather than their culture just being a preface for the modern Australian narrative. Could be a good metaphor!
“We committed the murders
We took the children from their mothers
We practiced discrimination and exclusion
it was our ignorance and our prejudice”
He could not believe it, finally a necessary recognition, a rectification for society. He tilted his head up, and looked him in the eye. He turned around to his brothers and sisters to the people who shared his hardships and struggles, clapping and cheering with large smiles stretched from ear to ear the closest thing they would get to an apology.
Unforgiving and cruel thoughts raced through his mind, Benny felt thoughts lingering upon his skin as goose bumps covered his skin, shiver run down his spine as he agitated as flashbacks of the past appeared once again. He could not stop thinking about the hardships he had to endure, the “discrimination and exclusion” when he asked for pastoral leases and land under his name of which he was denied. He knew for reconciliation he had to leave his past behind and progress forward without any doubts.
This “apology” could have been done earlier, but hearing the saddened and pure tone of Hon. Keating gave me second thoughts.
The 3 seconds of silence was all Benny required to say a quick prayer to his ancestors. Slowly he felt himself breathing freely and unclenching his fist, feeling a sense of ease.
Where had time gone, he took a second to look down at his watch as he looked up applauses and laughs filled the air once again. Smiles of his brothers and sisters made Benny feel a sense of contentment and pleasure. He wished he could cherish this moment for as long as he can remember.
“there is everything to gain.
Even the unhappy past speaks for this”
Could us, Aboriginals find solidarity and commit to a common cause of social progression? Could the sceptical non- Aboriginal population celebrate the egalitarian values of Australian society as a justification for his efforts? Could we really close the gap between indigenous and non- indigenous Australian and change for the better as a society? The only way to slowly close the distance of this gap is to display sympathy to the Aboriginal people.
Benny felt a sense of urgency as his heart raced faster and faster, as he turns around to his brothers and sisters to all those equally as moved as the white Australians and the indigenous Australians reconcile, he looks down at his three children and smiles at his wife as he put his arm around her and gives her a kiss as a proud tear rolled down his face and a sweet breeze gushed passed his smiling face full of emotion.
Finally, the light at the end of the tunnel, as they got closer and closer he was greeted by a sparkly look of solicitude in his eyes, the smile was an incarnation of his ecstatic feelings to be a “Proud Indigenous Australian”
And maybe we can achieve this equality he talks about.
“we cannot imagine that we will fail.
And with that spirit that is here today I am confident that we won’t.
I am confident that we will succeed in this decade”
I think you've chosen a unique setting, and I love the way the speech is fragmented to include some plot analysis in there. I think this structure is what is most appealing about your work. There lies room for improvement in the non-speech parts. The writing is very simple, and although pensive questions are asked, there is an opportunity in the expression for more. I suggested the idea of the Australian narrative. I think you could blow this metaphor open to really work in your favour. I think that there could be a voice for wanting Indigenous Australians to be part of the Australian narrative, only to turn around and say, wait on - Indigenous Australians have made up the entire freaking narrative - until very recent times? You could talk about how for such a long time Aboriginal Australia has been seen as just a preface, and then you could talk about who the writer is - how colonised Australia took the pen and forged history and rewrote chapters. But at the end, as the speech ends, there is an agreement to hold the pen together and write history at the same desk, and plan the rest of the narrative together. I think this metaphor would run beautifully through the parts where the speech is not, and it will evoke a lot more emotion. The narrator will be going through a discovery process of their own perception of the way colonised Australia treats Aboriginal Australia, it will evolve as the story goes on and the discoveries will consequently unravel for the reader as well. Of course you don't need to take on this idea - it's just what I think would be most suitable for spicing up the narrator's voice. The writing currently is simple and rhetorical - asking too much of the reader. Whereas with a metaphor, you can be more emotive with the reader and engage in that together.
Let me know what you think... :)
Post by: K9810 on March 20, 2017, 06:53:02 am
Cool! Well you could work with the setting, perhaps someone reminiscing on their life as they lie in their bed, or something like that? I don't want to suggest anything too specific because like, you writing my idea won't be as effective as you writing your idea for your vision. But try and look metaphorically too - Like, that quote below the image might represent discovering some previously unknown truth? The image is pretty literal, but you can twist the quote to do all sorts of things!
You should also check out this guide Elyse wrote - It covers a few things you should consider when coming up with your Creative ideas - It could help you brainstorm! :)
Thank you! :)
Post by: Wales on March 20, 2017, 08:44:51 am
If your friend thinks it is too forced, chances are it is too forced. Peers normally have a good intuition for that sort of thing, because as soon as it becomes obvious to them, imagine how obvious it would be to a teacher?
I think describing the notes as colourful would be a little simplistic - Perhaps different sections of the song can carry a different emotional weight and cause recollection of scenes with different colours? Bright colours for happy, dark for sad, something like that? :)
I came to a similar conclusion. Her reasoning was that it was just weird how I was switching between the two art forms and discriminated against the painting. I'm going to have a read of other essays and ask my friends for some suggestions.
I'll see what I can do :)
Cheers, Wales .
Post by: yharb on March 20, 2017, 07:40:30 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 20, 2017, 08:15:35 pm
I've submitted 15 replies and posted my creative but I'm not sure where to even find it anymore on this page? How do I know if you guys have replied to it yet or not?
You did not do 15 posts, you posted your same creative, fifteen times one after another (I deleted them all) - That's not the 15 replies you need to be eligible for this feedback. As per the essay marking rules (check the link in my signature) you need to be asking and answering questions and contributing to the site.
Post by: yharb on March 20, 2017, 08:34:34 pm
You did not do 15 posts, you posted your same creative, fifteen times one after another (I deleted them all) - That's not the 15 replies you need to be eligible for this feedback. As per the essay marking rules (check the link in my signature) you need to be asking and answering questions and contributing to the site.
So sorry, I wasn't really clear on what to do.
Post by: bananna on March 20, 2017, 08:46:43 pm
So sorry, I wasn't really clear on what to do.
yeah, you need 15 posts, like asking questions on different forums is really helpful and gets your post count up. :)
Post by: Wales on March 20, 2017, 10:08:34 pm
So sorry, I wasn't really clear on what to do.
Have a look around the forums. Maybe you can offer people some help if you're confident in a specific subject etc. I might enter the Mathamatics forum for instance and help Rui or the others answer some questions if I have time :) It's really an awesome community once you participate and integrate yourself.
Happy posting ~
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 20, 2017, 10:11:55 pm
So sorry, I wasn't really clear on what to do.
Have a look around the forums. Maybe you can offer people some help if you're confident in a specific subject etc. I might enter the Mathamatics forum for instance and help Rui or the others answer some questions if I have time :) It's really an awesome community once you participate and integrate yourself.
Happy posting ~
Indeed, yharb has already been lending a hand on the PE boards and elsewhere! Much appreciated - Keep it up and you'll reach the requirement in no time :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 22, 2017, 09:08:41 pm
Hi,
I'd love to know if my story makes any sense and if it fits the concept discovery well. Also, if you could give me an estimate of the mark that I might get for this creative, that would be great! Thanks!
Welcome to the forums Carissaml! ;D
Thanks for posting your essay - Our essay marking rules require you to have 15 posts for each essay you'd like feedback for. This is just to make sure the markers can keep up ;D
If you hang around the site a bit, I bet you'll reach that threshold in no time :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 24, 2017, 07:03:29 pm
So this is my essay-speech. It is a 4 min speech with 30 seconds lean way, and was wondering which parts I should remove in my essay. Feedback will be amazing. ;) 8)
PS: I'm not sure if this is the right thread to post... ???
I think I'll slide this over to the essay thread!! I'll move this now ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 24, 2017, 09:56:54 pm
Here is my creative writing! Can someone please mark this for me as my half yearlys are in three days (I leave things to the last minute ahaha). Thanks, Josh
Hey Josh! Welcome to the forums!
Thanks for posting your Creative - Unfortunately we require 15 posts on ATAR Notes per piece of detailed feedback we give you. This is just to make sure the markers can keep up (Elyse and I have had like 5 or 6 essays posted in the last 24 hours and we're like, "eep", ahaha ;)) - You are welcome to ask questions and contribute to conversation to meet that requirement! Then just let me know when you do ;D
In any case, good luck with your exam on Monday! ;D
Post by: dux99.95 on March 25, 2017, 12:41:13 am
Thanks so much for this! We really appreciate you guys :)
half yearly on monday
> I just need to know overall what i could improve to make it a 15/15. I'm a bit concerned about logical flow & showing/not telling but yeah overall what could I do? Also looking to cut words tho not necessary.
I've attached it ALONG WITH the stimulus I prepared. Please refer to the stimulus as well and not just the creative. The stimulus qustion is just on top of the same word doc, its pretty conspicuous.
Can I remove my creative after feedback? I'm just afraid of it being out here so open...
Thanks once again:)
BTW when i get a reply, do I click the page number or look for my post? Or is there a link to go directly to my post cos I havent seen that so far
Post by: Ellie__ on March 25, 2017, 09:08:27 am
Could you please have a look at my Discovery Creative, I'm not quite sure if it's too cliché or if the tense is right throughout.
You guys are awesome!!
Thankyou!!
Discovery Creative Writing-
Mum held my hand. It was trembling. Numb. Her skin against mine, cold to touch, clambered with the droplets of sweat that permeate. I could feel her rapid pulse. Boom, Boom, Boom. One after the other. Faster. I’ve never seen her like this before, riddled with fear, fear of the unknown. Her vision fixated on what’s in front, searching for some kind of solution. But this time there is no solution. No magic wand. Nothing.
Her bottom lip quivered, I know she was holding back. She’s built a barrier, no one can tap inside. Scared. Her eyes became covered by a sheen of water. The air in the room was thick, sterilised, stagnate. No breath could be taken. Nothing was said. Silence dominated. My thoughts wondered, as I search for some kind of comfort, a memory of the past.
She held my hand, the warming touch of her soften hands cured any feelings of the crisp cold air that surrounded. Her hands a golden olive hue as the rays of sun pierced through the dancing leaves of the trees that glistened against her paper thin skin.
We walked along the cement pathway, our footsteps in a synchronised rhythm one after the other, rustling the fallen autumn leaves that carpet the pathway tones of reds and gold. The hum of the bustling city that encircled, bursts of frustrated taxi horns and the ever-changing tune of the grey-bearded busker who perch along the sidewalk- Silenced. The mesmerising sway of the colourful boughs above, suspended by the ash coloured rough-barked beauty of the roots that we like to call our loyal friends, stand tall either side of the path as we transcend past. The smell was like no other, fresh and replenishing that filled our lungs with a newfound energy.
I looked up at her face, her smile more than just a display of emotion. But rather a comforting sense of solace that soothes any sense of worry. The burnt orange glimmers of the afternoon sun illuminate her auburn short curls of hair that frame around her face, hiding the tints of grey you would never dare to mention. Her lips red as rose, always matching the nails on her hands. Her eyes a rich blue, almost like the open ocean I’ve always dreamt about.
We continued along the leaf covered path until we reached her unit in the outskirts of the city. I could always tell this was hers by the numerous plant pots that ranged in size, all with flowering blooms of roses and sprigs of herbs that sat on the front perch creating an inviting aroma that would lead anyone up to the front door. The outside of her unit was a creamy yellow hue, aged by the long hours of sun it faced in the summer months. In the middle was the enormous mahogany door curved as an arch on top, with a frosted emerald and violet arching glass widow above.
She lifted up the corner of the doormat to reach the key. After a few minutes of clever negotiation with the door, we finally make it inside. As usual, I felt her warm hand slide off my sweater to hang it on the clothes stand in the hallway. Above the coats was a shelf with a line of old photos and albums that I never get tired of gazing through, games to play and folded coats of hers and the ones we always forget to take home.
The hallway opened onto the dining room, Grandma’s prize possession. Centred in the middle of the room was her great, dark oak rounded table. I could never understand how Grandma’s 5’4”slim and delicate stature need such an enormous table, but I never questioned it. Faded white cotton dollies sat on top of the table, each created by Grandma’s stiffened hands. Photos and trinkets older than me, from times of war sat on the shelves that surround the room, all free of dust and chaotically ordered.
As I stood admiring each individual photo, the sound of ponding and the following aroma of mint and thyme, sparked my sensations. Immediately, pangs of hunger stirred with the thought of Grandma’s food. I left the room and sat on the wooden stool in the kitchen. Memorised by the movement of Grandma’s cooking. “This is the meal that I first ate, after the war had finished” she nostalgically continued, “everyone on the street came into our terrace for supper to celebrate, the boys were coming home!”
Half an hour passed, with the buzz of the oven timer. Within moments Grandma sprung up from her old mahogany arm chair, leaving her knitting needles halfway through a row. She directed me to the dining room, footsteps come nearer and never, appearing with oven gloves in hand, the smile on her face and the gleam of her blue eyes was enough to say this will be good.
The silent hushed footsteps of the nurses as they quietly did their rounds. The creases and indentations of Grandma’s wearied figure, the markers of age now revealed as the mask that once covered every wrinkle and every age, gone. The true beauty of her life, experience and memories is only to be seen. The wrinkles on her face explain the most incredible journey. The lines under her eyes told of smiles, laughter and affection. The creases above the eyebrows show the worries and doubts of her past that now lay at ease. He lines were so engrained they told the greatest story of the beam of light and energy who has travelled through eight and a half decades.
Mum’s hand still quivered as the tears of attachment still rolled down her cheeks. I grasped her and Grandma’s hands. Standing in silence, my eye gaze catches the bright, golden hues of the setting sun dancing along the tree branches behind the square window above Grandma’s bed. We both immerse our focus within the natural world, the ever blue sky the shades of Grandma’s blue eyes, her auburn curls of hair now colours of the tree branches that sway. The crimson red lips blossomed as the roses caught the glimmering rays. The tears that fell along our cheeks slowly eased, as the memory of Grandma’s beauty and affection could never be forgotten.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 25, 2017, 11:49:50 am
Hey
Thanks so much for this! We really appreciate you guys :)
half yearly on monday
Can I remove my creative after feedback? I'm just afraid of it being out here so open...
Hey saloni! We cannot remove your Creative after feedback - This thread, beyond being a place for feedback, acts like one of those sample booklets you'd buy from NESA. Sample responses with comments saying what worked and what didn't - It's like one of those $40 booklets, but free ;D we've had lots of people who have benefitted from these threads just by reading other peoples work and seeing what worked and what didn't - So for that reason, the creative has to stay up here with the feedback :)
Note that we've been marking in NSW for a year and we've never had an issue with plagiarism or anything of the sort :) if you are still cool getting it marked I'll do it today for you! ;D
Post by: dux99.95 on March 25, 2017, 12:02:21 pm
Hey saloni! We cannot remove your Creative after feedback - This thread, beyond being a place for feedback, acts like one of those sample booklets you'd buy from NESA. Sample responses with comments saying what worked and what didn't - It's like one of those $40 booklets, but free ;D we've had lots of people who have benefitted from these threads just by reading other peoples work and seeing what worked and what didn't - So for that reason, the creative has to stay up here with the feedback :)
Note that we've been marking in NSW for a year and we've never had an issue with plagiarism or anything of the sort :) if you are still cool getting it marked I'll do it today for you! ;D
Hmmm okay, that is an awesome idea tbh. Yep please mark it!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 25, 2017, 12:12:29 pm
Hi Guys!!!
Could you please have a look at my Discovery Creative, I'm not quite sure if it's too cliché or if the tense is right throughout.
You guys are awesome!!
Thankyou!!
No worries Ellie! Your creative is attached with comments in bold ;D
Spoiler
Mum held my hand. It was trembling. Numb. Her skin against mine, cold to touch, clambered with the droplets of sweat that permeate. I could feel her rapid pulse. Boom, Boom, Boom. This use of onomatopoeia seems a little cheesy. I don't think it quite matches your tone. One after the other. Faster. I’ve never seen her like this before, riddled with fear, fear of the unknown. Her vision fixated on what’s in front, searching for some kind of solution. But this time there is no solution. No magic wand. Nothing. Very interesting introduction - Nice manipulation of sentence length and accumulation!
Her bottom lip quivered, I know she was holding back. She’s built a barrier, no one can tap inside. Scared. I like these shorter sentences scattered, but make sure they make sense. This "Scared." in the middle of nowhere doesn't quite sit right. Her eyes became covered by a sheen of water. The air in the room was thick, sterilised, stagnate. No breath could be taken. Nothing was said. Silence dominated. You are developing a very "choppy" style of writing here - Lots of truncated sentences will do this. Not a bad thing, just an observation as to whether that is how you want it to come across. My thoughts wondered, as I search for some kind of comfort, a memory of the past.
She held my hand, the warming touch of her soften hands cured any feelings of the crisp cold air that surrounded. Her hands a golden olive hue as the rays of sun pierced through the dancing leaves of the trees that glistened against her paper thin skin.
We walked along the cement pathway, our footsteps in a synchronised rhythm one after the other, rustling the fallen autumn leaves that carpet the pathway tones of reds and gold. The hum of the bustling city that encircled, bursts of frustrated taxi horns and the ever-changing tune of the grey-bearded busker who perch along the sidewalk- Silenced. The mesmerising sway of the colourful boughs above, suspended by the ash coloured rough-barked beauty of the roots that we like to call our loyal friends, stand tall either side of the path as we transcend past. The smell was like no other, fresh and replenishing that filled our lungs with a newfound energy. Watch for OVER-DESCRIPTION - This is where you describe things in the environment that don't really need to be described. If you describe everything, you describe nothing, because the audience doesn't know which of the images you are presenting to focus on. Band 5 students can use descriptive language effectively. Band 6 students can use it carefully to achieve specific purposes.
I looked up at her face, her smile more than just a display of emotion. But rather a comforting sense of solace that soothes any sense of worry. The burnt orange glimmers of the afternoon sun illuminate her auburn short curls of hair that frame around her face, hiding the tints of grey you would never dare to mention. Her lips red as rose, always matching the nails on her hands. Her eyes a rich blue, almost like the open ocean I’ve always dreamt about.
We continued along the leaf covered path until we reached her unit in the outskirts of the city. I could always tell this was hers by the numerous plant pots that ranged in size, all with flowering blooms of roses and sprigs of herbs that sat on the front perch creating an inviting aroma that would lead anyone up to the front door. The outside of her unit was a creamy yellow hue, aged by the long hours of sun it faced in the summer months. In the middle was the enormous mahogany door curved as an arch on top, with a frosted emerald and violet arching glass widow above. I do like the contrasting images you are presenting from your introduction to here - That is great. I do think you could do it in less space though.
She lifted up the corner of the doormat to reach the key. After a few minutes of clever negotiation with the door, we finally make it inside. As usual, I felt her warm hand slide off my sweater to hang it on the clothes stand in the hallway. Above the coats was a shelf with a line of old photos and albums that I never get tired of gazing through, games to play and folded coats of hers and the ones we always forget to take home.
The hallway opened onto the dining room, Grandma’s prize possession. Centred in the middle of the room was her great, dark oak rounded table. I could never understand how Grandma’s 5’4”slim and delicate stature need such an enormous table, but I never questioned it. Faded white cotton dollies sat on top of the table, each created by Grandma’s stiffened hands. Photos and trinkets older than me, from times of war sat on the shelves that surround the room, all free of dust and chaotically ordered.
As I stood admiring each individual photo, the sound of ponding and the following aroma of mint and thyme, sparked my sensations. Immediately, pangs of hunger stirred with the thought of Grandma’s food. I left the room and sat on the wooden stool in the kitchen. Memorised by the movement of Grandma’s cooking. “This is the meal that I first ate, after the war had finished” she nostalgically continued, “everyone on the street came into our terrace for supper to celebrate, the boys were coming home!” Nice use of dialogue! Very realistic - Not easy to do! I'd get rid of "had finished" though and just say "after the war," - In my head that works a little better.
Half an hour passed, with the buzz of the oven timer. Within moments Grandma sprung up from her old mahogany arm chair, leaving her knitting needles halfway through a row. She directed me to the dining room, footsteps come nearer and never, appearing with oven gloves in hand, the smile on her face and the gleam of her blue eyes was enough to say this will be good.
The silent hushed footsteps of the nurses as they quietly did their rounds. The creases and indentations of Grandma’s wearied figure, the markers of age now revealed as the mask that once covered every wrinkle and every age, gone. The true beauty of her life, experience and memories is only to be seen. The wrinkles on her face explain the most incredible journey. The lines under her eyes told of smiles, laughter and affection. The creases above the eyebrows show the worries and doubts of her past that now lay at ease. He lines were so engrained they told the greatest story of the beam of light and energy who has travelled through eight and a half decades. Great contrast created between the remembered scene and what we now realise to be the current scene. But, I do think we took too long to get here. We were in the memory for so long it's a little bit off putting to be thrust back into this situation without any warning or indication.
Mum’s hand still quivered as the tears of attachment still rolled down her cheeks. I grasped her and Grandma’s hands. Standing in silence, my eye gaze catches the bright, golden hues of the setting sun dancing along the tree branches behind the square window above Grandma’s bed. We both immerse our focus within the natural world, the ever blue sky the shades of Grandma’s blue eyes, her auburn curls of hair now colours of the tree branches that sway. The crimson red lips blossomed as the roses caught the glimmering rays. The tears that fell along our cheeks slowly eased, as the memory of Grandma’s beauty and affection could never be forgotten.
Her bottom lip quivered, I know she was holding back. She’s built a barrier, no one can tap inside. Scared. I like these shorter sentences scattered, but make sure they make sense. This "Scared." in the middle of nowhere doesn't quite sit right. Her eyes became covered by a sheen of water. The air in the room was thick, sterilised, stagnate. No breath could be taken. Nothing was said. Silence dominated. You are developing a very "choppy" style of writing here - Lots of truncated sentences will do this. Not a bad thing, just an observation as to whether that is how you want it to come across. My thoughts wondered, as I search for some kind of comfort, a memory of the past.
She held my hand, the warming touch of her soften hands cured any feelings of the crisp cold air that surrounded. Her hands a golden olive hue as the rays of sun pierced through the dancing leaves of the trees that glistened against her paper thin skin.
We walked along the cement pathway, our footsteps in a synchronised rhythm one after the other, rustling the fallen autumn leaves that carpet the pathway tones of reds and gold. The hum of the bustling city that encircled, bursts of frustrated taxi horns and the ever-changing tune of the grey-bearded busker who perch along the sidewalk- Silenced. The mesmerising sway of the colourful boughs above, suspended by the ash coloured rough-barked beauty of the roots that we like to call our loyal friends, stand tall either side of the path as we transcend past. The smell was like no other, fresh and replenishing that filled our lungs with a newfound energy. Watch for OVER-DESCRIPTION - This is where you describe things in the environment that don't really need to be described. If you describe everything, you describe nothing, because the audience doesn't know which of the images you are presenting to focus on. Band 5 students can use descriptive language effectively. Band 6 students can use it carefully to achieve specific purposes.
I looked up at her face, her smile more than just a display of emotion. But rather a comforting sense of solace that soothes any sense of worry. The burnt orange glimmers of the afternoon sun illuminate her auburn short curls of hair that frame around her face, hiding the tints of grey you would never dare to mention. Her lips red as rose, always matching the nails on her hands. Her eyes a rich blue, almost like the open ocean I’ve always dreamt about.
We continued along the leaf covered path until we reached her unit in the outskirts of the city. I could always tell this was hers by the numerous plant pots that ranged in size, all with flowering blooms of roses and sprigs of herbs that sat on the front perch creating an inviting aroma that would lead anyone up to the front door. The outside of her unit was a creamy yellow hue, aged by the long hours of sun it faced in the summer months. In the middle was the enormous mahogany door curved as an arch on top, with a frosted emerald and violet arching glass widow above. I do like the contrasting images you are presenting from your introduction to here - That is great. I do think you could do it in less space though.
She lifted up the corner of the doormat to reach the key. After a few minutes of clever negotiation with the door, we finally make it inside. As usual, I felt her warm hand slide off my sweater to hang it on the clothes stand in the hallway. Above the coats was a shelf with a line of old photos and albums that I never get tired of gazing through, games to play and folded coats of hers and the ones we always forget to take home.
The hallway opened onto the dining room, Grandma’s prize possession. Centred in the middle of the room was her great, dark oak rounded table. I could never understand how Grandma’s 5’4”slim and delicate stature need such an enormous table, but I never questioned it. Faded white cotton dollies sat on top of the table, each created by Grandma’s stiffened hands. Photos and trinkets older than me, from times of war sat on the shelves that surround the room, all free of dust and chaotically ordered.
As I stood admiring each individual photo, the sound of ponding and the following aroma of mint and thyme, sparked my sensations. Immediately, pangs of hunger stirred with the thought of Grandma’s food. I left the room and sat on the wooden stool in the kitchen. Memorised by the movement of Grandma’s cooking. “This is the meal that I first ate, after the war had finished” she nostalgically continued, “everyone on the street came into our terrace for supper to celebrate, the boys were coming home!” Nice use of dialogue! Very realistic - Not easy to do! I'd get rid of "had finished" though and just say "after the war," - In my head that works a little better.
Half an hour passed, with the buzz of the oven timer. Within moments Grandma sprung up from her old mahogany arm chair, leaving her knitting needles halfway through a row. She directed me to the dining room, footsteps come nearer and never, appearing with oven gloves in hand, the smile on her face and the gleam of her blue eyes was enough to say this will be good.
The silent hushed footsteps of the nurses as they quietly did their rounds. The creases and indentations of Grandma’s wearied figure, the markers of age now revealed as the mask that once covered every wrinkle and every age, gone. The true beauty of her life, experience and memories is only to be seen. The wrinkles on her face explain the most incredible journey. The lines under her eyes told of smiles, laughter and affection. The creases above the eyebrows show the worries and doubts of her past that now lay at ease. He lines were so engrained they told the greatest story of the beam of light and energy who has travelled through eight and a half decades. Great contrast created between the remembered scene and what we now realise to be the current scene. But, I do think we took too long to get here. We were in the memory for so long it's a little bit off putting to be thrust back into this situation without any warning or indication.
Mum’s hand still quivered as the tears of attachment still rolled down her cheeks. I grasped her and Grandma’s hands. Standing in silence, my eye gaze catches the bright, golden hues of the setting sun dancing along the tree branches behind the square window above Grandma’s bed. We both immerse our focus within the natural world, the ever blue sky the shades of Grandma’s blue eyes, her auburn curls of hair now colours of the tree branches that sway. The crimson red lips blossomed as the roses caught the glimmering rays. The tears that fell along our cheeks slowly eased, as the memory of Grandma’s beauty and affection could never be forgotten.
So not many comments throughout, I think your writing style is superb! You create a very sophisticated and powerful voice and manipulate language to create clear images for the reader - Excellent work there! Not much for me to critique on a sentence-by-sentence basis.
I'd have two suggestions - One, to watch for over description. I mentioned in the comments - You use descriptive language very well. But, you use it so much, that it keeps the reader from investing in any particular image or emotion. It's like "over-saturation" - Too much of a good thing. Try to only use description where absolutely necessary - You do a great job of showing not telling but try to focus on showing the important bits. Describing the mother in such detail in the middle there, for example, is perhaps not necessary :)
Second, what's your Discovery concept here? I'm not getting a strong sense of transformation or realisation that I'd expect from a Discovery story. I think you need to adjust your story to make it more conceptually obvious, to really smack the reader with a lesson/idea. I'll leave you to think about what specifically this could be - We can definitely chat about it! But right now, I'm not quite seeing the conceptual links :)
So in summary - Fabulous writing style! Really powerful - It's just what you are using that language for that needs a bit of a fine tune in my opinion ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 25, 2017, 02:35:36 pm
Hmmm okay, that is an awesome idea tbh. Yep please mark it!
You got it!
Creative with Feedback
Compose a piece of original imaginative writing significantly incorporating ONE of these four images, exploring the idea of how discoveries can lead to new values or stimulate new ideas.
In a sea of white skin, pearl blue eyes and sandy blonde hair, my almond dark eyes and chocolate-brown skin always stood out. Haha - That's a gorgeous opener. I love the simple but intriguing ones like this.
I lived a life of divided portions -my Bengali sanskaar like one jigsaw piece, my Aussie upbringing another. Both pieces oddly shaped in their curves yet neither piece evenly fit any part of the other…
I try to make them fit together, only to crush their edges… Clever use of the stimulus here. It is bordering on being a tad too obvious, but I wouldn't identify it is as an issue ;D
The Aussie flag fluttered above us every morning as I stood straight and proudly sung the national anthem, inhaling unity and patriotism with my mates. Waking up to the spray of the Pacific in my face as I surfed the long East Coast and the taste of aussie beef Nicole and I sent sizzling into the air off our barbecue on Sunday arvos were the best. A few wording issues there - Can't quite follow that sentence. the waves was a casual pastime and Sunday arvo barbies with my closest gal Nicole was the best. But the moment I met a Bengali, the waves of my Aussie culture rippled away and I reconnected with my traditional heritage, finding entertainment in the gossip of our Bollywood movies and enjoying a conversation over garam chai and spicy ghugni. And that’s just the problem. Both jigsaw pieces fitted into either side of me.
But the two never seemed to blend together. Really beautiful use of the extended metaphor here to communicate your concepts here.
I’ve lived in Australia all my seventeen years but I feel so displaced. Here seemed all the pieces, yet still I was incomplete. A little cheesy - Up to this point you've used a little more subtlety to communicate your ideas. Just having it said like this seems a little off. I needed to think this over, to know myself properly before I can feel confident to handle the world. I retreated to the basement, my “solitude place” that doubled as my little Natya Dance Theatre of my own design. Years ago, I used to dance Bharatnatyam before I decided to pack away my Bengali belongings -my allegiance to my life here. Yet, when I recalled my practices for the Arangetram now, I still felt an excited mixture of fluttering butterflies perfecting the on-off audible rhythmic footwork steps so my ghungroos chinked in sync.
Opening the oak door, a glimmering ball of light blurred in the corner of my eye.. It lay on top of an old bedside table. Oh…I saw my ghungroos! I scooped the dance anklets and admired their cultural beauty, little brass bells enveloping a sheet of maroon fabric, handcrafted by artisans from Kolkata. Ghungroos are a mandatory component of every Bharatanatyam dance practice. You are doing a good job maintaining the understanding of an Australian audience - But the word choice still makes the multicultural elements clear. It's a great balance! When I learnt Bharatanatyam, I was so fascinated by the sweet melodies of its little bells that echoed from each tap. Though dusty and time-worn, they continued to exude vigour, energy...
And identity. You've used this 'sentence by itself' technique a few times. I love the technique, but when you use it multiple times it loses impact. I'd ditch this sentence.
My body ached to dance once more. I tied one ghungroo onto my right and then the other, the left. I'd like a little more description of this moment, I think there is potential to really flesh out the connection to culture!
Coaxing my ring finger to bend perpendicular to my palm whilst keeping my hand and fingers flat, I held the sturdy Tripataka mudra and then steadied myself in the Nattadavu position.
For a moment I could feel myself on a sunny Bondi coast, raising my chin up above the crashing waves that struggles to force me into the turbulence of the sand.. Shutting my eyes and taking a deep breath, I similarly settled into the shallows within me. Having to appear composed under the pressure of stage performances helped me learn self-control.
The Tripataka hasta denotes fire, a feeling of excitement that grew larger in me with each passing moment, ready to erupt into a thrilling show of dance. I let myself feel the beats of my ghungroos, chinking and reverberating joy and wonder. My fingers fluttered high up, arms outstretched to the sky, in the manner a bird so gracefully soars when her foot slips off a branch, in spite of the dangers of falling that lay ahead. Twirling around and around, my binary conflict seemed to unfurl like a rosebud in spring bloom, the bell sounds embracing me and each step falling like second nature, the ringing enveloping my ears and immersing my mind in the beat... Really beautiful image you are creating here. I love that you've accompanied it with longer sentences as well - Very powerful adjustment in your voice that reenforces the significance of the moment for the character.
Cham. Cham. Cham.
Dancing was a haven, a cocoon where I could let go of the outside world. In Bharatanatyam, it didn’t matter what piece of the jigsaw was my allegiance, Bharatanatyam embraced all of me, letting my ability align in the dignified movements I was blessed with.
CLANG! In my haste, I hadn’t even tied the ghungroos properly. The ghungroos fell off.
But I smile, because something else had taken its place… Those jigsaw pieces… seemed to have fit in somewhere.
The missing link to the puzzle was rediscovered.
Maybe the pieces were never meant to fit together.
Maybe I was the missing link between them all along. A little too blatant with the extended metaphor here - Try not to force it too much. It should feel very natural to the reader and this feels a little forced.
With a few deft movements the Ghungroos were back on my ankles and I was swept away. Whether I was lost in the rhythm of my dance or coursing down the faces of the waves I surfed, I was never to know. The same cool air swirled through my hair and the same twisting toes kept me from losing my balance and poise. Beautiful final integration of the two worlds here.
Perhaps, just perhaps, both jigsaw pieces could be a part of me.
And who am I to leave a puzzle incomplete?
In a sea of white skin, pearl blue eyes and sandy blonde hair, my almond dark eyes and chocolate-brown skin always stood out. Haha - That's a gorgeous opener. I love the simple but intriguing ones like this.
I lived a life of divided portions -my Bengali sanskaar like one jigsaw piece, my Aussie upbringing another. Both pieces oddly shaped in their curves yet neither piece evenly fit any part of the other…
I try to make them fit together, only to crush their edges… Clever use of the stimulus here. It is bordering on being a tad too obvious, but I wouldn't identify it is as an issue ;D
The Aussie flag fluttered above us every morning as I stood straight and proudly sung the national anthem, inhaling unity and patriotism with my mates. Waking up to the spray of the Pacific in my face as I surfed the long East Coast and the taste of aussie beef Nicole and I sent sizzling into the air off our barbecue on Sunday arvos were the best. A few wording issues there - Can't quite follow that sentence. the waves was a casual pastime and Sunday arvo barbies with my closest gal Nicole was the best. But the moment I met a Bengali, the waves of my Aussie culture rippled away and I reconnected with my traditional heritage, finding entertainment in the gossip of our Bollywood movies and enjoying a conversation over garam chai and spicy ghugni. And that’s just the problem. Both jigsaw pieces fitted into either side of me.
But the two never seemed to blend together. Really beautiful use of the extended metaphor here to communicate your concepts here.
I’ve lived in Australia all my seventeen years but I feel so displaced. Here seemed all the pieces, yet still I was incomplete. A little cheesy - Up to this point you've used a little more subtlety to communicate your ideas. Just having it said like this seems a little off. I needed to think this over, to know myself properly before I can feel confident to handle the world. I retreated to the basement, my “solitude place” that doubled as my little Natya Dance Theatre of my own design. Years ago, I used to dance Bharatnatyam before I decided to pack away my Bengali belongings -my allegiance to my life here. Yet, when I recalled my practices for the Arangetram now, I still felt an excited mixture of fluttering butterflies perfecting the on-off audible rhythmic footwork steps so my ghungroos chinked in sync.
Opening the oak door, a glimmering ball of light blurred in the corner of my eye.. It lay on top of an old bedside table. Oh…I saw my ghungroos! I scooped the dance anklets and admired their cultural beauty, little brass bells enveloping a sheet of maroon fabric, handcrafted by artisans from Kolkata. Ghungroos are a mandatory component of every Bharatanatyam dance practice. You are doing a good job maintaining the understanding of an Australian audience - But the word choice still makes the multicultural elements clear. It's a great balance! When I learnt Bharatanatyam, I was so fascinated by the sweet melodies of its little bells that echoed from each tap. Though dusty and time-worn, they continued to exude vigour, energy...
And identity. You've used this 'sentence by itself' technique a few times. I love the technique, but when you use it multiple times it loses impact. I'd ditch this sentence.
My body ached to dance once more. I tied one ghungroo onto my right and then the other, the left. I'd like a little more description of this moment, I think there is potential to really flesh out the connection to culture!
Coaxing my ring finger to bend perpendicular to my palm whilst keeping my hand and fingers flat, I held the sturdy Tripataka mudra and then steadied myself in the Nattadavu position.
For a moment I could feel myself on a sunny Bondi coast, raising my chin up above the crashing waves that struggles to force me into the turbulence of the sand.. Shutting my eyes and taking a deep breath, I similarly settled into the shallows within me. Having to appear composed under the pressure of stage performances helped me learn self-control.
The Tripataka hasta denotes fire, a feeling of excitement that grew larger in me with each passing moment, ready to erupt into a thrilling show of dance. I let myself feel the beats of my ghungroos, chinking and reverberating joy and wonder. My fingers fluttered high up, arms outstretched to the sky, in the manner a bird so gracefully soars when her foot slips off a branch, in spite of the dangers of falling that lay ahead. Twirling around and around, my binary conflict seemed to unfurl like a rosebud in spring bloom, the bell sounds embracing me and each step falling like second nature, the ringing enveloping my ears and immersing my mind in the beat... Really beautiful image you are creating here. I love that you've accompanied it with longer sentences as well - Very powerful adjustment in your voice that reenforces the significance of the moment for the character.
Cham. Cham. Cham.
Dancing was a haven, a cocoon where I could let go of the outside world. In Bharatanatyam, it didn’t matter what piece of the jigsaw was my allegiance, Bharatanatyam embraced all of me, letting my ability align in the dignified movements I was blessed with.
CLANG! In my haste, I hadn’t even tied the ghungroos properly. The ghungroos fell off.
But I smile, because something else had taken its place… Those jigsaw pieces… seemed to have fit in somewhere.
The missing link to the puzzle was rediscovered.
Maybe the pieces were never meant to fit together.
Maybe I was the missing link between them all along. A little too blatant with the extended metaphor here - Try not to force it too much. It should feel very natural to the reader and this feels a little forced.
With a few deft movements the Ghungroos were back on my ankles and I was swept away. Whether I was lost in the rhythm of my dance or coursing down the faces of the waves I surfed, I was never to know. The same cool air swirled through my hair and the same twisting toes kept me from losing my balance and poise. Beautiful final integration of the two worlds here.
Perhaps, just perhaps, both jigsaw pieces could be a part of me.
And who am I to leave a puzzle incomplete?
You are a fantastic writer saloni, this is a really powerful piece! You've definitely incorporated the stimulus well, but it did feel forced at times towards the end. When incorporating your stimulus, try to do it in ways that feel natural. Towards the end there, a combination of being really direct with your concepts, and really obvious with your stimulus, just made it feel a little cheesy. It lacked the subtlety you have elsewhere in the narrative ;D
I'd like you to devote a little more time to this final section too. Make the realisation stretch out over a paragraph, two or even three. You gave the build up so much love and care, but then the realisation is only really a few sentences. It just feels a tad imbalanced ;D
In saying that, you have a great piece. It works extremely well conceptually and I think it responds to the question excellently. You should be really happy with it! ;D
Post by: dux99.95 on March 25, 2017, 03:09:56 pm
Post by: Ellie__ on March 25, 2017, 07:21:35 pm
No worries Ellie! Your creative is attached with comments in bold ;DSpoilerMum held my hand. It was trembling. Numb. Her skin against mine, cold to touch, clambered with the droplets of sweat that permeate. I could feel her rapid pulse. Boom, Boom, Boom. This use of onomatopoeia seems a little cheesy. I don't think it quite matches your tone. One after the other. Faster. I’ve never seen her like this before, riddled with fear, fear of the unknown. Her vision fixated on what’s in front, searching for some kind of solution. But this time there is no solution. No magic wand. Nothing. Very interesting introduction - Nice manipulation of sentence length and accumulation!
Her bottom lip quivered, I know she was holding back. She’s built a barrier, no one can tap inside. Scared. I like these shorter sentences scattered, but make sure they make sense. This "Scared." in the middle of nowhere doesn't quite sit right. Her eyes became covered by a sheen of water. The air in the room was thick, sterilised, stagnate. No breath could be taken. Nothing was said. Silence dominated. You are developing a very "choppy" style of writing here - Lots of truncated sentences will do this. Not a bad thing, just an observation as to whether that is how you want it to come across. My thoughts wondered, as I search for some kind of comfort, a memory of the past.
She held my hand, the warming touch of her soften hands cured any feelings of the crisp cold air that surrounded. Her hands a golden olive hue as the rays of sun pierced through the dancing leaves of the trees that glistened against her paper thin skin.
We walked along the cement pathway, our footsteps in a synchronised rhythm one after the other, rustling the fallen autumn leaves that carpet the pathway tones of reds and gold. The hum of the bustling city that encircled, bursts of frustrated taxi horns and the ever-changing tune of the grey-bearded busker who perch along the sidewalk- Silenced. The mesmerising sway of the colourful boughs above, suspended by the ash coloured rough-barked beauty of the roots that we like to call our loyal friends, stand tall either side of the path as we transcend past. The smell was like no other, fresh and replenishing that filled our lungs with a newfound energy. Watch for OVER-DESCRIPTION - This is where you describe things in the environment that don't really need to be described. If you describe everything, you describe nothing, because the audience doesn't know which of the images you are presenting to focus on. Band 5 students can use descriptive language effectively. Band 6 students can use it carefully to achieve specific purposes.
I looked up at her face, her smile more than just a display of emotion. But rather a comforting sense of solace that soothes any sense of worry. The burnt orange glimmers of the afternoon sun illuminate her auburn short curls of hair that frame around her face, hiding the tints of grey you would never dare to mention. Her lips red as rose, always matching the nails on her hands. Her eyes a rich blue, almost like the open ocean I’ve always dreamt about.
We continued along the leaf covered path until we reached her unit in the outskirts of the city. I could always tell this was hers by the numerous plant pots that ranged in size, all with flowering blooms of roses and sprigs of herbs that sat on the front perch creating an inviting aroma that would lead anyone up to the front door. The outside of her unit was a creamy yellow hue, aged by the long hours of sun it faced in the summer months. In the middle was the enormous mahogany door curved as an arch on top, with a frosted emerald and violet arching glass widow above. I do like the contrasting images you are presenting from your introduction to here - That is great. I do think you could do it in less space though.
She lifted up the corner of the doormat to reach the key. After a few minutes of clever negotiation with the door, we finally make it inside. As usual, I felt her warm hand slide off my sweater to hang it on the clothes stand in the hallway. Above the coats was a shelf with a line of old photos and albums that I never get tired of gazing through, games to play and folded coats of hers and the ones we always forget to take home.
The hallway opened onto the dining room, Grandma’s prize possession. Centred in the middle of the room was her great, dark oak rounded table. I could never understand how Grandma’s 5’4”slim and delicate stature need such an enormous table, but I never questioned it. Faded white cotton dollies sat on top of the table, each created by Grandma’s stiffened hands. Photos and trinkets older than me, from times of war sat on the shelves that surround the room, all free of dust and chaotically ordered.
As I stood admiring each individual photo, the sound of ponding and the following aroma of mint and thyme, sparked my sensations. Immediately, pangs of hunger stirred with the thought of Grandma’s food. I left the room and sat on the wooden stool in the kitchen. Memorised by the movement of Grandma’s cooking. “This is the meal that I first ate, after the war had finished” she nostalgically continued, “everyone on the street came into our terrace for supper to celebrate, the boys were coming home!” Nice use of dialogue! Very realistic - Not easy to do! I'd get rid of "had finished" though and just say "after the war," - In my head that works a little better.
Half an hour passed, with the buzz of the oven timer. Within moments Grandma sprung up from her old mahogany arm chair, leaving her knitting needles halfway through a row. She directed me to the dining room, footsteps come nearer and never, appearing with oven gloves in hand, the smile on her face and the gleam of her blue eyes was enough to say this will be good.
The silent hushed footsteps of the nurses as they quietly did their rounds. The creases and indentations of Grandma’s wearied figure, the markers of age now revealed as the mask that once covered every wrinkle and every age, gone. The true beauty of her life, experience and memories is only to be seen. The wrinkles on her face explain the most incredible journey. The lines under her eyes told of smiles, laughter and affection. The creases above the eyebrows show the worries and doubts of her past that now lay at ease. He lines were so engrained they told the greatest story of the beam of light and energy who has travelled through eight and a half decades. Great contrast created between the remembered scene and what we now realise to be the current scene. But, I do think we took too long to get here. We were in the memory for so long it's a little bit off putting to be thrust back into this situation without any warning or indication.
Mum’s hand still quivered as the tears of attachment still rolled down her cheeks. I grasped her and Grandma’s hands. Standing in silence, my eye gaze catches the bright, golden hues of the setting sun dancing along the tree branches behind the square window above Grandma’s bed. We both immerse our focus within the natural world, the ever blue sky the shades of Grandma’s blue eyes, her auburn curls of hair now colours of the tree branches that sway. The crimson red lips blossomed as the roses caught the glimmering rays. The tears that fell along our cheeks slowly eased, as the memory of Grandma’s beauty and affection could never be forgotten.
So not many comments throughout, I think your writing style is superb! You create a very sophisticated and powerful voice and manipulate language to create clear images for the reader - Excellent work there! Not much for me to critique on a sentence-by-sentence basis.
I'd have two suggestions - One, to watch for over description. I mentioned in the comments - You use descriptive language very well. But, you use it so much, that it keeps the reader from investing in any particular image or emotion. It's like "over-saturation" - Too much of a good thing. Try to only use description where absolutely necessary - You do a great job of showing not telling but try to focus on showing the important bits. Describing the mother in such detail in the middle there, for example, is perhaps not necessary :)
Second, what's your Discovery concept here? I'm not getting a strong sense of transformation or realisation that I'd expect from a Discovery story. I think you need to adjust your story to make it more conceptually obvious, to really smack the reader with a lesson/idea. I'll leave you to think about what specifically this could be - We can definitely chat about it! But right now, I'm not quite seeing the conceptual links :)
So in summary - Fabulous writing style! Really powerful - It's just what you are using that language for that needs a bit of a fine tune in my opinion ;D
Ah THANKYOUUUUUUU!!!!! That makes complete sense!
I will definitely take on board those edits!
;D ;D ;D ;D ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 26, 2017, 01:58:24 pm
Hey,
This is my creative writing for discovery. Can someone please give me feedback on this?
Sure thing!! ;D it is attached with comments in bold!
Spoiler
The ground below him fluttered with lights. Packed with pedestrians, the streets exhaled car fumes and smoke littered from cigarette butts. A thin layer of smoke masked the sky. Across, a series of cranes and bulldozers invaded the construction site that was building the new apartments. Nice use of several types of imagery for that opening image. He shut the window; the smoke that unapologetically wafted up his nostrils and tightened his weak lungs. He sat on his couch and switched on his 32-inch flat screen TV that hung below the air conditioner. Be careful of over description - Do we really need to know the size of the TV? Keep description/detail for the important stuff. Let us show you this place where wonder grows and lead you to secrets hidden beneath green hills…to somewhere like nowhere you’ve ever seen. Images of blue skies and breezy seas flashed past the screen. It reminded him of the time he went hiking.
* * *
He walked as the stones crunched beneath his shoes. He found it. The breath-taking scenery was so foreign to him. The sky was dyed azure blue and it casted rays of gold onto the feathers of the kea which glided swiftly through the borderless skies. A dome of warmth from the sun enclosed him offering him comfort. There was a delicate, earthy scent that filled the air; the dirt, the crushed leaves of the trees. It was breezy, but he liked it. His cheeks dimpled as his lungs inflated with a dose of fresh, light air. It was cool but his lungs were relieved with ease. Nice contrast to the previous image - Especially with repetition of the lungs and the differences. You could do more with this idea - Write a copy of the above paragraph but replace key pieces to create an entirely new image.
Though his feet pleaded to rest, he became inquisitive as he continued to proceed through the pathless trees eyeing out in wonder. The cool breeze danced around his shoes, appreciating his existence. He sniffed the air, but was only greeted with a familiar smell. He wrinkled his nose. A burning cigarette butt thrown carelessly on the bush of wild lupins. Its suffocating scent chokes the crisp, light airiness of the blossoms.
‘Ok everyone, we have arrived at the peak of the mountain…’
Curious, he hiked up the coarse path to see who it was. There was a yellow flag waving in the air and so many ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’. He looked up to see twenty or so people. Some were taking photos. Some were sitting down to take a rest. As they left, plastic food packaging and travel pamphlets trailed their imprinted footsteps.
The colours of his perfect paradise drained away. He was left back to square one; the litter and physical imprints they made to such a foreign environment. How could they? Really like where you are going with this idea, very conceptually interesting.
But who was he to make such an insensitive judgement?
He too was touring the place. This seems a little unusual and a little forced - Clearly your character isn't doing the same damage as the others?
* * *
He peered out his window to the new construction site across his very own.
Destruction was inevitable.
But at least he escaped.
* * *
He walked as the stones crunched beneath his shoes. He found it. The breath-taking scenery was so foreign to him. The sky was dyed azure blue and it casted rays of gold onto the feathers of the kea which glided swiftly through the borderless skies. A dome of warmth from the sun enclosed him offering him comfort. There was a delicate, earthy scent that filled the air; the dirt, the crushed leaves of the trees. It was breezy, but he liked it. His cheeks dimpled as his lungs inflated with a dose of fresh, light air. It was cool but his lungs were relieved with ease. Nice contrast to the previous image - Especially with repetition of the lungs and the differences. You could do more with this idea - Write a copy of the above paragraph but replace key pieces to create an entirely new image.
Though his feet pleaded to rest, he became inquisitive as he continued to proceed through the pathless trees eyeing out in wonder. The cool breeze danced around his shoes, appreciating his existence. He sniffed the air, but was only greeted with a familiar smell. He wrinkled his nose. A burning cigarette butt thrown carelessly on the bush of wild lupins. Its suffocating scent chokes the crisp, light airiness of the blossoms.
‘Ok everyone, we have arrived at the peak of the mountain…’
Curious, he hiked up the coarse path to see who it was. There was a yellow flag waving in the air and so many ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’. He looked up to see twenty or so people. Some were taking photos. Some were sitting down to take a rest. As they left, plastic food packaging and travel pamphlets trailed their imprinted footsteps.
The colours of his perfect paradise drained away. He was left back to square one; the litter and physical imprints they made to such a foreign environment. How could they? Really like where you are going with this idea, very conceptually interesting.
But who was he to make such an insensitive judgement?
He too was touring the place. This seems a little unusual and a little forced - Clearly your character isn't doing the same damage as the others?
* * *
He peered out his window to the new construction site across his very own.
Destruction was inevitable.
But at least he escaped.
I really like the idea behind this story! I feel like it is quite short though - I think you should spend more time fleshing out the Discovery at the end of the story there. Not sure how, but definitely a bit more time invested at the end there to make the Discovery really shine - You need to emphasise how the characters world view has changed (you are going for the intellectual discovery, so you need to emphasise that intellectual discovery, that change in perspective).
I think the concept is great, but just a little more fleshing out at the end there to make the Discovery itself more of a focus would benefit you ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 26, 2017, 07:52:12 pm
Hey could someone please mark my essay? I know I'm pinning it off on you guys a little late; it's due tomorrow, but it'd mean a lot if you could check it in time!
By the way, my creative had to be around intellectual discovery and I don't know how well evidenced I've made that.
Stimulus is: “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” ~ Marcel Proust
Story:SpoilerShelter From the Storm
I became young again that night. In an aging bar in Manhattan, amidst the blinding neon lights, the senseless debauchery and the comings and goings of passersby, I caught myself dreaming. It came to me in between the bustling crowd of New York’s tumultuous night-life; the rosy-cheeked Ivy League academics, the dead-beat wannabe poets, the esoteric, unemployed jazz pianists - you know the type. Anyway, the bar was playing Bob Dylan’s ‘Shelter From the Storm’. I only caught fragments of the song in between all the commotion; I’d missed the first half entirely, but to hear Dylan’s raspy voice was to be taken adrift on the vessel of reminiscence all the same.
***
I remember when I first heard it. I tried to visualise all the sorts of things I associated with that memory. I remember the fiery haired girl, in the adjacent dorm, blasting it from her radio, I remember my roommate and I flipping a quarter so as to see who would go ask her to turn it down, I remember walking to her room and I definitely remember being glad I’d lost the toss once I laid eyes on her.
However, I couldn’t tell you, accurately at least, the chronological order of events that ensued after that and even if I tried, I suspect I’d embellish it a little. That’s the thing with remembering. Each time you call upon a memory it seems that in one way or another, whether it be the smallest detail, such as if the bed was made, or a major aspect, such as who were with, it becomes distorted. In fact, I think I’ve lived to have multiple experiences just by trying to remember one event from one point in time.
To be frank with you, I don’t even really remember her name. It might’ve been Lilya, or Lilly, or something completely different. I do remember three absolutes about her though. First, she had an affinity for Ginsberg, second, Shelter From the Storm wasn’t even her favourite Dylan song and third, I only ever really met her twice after that confrontation
***
THUD! Suddenly I’m back in Manhattan, on a rainy day, in some dingy dive bar. I’m thirty years older again, my hair’s thinning and I’m by myself. I turn to my left and some kid has fallen off his stool; couldn’t handle his drink I guess. I turn my ear towards the poorly mounted speakers;
‘’She walked up to me so gracefully
And took my crown of thorns
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you
Shelter from the storm"’’
I promised to take her to see Dylan live when he made his rounds through New York, it never happened though. I sorta didn’t come through with that promise, much like many of the promises I’ve made in my life to be honest. I wonder if she hates me for it. I wonder where she is now. She wanted to be a journalist or an editor for the New Yorker, I doubt it happened though and even if it did, I don’t think she’d be working on her own terms.
That’s the thing I’ve learned about the world. The creative minded are left behind or forced to assimilate. Maybe that’s just me being bitter about the way my life turned out. God, when I was young and full of life I thought I could do so much. I was starry-eyed and ready, ready to make the mountains malleable, the seas would become tamed under my rule but sometimes it takes poignant music in a dilapidated bar to teach you that the mountains are fixed in place and the waters will forever be undomesticated.
That’s the thing with with dreamers; they’re the first to die. And not of any anatomical ailment but rather insidious pains of the soul. It’s like they’re the suitcases that never get opened on vacation, the books that never get read, the portraits that never get hung. They’re empty, save the rotting corpses of dreams that never came to fruition; dreams that died on the vine. Looking at all the oblivious teenagers at the bar, I was certain I knew which ones would be spending their nights at this same place, thirty years from now. Funnily enough, all of them had smiling faces.
‘’I've heard newborn babies wailin
Like a mourning dove
And old men with broken teeth
Stranded without love’’
***
The stools of the bar became park benches and the wooden flooring, matted with peanut shells, became the green fields of Central Park. It must’ve been twelve years after I graduated but my degree hadn’t done me any good. I remember looking at the snow-tipped bristles of the maple trees when some kid, with some funny hat - looked like a normal cap but it had two flaps on the side, comes asking me ‘Would you happen to know what happens to the ducks when the lake freezes over? Would you happen to know by any chance?’. To tell you the truth I had no idea, I hadn’t even really thought about it until then.
***
It’s funny how much you learn about yourself and the world simply looking back through a time machine. Thirty years on, I’m a little dishevelled, sure, but I’m the same guy, drinking at the same bar, thinking about the same things but with totally different eyes. It’s one of those nights, those really rare nights, I mean those one-in-a-lifetime sorta nights when the sun comes down to earth to meet the people in between the crevices of the skyscrapers.
Looking back at it retrospectively, would I do it all again? Probably not, I mean I figure it’s times like these, when we learn to look back, that we learn the most.
‘’If I could only turn back the clock
To when God and her were born
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you Shelter from the storm"’’
Hey Marketeer!! It really pains me to say this, because you've been so awesome around here the last few days, but almost no chance we get this looked at tonight - We've got two/three other essays ahead of you that I plan to get to this evening, and probably won't get beyond that. That said, you are awesome, so I just spent five minutes having a read so some super quick notes:
- Intellectual Discovery looks excellent - Delivered with sophistication and power!!
- Watch for consistency of voice, you have a really intellectual tone at times (very poetic, love it) but then it gets lost in favour of a more direct style. Eg, that THUD back into the bar, you had some super poetic and sophisticated narration and then it swaps to "some kid" - Just a little off putting for the reader. look at the difference between the voice here, and "That's the thing with dreamers, they are the first to die."
- LOVE the stream of consciousness style though, really really powerful.
- Matches the stimulus effectively.
You'll get a Band 6 level mark for this, no doubt in my mind. Brilliant stuff my friend
Post by: TheFreeMarketeer on March 26, 2017, 10:42:16 pm
Hey Marketeer!! It really pains me to say this, because you've been so awesome around here the last few days, but almost no chance we get this looked at tonight - We've got two/three other essays ahead of you that I plan to get to this evening, and probably won't get beyond that. That said, you are awesome, so I just spent five minutes having a read so some super quick notes:
- Intellectual Discovery looks excellent - Delivered with sophistication and power!!
- Watch for consistency of voice, you have a really intellectual tone at times (very poetic, love it) but then it gets lost in favour of a more direct style. Eg, that THUD back into the bar, you had some super poetic and sophisticated narration and then it swaps to "some kid" - Just a little off putting for the reader. look at the difference between the voice here, and "That's the thing with dreamers, they are the first to die."
- LOVE the stream of consciousness style though, really really powerful.
- Matches the stimulus effectively.
You'll get a Band 6 level mark for this, no doubt in my mind. Brilliant stuff my friend
All good! The advice you've provided has made all the difference anyway.
My only real concern was the corny and possibly out of place allusion to Catcher in the Rye. I really like it but I think it might be arbitrary.
P.S So glad and appreciative to be apart of this community.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 26, 2017, 11:00:07 pm
All good! The advice you've provided has made all the difference anyway.
My only real concern was the corny and possibly out of place allusion to Catcher in the Rye. I really like it but I think it might be arbitrary.
P.S So glad and appreciative to be apart of this community.
Doesn't strike me as out of place personally, I like it too! Think it works nicely ;D we're appreciative for you being here!! ;D
Post by: Snew on March 28, 2017, 09:23:01 pm
I set my jaw and stared hard at the floor. Why did I even bother coming? All for this stupid little recital…
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 28, 2017, 09:47:43 pm
Hi! I just had a question about creative writing, hope its ok to post here :) how would you suggest making a character's thoughts stand out? For example, when you type something out you can italic someones inner thoughts to make it obvious to a reader.
I set my jaw and stared hard at the floor. Why did I even bother coming? All for this stupid little recital…
Hey! My argument would be, do you need to make them separate? That example you gave, it is all internal thought process, even if one describes an action, I don't think you'd need to make them separate!
That said, you definitely can if it suited the sort of thing you want to do with it - I'd put the thoughts on a new line for starters, and perhaps use single quote marks around it?
'Like so.'
To be honest, I've never done anything like this in written creatives, hopefully someone else can help more! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 29, 2017, 02:49:56 am
Hi! I just had a question about creative writing, hope its ok to post here :) how would you suggest making a character's thoughts stand out? For example, when you type something out you can italic someones inner thoughts to make it obvious to a reader.
I set my jaw and stared hard at the floor. Why did I even bother coming? All for this stupid little recital…
In an exam, you can use the space of the page to tell the story as well.
You could skip a line, or even a few lines, to put the writing on it's own. Or, you could skip a line or two, as well as put the thoughts central to the page, or even to the right. It's not something we talk about a lot but you certainly could do this! I think putting the thoughts on its own could be very powerful, so I'd be opting to skip a few lines (maybe 2) around the words. See how this looks in hand writing, though. Because ultimately that's what you will be translating it too. I have a friend who wrote crazy messy (but legible), and then when she wanted to use the equivalent of italics, she would slow her writing down and carefully write the words. In an exam situation, you could really see the difference and you could tell it was a different voice, because she manipulated font. This was for Ext1, but there's no reason it wouldn't work in AOS.
Post by: olliesfield on March 31, 2017, 04:44:29 pm
I still feel i have a lots to work on but a little stuck on how to do so
Thank You!
Post by: Aaron12038488 on March 31, 2017, 08:24:27 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on March 31, 2017, 08:48:52 pm
i have 40 min to compose a creative piece about belonging. How long in terms of words should I be aiming for?
Hey Aaron! I'd say anywhere in the 600-900 range is what you should be aiming for in a 40 minute creative written under exam conditions, depending on your style and approach ;D you could go higher if you choose! But I wouldn't go much lower :)
Post by: Aaron12038488 on April 01, 2017, 01:11:42 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on April 01, 2017, 02:52:53 pm
is it okay to do an appropriation in creative writing. What techniques should incorporate also.
Appropriations are definitely okay in my book - Taking an idea and putting a significant new spin on it is its own form of creativity. For example, taking a well known story and giving an alternate perspective. Done right this works really well ;D
Try not to force the techniques, it will be easy to spot stuff you've put in just for the sake of it, but at a basic level I'd be expecting to see some effective use of imagery. Many stories will make use of figurative language - Similes, metaphors, symbolism. Try playing with sentence length, word choice, repetition and other structural elements too - But again, don't force anything! :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on April 02, 2017, 02:38:15 am
Could i please have some feedback attached?
I still feel i have a lots to work on but a little stuck on how to do so
Thank You!
Hey! You sure can ;D your creative is in the spoiler with comments in bold!
Spoiler
The squirrels ravished away at his nan’s garden bed, one primrose after another. It was a Sunday afternoon in Newent that most were used to, cloudy overcast weather, his grandad was watching the rugby world cup at the malswick pub and his Nan was building the latest funky contraption to flee the squirrels once and for all. This is a tiny thing, but standardise whether you are capitalising Nan/Pop and make sure whatever you do, you do it every time. Egan sat in the observatory watching his idol Terry Jenkins reclaim his darts world championship, the finesse and elegance of his throw had always fascinated him. He even enjoyed the ads that were on, especially the ones about holiday’s where endless blue skies was all you could see, it gave him a glimpse of life beyond the town. This seems a little rushed, this latter half of the paragraph - I feel like you could do more to develop this fascination with the experiences/perspectives on the television.
The motorbike speed by their terrace, the thump of the daily Glouscester times hit the front lawn. The corner of his eye caught an image of the front page. In big bold letters it wrote
‘’POLISH CONTINUE TO TAKE JOBS’’
He picked it up expressionless, It was no surprise to him, the town had been on a rapid decline for the past year. Newent had suffered due to the lack of government spending, it was blighted with dilapidated homes, boarded up shops and discarded mattresses. Again, I'd like to see you do more with this image you touch on here/ The polish language slowly became the second most spoken language after English and Welsh, creating intense pressure on the local schools and support services. Polish newsagency’s and deli’s began to replace the old black and white antique shops that residents beloved, they appeared on almost every corner, changing the whole dimension of the town. He had applied for frequent jobs at the local Tesco’s, only to be declined more times than he could remember. The polish of course.
He knew it was time to pack the bags and give in, try a new life somewhere else. I'm not getting much emotion in your language. It is very matter of fact, like, this happened and then this happened. Try to build up to big statements like this and inject some emotion into your story arc. It wasn’t matter of when or how but the Grandmother he would leave behind. The one who had raised him from birth until now. The one who had raised him through the changes of this small vibrant town to its crash and burn. The one who had paid for him to attend Gloucester High, a prestigious school on the outskirts of the town. The one who took him to all his sports games and school functions. [bI like the repetition here[/b]. The parent he never had. Was he prepared to leave the only person in his life for a better life of his own? The guilt played on him like a possum. Be careful for forced techniques - This simile seems very forced and cheesy, don't use techniques just for the sake of using them. It sneaked around him until it burst out without warning. He thought his grandmother would understand, but he had no idea the impact it would have on her. Deep inside.
***
Egan sat in the observatory, exhausted. The life in him had been drained out. He heard the faint grumbling from up the road, cars had always drove through there, but this one in particular had a distinct sound, one you couldn’t forget. It churned and grumbled. It was Nan’s friend Poppy in her 1984 dark red Honda Accord. He had still remembered the sound after all these years.
‘’ She’s here’’ he yelled with a slightly angry tone
His Nan quickly fixed the strand of hair that was out of place and rushed to the door, to her surprise her other friends were there too, they must have come in the Honda.
‘’SURPRISE’’ they laughed with a smile so big all their gums were visible
It was Nan’s 75th birthday and it was the only reason he had come back, for 22 years, the town seemed to improve since the last time he was there, it had a brighter feel to it and more people seemed to be walking the streets enjoying themselves.
They set up a table near the fire pit, it was winter and snow had been falling heavily since he had come back. A big 75 was sat saliently on the table. They all gathered around and had Pork Roast, the crackle of the crackling could be heard all around, like fireworks going off. Poppy had sipped on too much sauvignon blanc and she started yapping away, some things never changed.
‘’ You selfish prick’’ she blabbed I like that you use the vulgar language, nice shock factor.
Egan acted surprised, but he knew he deserved what was coming.
‘’ You left her, you never spoke to her, you never even attempted any contact, while you left her for the sunshine in Australia…after all she did for you’’
‘’ It wasn’t like that, I struggled over there, its expensive and I could barely afford to look after myself, let alone someone else’’
‘’ You shouldn’t even have come back’’ she grinned as she finished her 4th Glass Watch for realistic dialogue - Writing extended conversations is really tough to make it sound natural, and this conversation isn't quite there yet. Feels a little forced, like, would they actually say this in this way? Not 100% believable.
Egan had enough, he wasn’t sure whether to lash out and release the anger and guilt that had been bubbling up inside, or to leave it and continue to act like everything was ok for the sake of his Grandmother.
The chair dragged along the carpet, as Egan briskly walked to the garage. He threw one after another at the dart board, trying to copy the beauty of Terry Jenkins. It was a cathartic release for him, it distracted him from his guilt for brief moments. He stayed there for hours, he was too ashamed to come out and apologize.
Egan watched the man on the bike slip the letters in the letterbox. It was a job offer from polisnki Deli, he had applied for a job since he had come back to help out his grandmother during his stay. It was a well payed role in the managerial position, one better than he could find in Australia.
The thing he hated most gave him something better than he could imagine. He decided he would tell his grandmother in the morning.
Egan looked at the town from the top floor of the church, the streets had been cleaned up, no more broken down homes and roads, he watched polish construction workers build a new children’s playground and saw people walking in and out the shops. Could it have been the polish that helped this town?
He told his grandmother about his job
‘’you fool, you know I hate the polish even though they have helped, it still belongs to England Egan….although I love the free meat you’re going to bring home to me’’ Little confused about this ending! There was a lot of detail to absorb really quickly - Very easy for a reader to get lost at the end here.
The motorbike speed by their terrace, the thump of the daily Glouscester times hit the front lawn. The corner of his eye caught an image of the front page. In big bold letters it wrote
‘’POLISH CONTINUE TO TAKE JOBS’’
He picked it up expressionless, It was no surprise to him, the town had been on a rapid decline for the past year. Newent had suffered due to the lack of government spending, it was blighted with dilapidated homes, boarded up shops and discarded mattresses. Again, I'd like to see you do more with this image you touch on here/ The polish language slowly became the second most spoken language after English and Welsh, creating intense pressure on the local schools and support services. Polish newsagency’s and deli’s began to replace the old black and white antique shops that residents beloved, they appeared on almost every corner, changing the whole dimension of the town. He had applied for frequent jobs at the local Tesco’s, only to be declined more times than he could remember. The polish of course.
He knew it was time to pack the bags and give in, try a new life somewhere else. I'm not getting much emotion in your language. It is very matter of fact, like, this happened and then this happened. Try to build up to big statements like this and inject some emotion into your story arc. It wasn’t matter of when or how but the Grandmother he would leave behind. The one who had raised him from birth until now. The one who had raised him through the changes of this small vibrant town to its crash and burn. The one who had paid for him to attend Gloucester High, a prestigious school on the outskirts of the town. The one who took him to all his sports games and school functions. [bI like the repetition here[/b]. The parent he never had. Was he prepared to leave the only person in his life for a better life of his own? The guilt played on him like a possum. Be careful for forced techniques - This simile seems very forced and cheesy, don't use techniques just for the sake of using them. It sneaked around him until it burst out without warning. He thought his grandmother would understand, but he had no idea the impact it would have on her. Deep inside.
***
Egan sat in the observatory, exhausted. The life in him had been drained out. He heard the faint grumbling from up the road, cars had always drove through there, but this one in particular had a distinct sound, one you couldn’t forget. It churned and grumbled. It was Nan’s friend Poppy in her 1984 dark red Honda Accord. He had still remembered the sound after all these years.
‘’ She’s here’’ he yelled with a slightly angry tone
His Nan quickly fixed the strand of hair that was out of place and rushed to the door, to her surprise her other friends were there too, they must have come in the Honda.
‘’SURPRISE’’ they laughed with a smile so big all their gums were visible
It was Nan’s 75th birthday and it was the only reason he had come back, for 22 years, the town seemed to improve since the last time he was there, it had a brighter feel to it and more people seemed to be walking the streets enjoying themselves.
They set up a table near the fire pit, it was winter and snow had been falling heavily since he had come back. A big 75 was sat saliently on the table. They all gathered around and had Pork Roast, the crackle of the crackling could be heard all around, like fireworks going off. Poppy had sipped on too much sauvignon blanc and she started yapping away, some things never changed.
‘’ You selfish prick’’ she blabbed I like that you use the vulgar language, nice shock factor.
Egan acted surprised, but he knew he deserved what was coming.
‘’ You left her, you never spoke to her, you never even attempted any contact, while you left her for the sunshine in Australia…after all she did for you’’
‘’ It wasn’t like that, I struggled over there, its expensive and I could barely afford to look after myself, let alone someone else’’
‘’ You shouldn’t even have come back’’ she grinned as she finished her 4th Glass Watch for realistic dialogue - Writing extended conversations is really tough to make it sound natural, and this conversation isn't quite there yet. Feels a little forced, like, would they actually say this in this way? Not 100% believable.
Egan had enough, he wasn’t sure whether to lash out and release the anger and guilt that had been bubbling up inside, or to leave it and continue to act like everything was ok for the sake of his Grandmother.
The chair dragged along the carpet, as Egan briskly walked to the garage. He threw one after another at the dart board, trying to copy the beauty of Terry Jenkins. It was a cathartic release for him, it distracted him from his guilt for brief moments. He stayed there for hours, he was too ashamed to come out and apologize.
Egan watched the man on the bike slip the letters in the letterbox. It was a job offer from polisnki Deli, he had applied for a job since he had come back to help out his grandmother during his stay. It was a well payed role in the managerial position, one better than he could find in Australia.
The thing he hated most gave him something better than he could imagine. He decided he would tell his grandmother in the morning.
Egan looked at the town from the top floor of the church, the streets had been cleaned up, no more broken down homes and roads, he watched polish construction workers build a new children’s playground and saw people walking in and out the shops. Could it have been the polish that helped this town?
He told his grandmother about his job
‘’you fool, you know I hate the polish even though they have helped, it still belongs to England Egan….although I love the free meat you’re going to bring home to me’’ Little confused about this ending! There was a lot of detail to absorb really quickly - Very easy for a reader to get lost at the end here.
Interesting story idea and some cool use of language! I'd have two main recommendations:
1 - What is your Discovery concept? You need to hone in on it a little more strongly - I'm not really getting it smacking me in the face right now, and it should. It should be a very prominent part of your story, where I feel like ideas on culture you are playing with at the end aren't truly fleshed out.
2 - Your story is very "this happened then this" in places, particularly the ending. Go back and read your last few paragraphs and look at how much new information and new ideas we get so quickly. These realisations need to be built up over a longer period - Certain things need to be accentuated. Basically, right now pieces of your story are reading more like a recount or list of events, rather than a dramatic/powerful/conceptual piece. As a result, lots of things are there, but none of them are developed or given much depth.
I'd recommend for you to read Elyse's guide on creative writing to get some tips on making your concept more obvious, as well as making your story a little more paced, building things up more slowly, etc. Again, I think the idea is clever and works well - Particularly the jump in time, but you definitely need to adjust your approach to get the most out of it :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on April 07, 2017, 01:05:44 am
so this is the start of my creative.
is this to similar to the book 'We all Fall Down' by Robert Cormier?
Hey Aaron! I can't tell you whether this is similar to that book, never read it! And wouldn't be able to say much from just a plot summary :P But I'll certainly give you some general feedback:
Spoiler
9:02 pm, the ‘thrashers’ stormed in the 37 Dale Street, unsought, drunkenly entered their way through the double-story building. There were three adolescents present, and they weren’t your typical ‘rich privileged’ kids’ who played ball, however recluses pushing the boundaries of life. A little ambiguous there - The adolescents are the thrashers? Saying they are 'present' doesn't make this obvious and is a tad confusing. They ransacked prized possessions such as the orderly array of trophies all perfectly positioned on the cabinet shelves. Harry, the professed leader of the conjunction, was appalled of his counterpart, Buddy, who was holding his best to try to not excrete waste. Um, what? “For god’s sake Buddy, just take it. I don’t want you to piss all over my car”. Nice realistic dialogue. It gave Harry the shivers the thought of inhaling out-dated urine. It took a couple of seconds for Buddy to approve of this order, who yelped which transitioned into tranquillity when excreted the waste. The word choice of "excreted the waste" is definitely cringe worthy - Power to you if that is the intention, but I'm not sure. Doesn't sit right with me. I think you could still have this plot point out there without it being so, well, weirdly disgusting, aha. Having defecated on the mosaic of the floors, caught their amusement of the others. Lauren, the eleven year old child awoken by the laughters downstairs, crept down and peered face-face with the vandals. A smirk roused the face of Harrys, who had an epiphany, planning methodically what he should endure to the girl. "Endure" might not be the word you need there. “Come here sweetheart, we don’t wanna hurt you”. Harry was zeroing in on Lauren, who had nowhere to flee. Ensure that all your dialogue sits on a new line (this goes for above as well, it just makes things clearer)! “Let me go, Let me go” screeched Lauren who was tangled with Harry. Lauren plunged her head towards Harry, who propelled backwards, and angrily pushed Lauren and causing her to tumble down the stairs. Watch for tense discrepancies in your writing - I notice it particularly here, you've got "pushed" right next to "causing" - Past and present tense. In can throw the reader, be careful! Thud, crash, a series of noises echoed through the double-story building. Harry, nervously looked upon the motionless Lauren, who glanced at the others, signalling it was time to leave. Lauren was glancing? Watch the order of things here, again, it can make things ambiguous really quickly. Buddy couldn’t help himself, and searching for an answer “Is she okay, we won’t get pinged for this”, claimed the distraught 15- year old. “Move out” claimed Harry”, and the others flocked to the car, silent to their destination.
He planned their downfall, in turn society would thank for. Helpless, staring through his canopy of a house, hidden from sight, he watched them their every movement. His hands holding the black binoculars, completely bewildered and furious from the events that partaken, had an infuriating urge in his eyes as though he was determined to give them the full treatment of justice. He recited over and over to himself, they will not get away with this. They think they can storm into a house, injure innocent people, and get away with this treacherous act. I am the watchdog of this neighbourhood, justice must be served. They won’t know what hit them.
He planned their downfall, in turn society would thank for. Helpless, staring through his canopy of a house, hidden from sight, he watched them their every movement. His hands holding the black binoculars, completely bewildered and furious from the events that partaken, had an infuriating urge in his eyes as though he was determined to give them the full treatment of justice. He recited over and over to himself, they will not get away with this. They think they can storm into a house, injure innocent people, and get away with this treacherous act. I am the watchdog of this neighbourhood, justice must be served. They won’t know what hit them.
My two main comments here would be:
1 - Watch the mechanics of your writing - Tense, word choice, sentence structure, etc. These might seem like small issues but they can add up to create quite a bit of ambiguity for the reader. I was doing quite a bit of work to make sure I understood who was doing what and what was happening at any given time. To get the reader invested in your ideas, the story needs to be really easy to follow.
2 - What part of the course is this Creative targeted towards? What concept are you trying to push? It is only the start, but I'm not getting a concept/idea coming through just yet. Revenge could be a theme that you've started developing at the end there. Be sure you are not just writing a story where stuff happens for the sake of it - There needs to be a greater message or idea(s) that you are trying to communicate :)
Hope this feedback helps!
Post by: sageziman on April 10, 2017, 04:56:22 pm
A striking blow slashed through his soul when the photograph appeared on the front pages of the New York times.
Believing he had departed from that previous life, flickers of recollection began to reappear accompanied by nostalgic sounds of the church choir perpetuating his memory.
Sounds of freedom song trampled the dry dusty streets of Soweto, echoing through the shanty township.
Bold signs carried proud on the shoulders of violated children as they marched towards the stadium, he watches as windows opened joining the cries of hope.
The mothers and children joining in prayer for the sounds of deep African pride reclaimed the mouths of promising children and wrapped around the throats of the news reporters and white ears pressed against their radios in fear of revolt.
The systematic silencing of the thousands of voices relapsed between the promising peaceful march.
Rewinding back to the riots of 1976.
He stood between the strong leaders of the high school who had prepared for this day since their grandparent’s native tongue was sliced from their memory, they understood the extent of this moment. The aspirations of Black youth could not be silienced to a whisper, they became courageous protagonist of their own history.
Students immediately began running from their classes into schools, grabbing children to join in song the beating howl “BLACK POWER RAISE” broke through atmosphere sending waves of alarm into the country. The white ghosts loaded guns in fear and rushed towards the location in attempt to confine the revolt.
They marched almost 10 km before they met with a line of police officers, the voices came to a painfully muted halt. He watched as hector raised his hand into the sky, with trembling nerves he rolled his hand into a fist and joined, thousands followed silently raising fists.
That’s when he heard the first shot.
Followed by uncountable blasts.
Fear filled his chest.
Running to take cover he gripped his hand tight around his bag holding the lens of his camera. Crawling between two garbage bins the commotion around him was startling, his anxiety increased as each bullets shattered another windows and bounced off the metal bins.
Wrapping a piece of cloth around his arm he desperately searched for a marker in his backpack, he wrote the letters PRESS noticeably large across the band hoping he would be identified as a journalist.
Composing himself he took a breath and rushed back into the chaos, falling against the dry dirt, he held on passing bodies in attempt to stand, holding onto side walk polls and behind garbage bins, he soon found himself running alongside Hector.
The police were infiltrating into the crowd shooting into every moving object in their vision, the air lost oxygen and a cloud of tear gas hovered over them like a gateway to hell. All noise became slightly peaceful in the cloud of death; assurance of the fact he was alive. He leant down to feel around for his camera that had fallen, trying to make out his surroundings, the shots grew louder, rhythmically exploding closer towards him like a murderous drum. Trembling in a cloud of comprehendible fear he rushed praying to find safety, in all the commotion he saw a familiar boy running with another in his harms towards him, he grabbed the camera and tried to photograph whatever he could despite the tear gas puncturing his sight.
After that moment he tried to forget everything,
Moving to the city he lost all connection to hector and Soweto.
Hope was dull and light seemed only bright in another world.
When apartheid ended my father moved to New York to begin a new life without the struggles of racial segregation and war.
After finding that camera in my father’s cupboard I took it to the New York times who wrote an article about Hector and the riots of 1976. I discovered my father was indeed a hero of his time,
he looked at me with bewilderment and extraordinary pride, I could have sworn he did not say a word yet I heard him speak relief.
For my father had felt his first sense of recognition as a voice in the truth, a trumpet in the revolutionary revolt that was Hectors death and the end of the black mans silencing in South Africa.
Post by: elysepopplewell on April 11, 2017, 08:03:31 am
Hey, could you please ready my creative writing piece on discovery. I have drafted it with my teacher who just pointed out the usual "expand" and "clarify". I hope you can assist me in creating depth and a strong discovery element. thank you so much
Of course! I'll put the feedback in the bold font below :)
Spoiler
A striking blow slashed through his soul when the photograph appeared on the front pages of the New York times. Love this!
Believing he had departed from that previous life, flickers of recollection began to reappear accompanied by nostalgic sounds of the church choir perpetuating his memory. There's a lot going on in this sentence, the two sections I have underlined are where different ideas are connected. Considering rewording this to be more blunt, precise, and striking (just like the image). Emulate the striking blow of the image in the writing style by being precise and bold.
Sounds of freedom song trampled the dry dusty streets of Soweto, echoing through the shanty township.
Bold signs carried proud on the shoulders of violated children as they marched towards the stadium, he watches as windows opened joining (comma here perhaps, or change joining to the infinitive verb: to join? Just doesn't read smoothly so I couldn't grasp the imagery you intend. the cries of hope.
The mothers and children joining in prayer for the sounds of deep Deep is nice, but I wonder if there's a better word to use here? Something that means more than deep...innate? Not sure of the exact word I'd use, but it might be worth toying with. African pride reclaimed the mouths of promising children and wrapped around the throats of the news reporters and white ears pressed against their radios in fear of revolt.
The systematic silencing of the thousands of voices relapsed between the promising peaceful march.
Rewinding back to the riots of 1976. How does this appear on the page when you write it? Is it isolated? underlined? I'm not sure what kind of convention you're intending with this. Is it a title?
He stood between the strong leaders of the high school who had prepared for this day since their grandparent’s native tongue was sliced from their memory, they understood the extent of this moment. The aspirations of Black youth could not be silienced to a whisper, they became courageous protagonist of their own history. They were... (this is a great spot for adjectives that are meaningful, stark, and strong. If we use the same writing style we did at the start with that strikingness, we can create a link with your tone to connect these ideas.
Students immediately began running from their classes into schools, grabbing children to join in song the beating howl “BLACK POWER RAISE” broke through atmosphere sending waves of alarm into the country. This little bit here can benefit from improvement. It's a long sentence with a lot of ideas. The ideas are energetic, but the writing isn't. When your writing emulates the energy in the content you'll see a huge difference. The plot is inciting movement but the sentence was long and lulling. Break it up, again, be striking, bold, demanding. The white ghosts loaded guns in fear and rushed towards the location in attempt to confine the revolt.
They marched almost 10 km before they met with a line of police officers, the voices came to a painfully muted halt. He watched as hector raised his hand into the sky, with trembling nerves he rolled his hand into a fist and joined, thousands followed silently raising fists.
Let's look at the last three sentences. They start with: the, they, he. This is a time of building action. It could be beneficial to look at the way you're using syntax by bringing action to the beginning of the sentence. This way, you're privileging the energy and enticing a reader, rather than letting the energetic statement fall to the end and by the way.
That’s when he heard the first shot.
Followed by uncountable blasts.
Fear filled his chest.
yessss!!!
Running to take cover he gripped his hand tight around his bag holding the lens of his camera. Crawling between two garbage bins the commotion around him was startling, his anxiety increased as each bullets shattered another windows and bounced off the metal bins.
Wrapping a piece of cloth around his arm he desperately searched for a marker in his backpack, he wrote the letters PRESS noticeably large across the band hoping he would be identified as a journalist. This last part of the sentence is telling and not showing - respect that the reader will be able to understand the intention of "PRESS" without being told that press means media. I understood it before you spelled it out, so consider taking off the end bit to leave it as something for the reader to chew on for half a second, rather than forcing them to swallow.
Composing himself he took a breath and rushed back into the chaos, falling against the dry dirt, he held on passing bodies in attempt to stand, holding onto side walk polls and behind garbage bins, he soon found himself running alongside Hector.
The police were infiltrating into the crowd shooting into every moving object in their vision, the air lost oxygen and a cloud of tear gas hovered over them like a gateway to hell. All noise became slightly peaceful in the cloud of death; assurance of the fact he was alive. He leant down to feel around for his camera that had fallen, trying to make out his surroundings, the shots grew louder, rhythmically exploding closer towards him like a murderous drum. Trembling in a cloud of comprehendible fear he rushed praying to find safety, in all the commotion he saw a familiar boy running with another in his harms towards him, he grabbed the camera and tried to photograph whatever he could despite the tear gas puncturing his sight. The commas are used here to create rhythm, but the sentences could definitely benefit from some variation in order to sustain that suspense. At present, I get familiar with the flow and don't stay on my toes! I want to be there, feeling my lungs tighten and dodging bullets. Instead, I'm used to your sentence structure so you're giving me some predictability to detract from the adventure.
After that moment he tried to forget everything,
Moving to the city he lost all connection to hector and Soweto.
Hope was dull and light seemed only bright in another world.
When apartheid ended my father moved to New York to begin a new life without the struggles of racial segregation and war.
After finding that camera in my father’s cupboard I took it to the New York times who this personifies the NYT - but in a good way! Instead, "they" will work best. Small grammatical thing. wrote an article about Hector and the riots of 1976. I discovered my father was indeed a hero of his time,
he looked at me with bewilderment and extraordinary pride, I could have sworn he did not say a word yet I heard him speak relief.
For my father had felt his first sense of recognition as a voice in the truth, a trumpet in the revolutionary revolt that was Hectors death and the end of the black mans silencing in South Africa.
Believing he had departed from that previous life, flickers of recollection began to reappear accompanied by nostalgic sounds of the church choir perpetuating his memory. There's a lot going on in this sentence, the two sections I have underlined are where different ideas are connected. Considering rewording this to be more blunt, precise, and striking (just like the image). Emulate the striking blow of the image in the writing style by being precise and bold.
Sounds of freedom song trampled the dry dusty streets of Soweto, echoing through the shanty township.
Bold signs carried proud on the shoulders of violated children as they marched towards the stadium, he watches as windows opened joining (comma here perhaps, or change joining to the infinitive verb: to join? Just doesn't read smoothly so I couldn't grasp the imagery you intend. the cries of hope.
The mothers and children joining in prayer for the sounds of deep Deep is nice, but I wonder if there's a better word to use here? Something that means more than deep...innate? Not sure of the exact word I'd use, but it might be worth toying with. African pride reclaimed the mouths of promising children and wrapped around the throats of the news reporters and white ears pressed against their radios in fear of revolt.
The systematic silencing of the thousands of voices relapsed between the promising peaceful march.
Rewinding back to the riots of 1976. How does this appear on the page when you write it? Is it isolated? underlined? I'm not sure what kind of convention you're intending with this. Is it a title?
He stood between the strong leaders of the high school who had prepared for this day since their grandparent’s native tongue was sliced from their memory, they understood the extent of this moment. The aspirations of Black youth could not be silienced to a whisper, they became courageous protagonist of their own history. They were... (this is a great spot for adjectives that are meaningful, stark, and strong. If we use the same writing style we did at the start with that strikingness, we can create a link with your tone to connect these ideas.
Students immediately began running from their classes into schools, grabbing children to join in song the beating howl “BLACK POWER RAISE” broke through atmosphere sending waves of alarm into the country. This little bit here can benefit from improvement. It's a long sentence with a lot of ideas. The ideas are energetic, but the writing isn't. When your writing emulates the energy in the content you'll see a huge difference. The plot is inciting movement but the sentence was long and lulling. Break it up, again, be striking, bold, demanding. The white ghosts loaded guns in fear and rushed towards the location in attempt to confine the revolt.
They marched almost 10 km before they met with a line of police officers, the voices came to a painfully muted halt. He watched as hector raised his hand into the sky, with trembling nerves he rolled his hand into a fist and joined, thousands followed silently raising fists.
Let's look at the last three sentences. They start with: the, they, he. This is a time of building action. It could be beneficial to look at the way you're using syntax by bringing action to the beginning of the sentence. This way, you're privileging the energy and enticing a reader, rather than letting the energetic statement fall to the end and by the way.
That’s when he heard the first shot.
Followed by uncountable blasts.
Fear filled his chest.
yessss!!!
Running to take cover he gripped his hand tight around his bag holding the lens of his camera. Crawling between two garbage bins the commotion around him was startling, his anxiety increased as each bullets shattered another windows and bounced off the metal bins.
Wrapping a piece of cloth around his arm he desperately searched for a marker in his backpack, he wrote the letters PRESS noticeably large across the band hoping he would be identified as a journalist. This last part of the sentence is telling and not showing - respect that the reader will be able to understand the intention of "PRESS" without being told that press means media. I understood it before you spelled it out, so consider taking off the end bit to leave it as something for the reader to chew on for half a second, rather than forcing them to swallow.
Composing himself he took a breath and rushed back into the chaos, falling against the dry dirt, he held on passing bodies in attempt to stand, holding onto side walk polls and behind garbage bins, he soon found himself running alongside Hector.
The police were infiltrating into the crowd shooting into every moving object in their vision, the air lost oxygen and a cloud of tear gas hovered over them like a gateway to hell. All noise became slightly peaceful in the cloud of death; assurance of the fact he was alive. He leant down to feel around for his camera that had fallen, trying to make out his surroundings, the shots grew louder, rhythmically exploding closer towards him like a murderous drum. Trembling in a cloud of comprehendible fear he rushed praying to find safety, in all the commotion he saw a familiar boy running with another in his harms towards him, he grabbed the camera and tried to photograph whatever he could despite the tear gas puncturing his sight. The commas are used here to create rhythm, but the sentences could definitely benefit from some variation in order to sustain that suspense. At present, I get familiar with the flow and don't stay on my toes! I want to be there, feeling my lungs tighten and dodging bullets. Instead, I'm used to your sentence structure so you're giving me some predictability to detract from the adventure.
After that moment he tried to forget everything,
Moving to the city he lost all connection to hector and Soweto.
Hope was dull and light seemed only bright in another world.
When apartheid ended my father moved to New York to begin a new life without the struggles of racial segregation and war.
After finding that camera in my father’s cupboard I took it to the New York times who this personifies the NYT - but in a good way! Instead, "they" will work best. Small grammatical thing. wrote an article about Hector and the riots of 1976. I discovered my father was indeed a hero of his time,
he looked at me with bewilderment and extraordinary pride, I could have sworn he did not say a word yet I heard him speak relief.
For my father had felt his first sense of recognition as a voice in the truth, a trumpet in the revolutionary revolt that was Hectors death and the end of the black mans silencing in South Africa.
Wonderful story! I have a suggestion for the ending/beginning. It's about adding another layer of discovery. Perhaps, the dad could be unimpressed by the story being shared, as it's too traumatic and really something he put behind him. It was intensely personal and he doesn't want his heroism shared because he feels it detracts from the devastation. The son, of course, doesn't realise, and publishes it thinking he was doing the right thing. So the son discovers how intensely personal it was for the father beyond words, and the audience recognises the way that experiences are responded to from different standpoints. So at the beginning where you look at the newspaper, we could be like "striking blow, thought these days were behind, etc." Then, "His son looked at him as his proud smile faded into soft eyes, he knew he'd missed the mark." (obviously write something so much nicer than this). It just adds another layer to the story, that although the son thinks this should be applauded after discovering the camera. The father isn't impressed with what his son has done with the discovery, he wishes he could conceal it all. Just a suggestion!
Otherwise, the suggestions about the writing style are infiltrated throughout the response. Think about the way you can manipulate your words to highlight the energy in your plot! I've suggested the exact ways to do this throughout, so let me know what you think :)
Great job overall - a story with a lot of potential. A few changes will skyrocket this story!
Post by: cxmplete on April 16, 2017, 09:16:29 am
Lost And Found
I liked being a mess. The desk that should have been clear so I could do my homework was always besieged with bowls of cereal and spoiled milk, old magazines, and Post-it notes of reminders I ought to remember. My floor was a vacuum in itself, eating anything entering my room. It consumed sweaters, stuffed animals, socks, and shoes. The heavy covers lay crumpled and cold across my bed, moulded by the twists and turns of the night. My shelves overflowed with containers of little odds and ends: hair bands, chapstick, matches, loose mints, coins, and earring backings.
Something inside me began to itch as I recalled that my friends were yet to return from camp, visiting family, or some community-service trip. I tried taking a shower, scrubbing myself with every body wash and bar of soap I could get my hands on. I checked my e-mail, but it was empty. I checked the DVR to see if any new shows had been recorded, but I had already seen everything.
I went downstairs and found my brother playing video games, my mum on the phone, and my dad in his office – everyone in their usual place. I told my mum that something didn't feel right, and she suggested that maybe for once I should clean my room. Dragging myself upstairs, I felt overwhelmed with the thought of organising that chaotic mess that I might as well have been floundering without a boat in the Atlantic Ocean.
When I opened the door to my bedroom, everything was in its usual cluttered arrangement. I trudged to the centre of the clutter and I had become aware of the filthy air that I had become so accustomed to. I noticed my stuffed animal, Vanilla, on my bed and remembered how during one winter, she had fallen behind my dresser and I didn’t notice her until the repulsive scent of her fur burning against the heater permeated the room.
Vanilla’s state sparked my sympathy for everything buried in the room that had become consumed by age. Lost items long forgotten resurfaced into my consciousness: my favourite yellow tank top, the picture of my mum and I on a boat in Jamaica, and my AFL card collection. The lost objects suffused me with an urge to dive under my bed and uncover everything lurking in the murky depths of dust.
And so I started to clean. Under my bed, in a box buried under old textbooks, I found a letter that my Poppy had written me while I was at camp. I hadn't thought of him since his funeral. I remembered the thrill of running through the cold sprinklers hand in hand, the spicy smell of barbecue mixing with the salty air at his beach house, and the distinct feeling of his soft sweater rubbing against my cheek every time he enveloped me in a hug.
I remembered my dad rocking me to sleep the night Poppy died, and how the tears wouldn't stop.
I sat with the letter, and tried blocking out the rest of the mess around me. I was in the middle of a storm, but I sat there and studied it again and again until I had memorised every line. Tears began to roll down my cheeks again. The relief from that bizarre itchy feeling was like the sound of heavy rain pounding on a roof at the end of a drought.
Wiping my tears, I tried to distract myself, directing my attention to the bedside drawer. I found the picture of my mum and me on that boat in Jamaica. I’ve forgotten the sight of those turquoise waters, and the sticky warmth enveloping the boat. But what really caught my attention, was the pimply, buck toothed girl. I was barely able to recognise this person who had drowned in the mess of her room so many years after Poppy had died. But, I was not the chaos of my room. I am the silly child who ran to the wrong plane, and the owner of the fingers that made the lightest cupcakes. I am the writer of nightmarish stories and the creator of lame punchlines. I am whomever I decided to be.
Slowly, I began to place the books, belts, and baskets in their right places. Everything will finally be where it should be. It was like finding the missing pieces of the puzzle.
Gently I framed that photo and hung it high up on my wall. After all, it was me I had been searching for.
Post by: itssona on April 16, 2017, 12:22:22 pm
thanks :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on April 16, 2017, 01:55:17 pm
I'm not submitting my creative in this post- just wanted to ask if you could mark my creative based on the AOS Belonging? (im doing prelim) or is it just discovery that you'll look at?
thanks :)
We can definitely mark your Belonging piece! I did Belonging in my AoS so can hopefully be of help!
Post by: itssona on April 17, 2017, 07:20:30 pm
We can definitely mark your Belonging piece! I did Belonging in my AoS so can hopefully be of help!
Thank you so much omg!!! :D
My stimulus I chose out of the options was: b) Developing an association with others can disturb our sense of equilibrium.
but frankly, if you think any of the other stimulus' fit, then do tell me. The other ones are;
a) There is a need for caution or skepticism in seeking a sense of belonging.
b) Developing an association with others can disturb our sense of equilibrium.
c) One consequence of an unexpected experience is that it can spark an understanding of our place in the world.
[spoilerGripping despair came over me, with it, bringing the usual blanket of emptiness. The blanket I had grown accustomed to, wrapping myself in its arms since it was the only form of embrace I had. But ever so slowly, the blanket entangles itself between my legs, inching its way ominously up my collarbone, tugging at the nape of my neck.
And then my throat tightens. Snaking itself around my throat persistently, I make out through my blurred vision, that the blanket’s length is reaching an end. My head is thick with sounds. I count seconds; my life slowly reaching an end, reducing to dust in the fabric of time. Losing myself in the fabric of time. The last thing I feel are my airways tightening, and then everything reduces to black.
***
I prepared my tea, looking out into the dreary fog encompassing Deston (I need a better London village name omg) this morning. The usual hackneys tread past, their hasty veering giving way to the billowing dust. I go for a ‘London Fog’ to suit the perennial abyss of sadness around and inside me. I wasn’t one for grandeur, let alone specialized teas, but I indulged from the tea-box I had been gifted by my late grandmother who gained wealth the moment she turned 19- as per standards in Deston. The arrival of the wealthy and noble Marquis every year was a moment of compliance, where each young woman would seemingly have no choice but to marry these men. Procedural and granted, women bought in to the idea that marrying a man of noble class and engulfing themselves in their riches, would be a better life than an easygoing one at home. But more than that, their desire to conform to the “standard” overshadowed their internal desires and they succumbed to the pressure of leading such a life.
I too, would have bought in to living in a façade of splendour, admitting myself to my pre-determined fate, just like every young woman in Deston. But since my mother Peyton’s sudden death, which in my memory is tainted with flashes of blood, and her attempts to conceal her agonisisng pain from me before she said goodbye to the world she thought she lived in, and ended it all. I know better than to accept this fate which will lead me to a harrowing struggle with identity, just as my mother faced.
My last conversation with my mother opened my eyes to the fallaciousness of being involved in this “ritualistic” ordeal that had become the ‘done’ thing in Deston.
“Priscilla” my mother started, staring absentmindedly at the makeshift fire we had going on. I smiled politely right on through, encouraging her to continue when she got carried away in thought.
“I wish I had known better when I was young” she admitted, her gaze still fixated on the fire. I felt uneasy as I awaited her next words and let out a cough. An otherwise small cough which reverberated in the silence that was in the space between us.
“But how could you have known better mother. In actual fact, I still am inching towards the prospect of marrying one of them”
“PRISCILLA!!”
I flinched.
She lowered her tone and shakily retracted, “sorry, I’m just so ashamed of myself” and faltered as a sob constricted her throat.
“But you left him, and you are the best mother I could’ve asked for” I smiled solemnly, digging my nails into the crevases between my thumb and finger to help reduce the urge to cry. A wave of sorrow hit me, and a sharp ache started to fill me- one which could not be shaken. She really was the best mother I could ask for, especially given our circumstances. Many late nights, she would come home, tattered and somewhat displaced as she vented to me about the ill treatment she received from her ex-husband. I didn’t know any better than to offer her hugs and close embrace to make up for my lack of knowing how to console her emotionally. To this day, I can feel her clammy touch and warm alcoholic breath releasing warm wisps into my ear, as she breathed heavily in tears whilst I stood still, seized with impotence (does this make sense?)
“That doesn’t change the fact that I let myself be mistreated and bought” she cried helplessly. Almost like dejavu, I looked on, motionless.
Abashedly wiping her tears, she cleared her throat and quavered, “Listen baby, you can’t let others influence you. It can be dangerous otherwise. I should know. Only then will you discover your selfhood, and only then shall you feel the agonizing screams in your head, quieten. Quieter screams” She laughed at the last part.
And this conversation replays in my head all the time, consuming all my thoughts and leaving me perplexed and in awe. Perplexed at how easily we comply with majority. And in awe of my mother for experiencing such difficulty and yet making sure to warn me of this gullible way with which the young women here, accept the Marquis false promises and how the relationship of power and submission ultimately leads to our internal destruction.
Because of my mother, I know better and I will seek a relationship of mutual affection and equality. A relationship built on underlying respect and one which empowers me, instead of leaving me feeling disconnected.
Because which is worse, to comply with majority whilst rejecting your true self, or experiencing your true self yet being rejected by majority? Because of my mother, I know that belonging is about being accepted for your true self and if you reject your true self, you are throwing away any prospects of belonging.
][/spoiler]
Thank youuuu! :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on April 18, 2017, 11:08:30 pm
Hi, could you please read my creative writing piece on discovery. I gave it to my teacher and she says there are some points I need to expand on, and that there are some parts that i need to review for consistency, but I'm not really sure how I could do that. Also, is the discovery element evident in my story? Thanks.
Hey cxmplete! Sure thing, your piece is attached in the spoiler, comments in bold throughout (though my comments throughout creatives are normally pretty small) ;D
Creative with Feedback
Lost And Found
I liked being a mess. The desk that should have been clear so I could do my homework was always besieged with bowls of cereal and spoiled milk, old magazines, and Post-it notes of reminders I ought to remember. My floor was a vacuum in itself, eating anything entering my room. It consumed sweaters, stuffed animals, socks, and shoes. The heavy covers lay crumpled and cold across my bed, moulded by the twists and turns of the night. My shelves overflowed with containers of little odds and ends: hair bands, chapstick, matches, loose mints, coins, and earring backings. I really like this introduction! It paints a great picture, sparks interest and establishes your voice really nicely. Well done.
Something inside me began to itch as I recalled that my friends were yet to return from camp, visiting family, or some community-service trip. I tried taking a shower, scrubbing myself with every body wash and bar of soap I could get my hands on. This is a little weird (I might realise why later), normally we associate this with disgust with your own actions? I checked my e-mail, but it was empty. I checked the DVR to see if any new shows had been recorded, but I had already seen everything.
I went downstairs and found my brother playing video games, my mum on the phone, and my dad in his office – everyone in their usual place. I told my mum that something didn't feel right, and she suggested that maybe for once I should clean my room. Dragging myself upstairs, I felt overwhelmed with the thought of organising that chaotic mess that I might as well have been floundering without a boat in the Atlantic Ocean. I like that you are leaving some details out of the story to create audience suspense, but this can be a little TOO disorienting at times. I'll reserve judgement until the end, but at this point I *think* having a tiny bit more background information would be helpful.
When I opened the door to my bedroom, everything was in its usual cluttered arrangement. I trudged to the centre of the clutter and I had become aware of the filthy air that I had become so accustomed to. Be careful of repetition of a unique/interesting word - In this case "clutter." Just a little off putting :) I noticed my stuffed animal, Vanilla, on my bed and remembered how during one winter, she had fallen behind my dresser and I didn’t notice her until the repulsive scent of her fur burning against the heater permeated the room.
Vanilla’s state sparked my sympathy for everything buried in the room that had become consumed by age. I like the fact that a lot of your story is flow of thought and internal reflection. You've done it genuinely - It works really well. Lost items long forgotten resurfaced into my consciousness: my favourite yellow tank top, the picture of my mum and I on a boat in Jamaica, and my AFL card collection. The lost objects suffused me with an urge to dive under my bed and uncover everything lurking in the murky depths of dust. I like the motif of the sailing symbolism - That's clever. Hoping that it pays off somewhere down below!
And so I started to clean. Under my bed, in a box buried under old textbooks, I found a letter that my Poppy had written me while I was at camp. This seems really quick for a really significant plot element. Try building it up a bit more. Ultimately, the significant moments of your story should be given the most attention. I hadn't thought of him since his funeral. I remembered the thrill of running through the cold sprinklers hand in hand, the spicy smell of barbecue mixing with the salty air at his beach house, and the distinct feeling of his soft sweater rubbing against my cheek every time he enveloped me in a hug. Ditto here, I'd love to see you expand on these moments more. To the reader, because you've only spent a few lines on it, it seems less important than even the state of your room above.
I remembered my dad rocking me to sleep the night Poppy died, and how the tears wouldn't stop.
I sat with the letter, and tried blocking out the rest of the mess around me. I was in the middle of a storm, but I sat there and studied it again and again until I had memorised every line. Tears began to roll down my cheeks again. The relief from that bizarre itchy feeling was like the sound of heavy rain pounding on a roof at the end of a drought. This simile seems a little awkward, a little forced. It seems a bit like a technique just for the sake of using a technique.
Wiping my tears, I tried to distract myself, directing my attention to the bedside drawer. I found the picture of my mum and me on that boat in Jamaica. I’ve forgotten the sight of those turquoise waters, and the sticky warmth enveloping the boat. But what really caught my attention, was the pimply, buck toothed girl. I was barely able to recognise this person who had drowned in the mess of her room so many years after Poppy had died. But, I was not the chaos of my room. I am the silly child who ran to the wrong plane, and the owner of the fingers that made the lightest cupcakes. I am the writer of nightmarish stories and the creator of lame punchlines. I am whomever I decided to be. This feels like a very vague realisation - The link to the real world feels a little forced/weak, and you've not really clearly explained what the big realisation is, or the impacts of it. It comes across as just trying to cram a big Discovery concept in a single paragraph at the end of your story, which never quite works as well as we would hope!
Slowly, I began to place the books, belts, and baskets in their right places. Everything will finally be where it should be. It was like finding the missing pieces of the puzzle.
Gently I framed that photo and hung it high up on my wall. After all, it was me I had been searching for.
I liked being a mess. The desk that should have been clear so I could do my homework was always besieged with bowls of cereal and spoiled milk, old magazines, and Post-it notes of reminders I ought to remember. My floor was a vacuum in itself, eating anything entering my room. It consumed sweaters, stuffed animals, socks, and shoes. The heavy covers lay crumpled and cold across my bed, moulded by the twists and turns of the night. My shelves overflowed with containers of little odds and ends: hair bands, chapstick, matches, loose mints, coins, and earring backings. I really like this introduction! It paints a great picture, sparks interest and establishes your voice really nicely. Well done.
Something inside me began to itch as I recalled that my friends were yet to return from camp, visiting family, or some community-service trip. I tried taking a shower, scrubbing myself with every body wash and bar of soap I could get my hands on. This is a little weird (I might realise why later), normally we associate this with disgust with your own actions? I checked my e-mail, but it was empty. I checked the DVR to see if any new shows had been recorded, but I had already seen everything.
I went downstairs and found my brother playing video games, my mum on the phone, and my dad in his office – everyone in their usual place. I told my mum that something didn't feel right, and she suggested that maybe for once I should clean my room. Dragging myself upstairs, I felt overwhelmed with the thought of organising that chaotic mess that I might as well have been floundering without a boat in the Atlantic Ocean. I like that you are leaving some details out of the story to create audience suspense, but this can be a little TOO disorienting at times. I'll reserve judgement until the end, but at this point I *think* having a tiny bit more background information would be helpful.
When I opened the door to my bedroom, everything was in its usual cluttered arrangement. I trudged to the centre of the clutter and I had become aware of the filthy air that I had become so accustomed to. Be careful of repetition of a unique/interesting word - In this case "clutter." Just a little off putting :) I noticed my stuffed animal, Vanilla, on my bed and remembered how during one winter, she had fallen behind my dresser and I didn’t notice her until the repulsive scent of her fur burning against the heater permeated the room.
Vanilla’s state sparked my sympathy for everything buried in the room that had become consumed by age. I like the fact that a lot of your story is flow of thought and internal reflection. You've done it genuinely - It works really well. Lost items long forgotten resurfaced into my consciousness: my favourite yellow tank top, the picture of my mum and I on a boat in Jamaica, and my AFL card collection. The lost objects suffused me with an urge to dive under my bed and uncover everything lurking in the murky depths of dust. I like the motif of the sailing symbolism - That's clever. Hoping that it pays off somewhere down below!
And so I started to clean. Under my bed, in a box buried under old textbooks, I found a letter that my Poppy had written me while I was at camp. This seems really quick for a really significant plot element. Try building it up a bit more. Ultimately, the significant moments of your story should be given the most attention. I hadn't thought of him since his funeral. I remembered the thrill of running through the cold sprinklers hand in hand, the spicy smell of barbecue mixing with the salty air at his beach house, and the distinct feeling of his soft sweater rubbing against my cheek every time he enveloped me in a hug. Ditto here, I'd love to see you expand on these moments more. To the reader, because you've only spent a few lines on it, it seems less important than even the state of your room above.
I remembered my dad rocking me to sleep the night Poppy died, and how the tears wouldn't stop.
I sat with the letter, and tried blocking out the rest of the mess around me. I was in the middle of a storm, but I sat there and studied it again and again until I had memorised every line. Tears began to roll down my cheeks again. The relief from that bizarre itchy feeling was like the sound of heavy rain pounding on a roof at the end of a drought. This simile seems a little awkward, a little forced. It seems a bit like a technique just for the sake of using a technique.
Wiping my tears, I tried to distract myself, directing my attention to the bedside drawer. I found the picture of my mum and me on that boat in Jamaica. I’ve forgotten the sight of those turquoise waters, and the sticky warmth enveloping the boat. But what really caught my attention, was the pimply, buck toothed girl. I was barely able to recognise this person who had drowned in the mess of her room so many years after Poppy had died. But, I was not the chaos of my room. I am the silly child who ran to the wrong plane, and the owner of the fingers that made the lightest cupcakes. I am the writer of nightmarish stories and the creator of lame punchlines. I am whomever I decided to be. This feels like a very vague realisation - The link to the real world feels a little forced/weak, and you've not really clearly explained what the big realisation is, or the impacts of it. It comes across as just trying to cram a big Discovery concept in a single paragraph at the end of your story, which never quite works as well as we would hope!
Slowly, I began to place the books, belts, and baskets in their right places. Everything will finally be where it should be. It was like finding the missing pieces of the puzzle.
Gently I framed that photo and hung it high up on my wall. After all, it was me I had been searching for.
Alrighty! First, just while I remember, I really like the voice behind your writing - It is consistent and genuine and natural, and that is established right at the start. Excellent work there! It lends itself nicely to your 1st person narration :)
To address your points - I think what your teacher is referring to plot inconsistencies. So for example, near the start you talk about things "not feeling right" about the camping trip. Nothing amounts from that, it is a completely useless plot element because it never progresses beyond that! It seems early on, with the "scrubbing myself with every soap" bit that there might be some guilt involved, but that never amounts. Basically, the key plot element that leads to the Discovery is introduced halfway through, effectively leaving the first half of the story redundant.
I'd also argue that your Discovery seems very rushed towards the end. This is a super common challenge in this section - Students will write a creative with a great voice and clever ideas, and then go "Yep, this is how what I'm writing relates to Discovery." It's very obvious, it's very blunt, and usually it sucks the power right out of the concept. This is what you've done in that large paragraph towards the end - You've done your big "Discovery" paragraph right at the end, it doesn't really emerge gradually from the piece like it should be doing :)
I'd advise you to really draw out the sections of your Creative that matter, the ones relating to the lost relatives, and remove the unnecessary pieces. Your Creative could simply be someone cleaning their room uncovering relics of past loved ones, slowly discovering themselves in the process. Usually, simple is powerful :)
You should also check out this guide to creative writing, if you haven't already! :)
I hope this feedback is useful!! Let me know if you'd like me to clarify anything for you ;D
Post by: jamonwindeyer on April 19, 2017, 11:47:38 pm
Thank you so much omg!!! :D
My stimulus I chose out of the options was: b) Developing an association with others can disturb our sense of equilibrium.
but frankly, if you think any of the other stimulus' fit, then do tell me. The other ones are;
a) There is a need for caution or skepticism in seeking a sense of belonging.
b) Developing an association with others can disturb our sense of equilibrium.
c) One consequence of an unexpected experience is that it can spark an understanding of our place in the world.
No worries! Your creative is in the spoiler with comments throughout in bold :)
Spoiler
Gripping despair came over me, with it, bringing the usual blanket of emptiness. The blanket I had grown accustomed to, wrapping myself in its arms since it was the only form of embrace I had. But ever so slowly, the blanket entangles itself between my legs, inching its way ominously up my collarbone, tugging at the nape of my neck. Interesting introduction! Nice personification and symbolism at play - Definitely effective use of language.
And then my throat tightens. Snaking itself around my throat persistently, I make out through my blurred vision, that the blanket’s length is reaching an end. My head is thick with sounds. A little awkward use of imagery there. I count seconds; my life slowly reaching an end, reducing to dust in the fabric of time. Losing myself in the fabric of time. Be careful of repetition of unique phrases like this in such quick succession - Usually (and indeed in this case imo) it comes across a little cheesy. The last thing I feel are my airways tightening, and then everything reduces to black. Feel like the power is reduced a bit in this second paragraph, it doesn't add a HEAP to what you had in the first paragraph. Might be worth condensing this second bit into the first or something?
***
I prepared my tea, looking out into the dreary fog encompassing Deston (I need a better London village name omg) this morning. I think Deston is okay! The usual hackneys tread past, their hasty veering giving way to the billowing dust. I go for a ‘London Fog’ to suit the perennial abyss of sadness around and inside me. I wasn’t one for grandeur, let alone specialized teas, but I indulged from the tea-box I had been gifted by my late grandmother who gained wealth the moment she turned 19- as per standards in Deston. Try to use paragraphs to your advantage - I'd break paragraphs here to indicate that you are about to reflect on this aspect of society. Like the euphemistic way you used "gained wealth" too. The arrival of the wealthy and noble Marquis every year was a moment of compliance, where each young woman would seemingly have no choice but to marry these men. Procedural and granted, women bought in to the idea that marrying a man of noble class and engulfing themselves in their riches, would be a better life than an easygoing one at home. But more than that, their desire to conform to the “standard” overshadowed their internal desires and they succumbed to the pressure of leading such a life. These last few sentences feel a bit conceptually blatant, just beyond the point where I'd go, "Okay, this student is telling me their concept directly." It's not too bad, but it could be better - Try to describe the situation in a way that SHOWS me these things, don't just tell me them.
I too, would have bought in to living in a façade of splendour, admitting myself to my pre-determined fate, just like every young woman in Deston. But since my mother Peyton’s sudden death, which in my memory is tainted with flashes of blood, and her attempts to conceal her agonisisng pain from me before she said goodbye to the world she thought she lived in, and ended it all. I know better than to accept this fate which will lead me to a harrowing struggle with identity, just as my mother faced. I think it is interesting that you don't go into detail about this seemingly important plot element. It suggests that the character doesn't want to deal with/remember that aspect of their life. It seems insignificant because you don't give it much time - That might suit your purpose!
My last conversation with my mother opened my eyes to the fallaciousness of being involved in this “ritualistic” ordeal that had become the ‘done’ thing in Deston.
“Priscilla” my mother started, staring absentmindedly at the makeshift fire we had going on. I smiled politely right on through, encouraging her to continue when she got carried away in thought.
“I wish I had known better when I was young” she admitted, her gaze still fixated on the fire. I felt uneasy as I awaited her next words and let out a cough. An otherwise small cough which reverberated in the silence that was in the space between us.
“But how could you have known better mother. In actual fact, I still am inching towards the prospect of marrying one of them” Watch that your dialogue is realistic! It was great up to here. Try and picture the conversation taking place: Would YOU, in your characters shoes and in their style, say it this way? Is that dialogue line representative of realistic speech?
“PRISCILLA!!”
I flinched. Love how you are playing with sentence length.
She lowered her tone and shakily retracted, “sorry, I’m just so ashamed of myself” and faltered as a sob constricted her throat.
“But you left him, and you are the best mother I could’ve asked for” I smiled solemnly, digging my nails into the crevases between my thumb and finger to help reduce the urge to cry. A wave of sorrow hit me, and a sharp ache started to fill me- one which could not be shaken. She really was the best mother I could ask for, especially given our circumstances. Many late nights, she would come home, tattered and somewhat displaced as she vented to me about the ill treatment she received from her ex-husband. I didn’t know any better than to offer her hugs and close embrace to make up for my lack of knowing how to console her emotionally. To this day, I can feel her clammy touch and warm alcoholic breath releasing warm wisps into my ear, as she breathed heavily in tears whilst I stood still, seized with impotence (does this make sense?) I think it does, and I think it works really well to paint the picture!
“That doesn’t change the fact that I let myself be mistreated and bought” she cried helplessly. Almost like dejavu, I looked on, motionless. Realistic dialogue - Watch it ;D
Abashedly wiping her tears, she cleared her throat and quavered, “Listen baby, you can’t let others influence you. It can be dangerous otherwise. I should know. Only then will you discover your selfhood, and only then shall you feel the agonizing screams in your head, quieten. Quieter screams” She laughed at the last part. Realistic dialogue - Watch that you don't let the dialogue become an easy way to communicate your concepts.
And this conversation replays in my head all the time, consuming all my thoughts and leaving me perplexed and in awe. Perplexed at how easily we comply with majority. And in awe of my mother for experiencing such difficulty and yet making sure to warn me of this gullible way with which the young women here, accept the Marquis false promises and how the relationship of power and submission ultimately leads to our internal destruction.
Because of my mother, I know better and I will seek a relationship of mutual affection and equality. A relationship built on underlying respect and one which empowers me, instead of leaving me feeling disconnected. Concept a little too blatant here.
Because which is worse, to comply with majority whilst rejecting your true self, or experiencing your true self yet being rejected by majority? Because of my mother, I know that belonging is about being accepted for your true self and if you reject your true self, you are throwing away any prospects of belonging. Using the word belonging in a belonging creative, much like using "discovery" in a discovery creative, should be avoided as much as possible in almost every circumstance. It's just too obvious, you need more subtlety than that.
And then my throat tightens. Snaking itself around my throat persistently, I make out through my blurred vision, that the blanket’s length is reaching an end. My head is thick with sounds. A little awkward use of imagery there. I count seconds; my life slowly reaching an end, reducing to dust in the fabric of time. Losing myself in the fabric of time. Be careful of repetition of unique phrases like this in such quick succession - Usually (and indeed in this case imo) it comes across a little cheesy. The last thing I feel are my airways tightening, and then everything reduces to black. Feel like the power is reduced a bit in this second paragraph, it doesn't add a HEAP to what you had in the first paragraph. Might be worth condensing this second bit into the first or something?
***
I prepared my tea, looking out into the dreary fog encompassing Deston (I need a better London village name omg) this morning. I think Deston is okay! The usual hackneys tread past, their hasty veering giving way to the billowing dust. I go for a ‘London Fog’ to suit the perennial abyss of sadness around and inside me. I wasn’t one for grandeur, let alone specialized teas, but I indulged from the tea-box I had been gifted by my late grandmother who gained wealth the moment she turned 19- as per standards in Deston. Try to use paragraphs to your advantage - I'd break paragraphs here to indicate that you are about to reflect on this aspect of society. Like the euphemistic way you used "gained wealth" too. The arrival of the wealthy and noble Marquis every year was a moment of compliance, where each young woman would seemingly have no choice but to marry these men. Procedural and granted, women bought in to the idea that marrying a man of noble class and engulfing themselves in their riches, would be a better life than an easygoing one at home. But more than that, their desire to conform to the “standard” overshadowed their internal desires and they succumbed to the pressure of leading such a life. These last few sentences feel a bit conceptually blatant, just beyond the point where I'd go, "Okay, this student is telling me their concept directly." It's not too bad, but it could be better - Try to describe the situation in a way that SHOWS me these things, don't just tell me them.
I too, would have bought in to living in a façade of splendour, admitting myself to my pre-determined fate, just like every young woman in Deston. But since my mother Peyton’s sudden death, which in my memory is tainted with flashes of blood, and her attempts to conceal her agonisisng pain from me before she said goodbye to the world she thought she lived in, and ended it all. I know better than to accept this fate which will lead me to a harrowing struggle with identity, just as my mother faced. I think it is interesting that you don't go into detail about this seemingly important plot element. It suggests that the character doesn't want to deal with/remember that aspect of their life. It seems insignificant because you don't give it much time - That might suit your purpose!
My last conversation with my mother opened my eyes to the fallaciousness of being involved in this “ritualistic” ordeal that had become the ‘done’ thing in Deston.
“Priscilla” my mother started, staring absentmindedly at the makeshift fire we had going on. I smiled politely right on through, encouraging her to continue when she got carried away in thought.
“I wish I had known better when I was young” she admitted, her gaze still fixated on the fire. I felt uneasy as I awaited her next words and let out a cough. An otherwise small cough which reverberated in the silence that was in the space between us.
“But how could you have known better mother. In actual fact, I still am inching towards the prospect of marrying one of them” Watch that your dialogue is realistic! It was great up to here. Try and picture the conversation taking place: Would YOU, in your characters shoes and in their style, say it this way? Is that dialogue line representative of realistic speech?
“PRISCILLA!!”
I flinched. Love how you are playing with sentence length.
She lowered her tone and shakily retracted, “sorry, I’m just so ashamed of myself” and faltered as a sob constricted her throat.
“But you left him, and you are the best mother I could’ve asked for” I smiled solemnly, digging my nails into the crevases between my thumb and finger to help reduce the urge to cry. A wave of sorrow hit me, and a sharp ache started to fill me- one which could not be shaken. She really was the best mother I could ask for, especially given our circumstances. Many late nights, she would come home, tattered and somewhat displaced as she vented to me about the ill treatment she received from her ex-husband. I didn’t know any better than to offer her hugs and close embrace to make up for my lack of knowing how to console her emotionally. To this day, I can feel her clammy touch and warm alcoholic breath releasing warm wisps into my ear, as she breathed heavily in tears whilst I stood still, seized with impotence (does this make sense?) I think it does, and I think it works really well to paint the picture!
“That doesn’t change the fact that I let myself be mistreated and bought” she cried helplessly. Almost like dejavu, I looked on, motionless. Realistic dialogue - Watch it ;D
Abashedly wiping her tears, she cleared her throat and quavered, “Listen baby, you can’t let others influence you. It can be dangerous otherwise. I should know. Only then will you discover your selfhood, and only then shall you feel the agonizing screams in your head, quieten. Quieter screams” She laughed at the last part. Realistic dialogue - Watch that you don't let the dialogue become an easy way to communicate your concepts.
And this conversation replays in my head all the time, consuming all my thoughts and leaving me perplexed and in awe. Perplexed at how easily we comply with majority. And in awe of my mother for experiencing such difficulty and yet making sure to warn me of this gullible way with which the young women here, accept the Marquis false promises and how the relationship of power and submission ultimately leads to our internal destruction.
Because of my mother, I know better and I will seek a relationship of mutual affection and equality. A relationship built on underlying respect and one which empowers me, instead of leaving me feeling disconnected. Concept a little too blatant here.
Because which is worse, to comply with majority whilst rejecting your true self, or experiencing your true self yet being rejected by majority? Because of my mother, I know that belonging is about being accepted for your true self and if you reject your true self, you are throwing away any prospects of belonging. Using the word belonging in a belonging creative, much like using "discovery" in a discovery creative, should be avoided as much as possible in almost every circumstance. It's just too obvious, you need more subtlety than that.
I really like your writing style sssona09! Really clever manipulation of language to create some powerful imagery, you developed some effective symbols (particularly in the intro), and I love that you play with longer and shorter sentences to create a sense of drama and tension where necessary. Super effective stuff, excellent work there! :)
In terms of conceptual sophistication - I think the concept is clever. The context is really cool, I like the historical place you have taken it and that makes the concept hit home that little bit harder. I know you don't specifically give a time period - I think you should. Giving this a historical context that matches the world space you are creating would take care of a lot of the explanation for you, leaving you more room to develop your characters.
I think the way you portray the concept is, for the most part, too obvious! It's either a straight explanation of the concept without much subtlety (again, using "belonging" in your creative is a big no no in most cases), or it comes as direct speech from your characters. You aren't showing me, you are telling me - You can be more sophisticated than that!! It's a classic case of show not tell, but this is much tougher, because it is really difficult to show your concepts in your events and characters rather than describe them directly. It's the main thing you need to work on :)
I do think you've chosen the correct stimulus - Stimulus A could also work! If, for example, you got Stimulus A in your Prelim Exams, you could have the protagonist conflicted between the warnings of her mother and the real feelings she has for a man in her village - Perhaps a tad cheesy but I think that would work, even in its current form it could work :)
Also watch to make sure your dialogue is realistic. It plays a large role in your story - Making your dialogue really genuine and realistic will be crucial. Have friends read it aloud to you, and be honest - Does it sound real? Or does it sound fake? :)
Really great stuff sssona09! Clever concept, great use of language, great context and setting - Just about adjusting how it is communicated :)
Post by: itssona on April 20, 2017, 02:00:07 pm
No worries! Your creative is in the spoiler with comments throughout in bold :)Thank you for the amazinnnng feedback! :DSpoilerGripping despair came over me, with it, bringing the usual blanket of emptiness. The blanket I had grown accustomed to, wrapping myself in its arms since it was the only form of embrace I had. But ever so slowly, the blanket entangles itself between my legs, inching its way ominously up my collarbone, tugging at the nape of my neck. Interesting introduction! Nice personification and symbolism at play - Definitely effective use of language.
And then my throat tightens. Snaking itself around my throat persistently, I make out through my blurred vision, that the blanket’s length is reaching an end. My head is thick with sounds. A little awkward use of imagery there. I count seconds; my life slowly reaching an end, reducing to dust in the fabric of time. Losing myself in the fabric of time. Be careful of repetition of unique phrases like this in such quick succession - Usually (and indeed in this case imo) it comes across a little cheesy. The last thing I feel are my airways tightening, and then everything reduces to black. Feel like the power is reduced a bit in this second paragraph, it doesn't add a HEAP to what you had in the first paragraph. Might be worth condensing this second bit into the first or something?
***
I prepared my tea, looking out into the dreary fog encompassing Deston (I need a better London village name omg) this morning. I think Deston is okay! The usual hackneys tread past, their hasty veering giving way to the billowing dust. I go for a ‘London Fog’ to suit the perennial abyss of sadness around and inside me. I wasn’t one for grandeur, let alone specialized teas, but I indulged from the tea-box I had been gifted by my late grandmother who gained wealth the moment she turned 19- as per standards in Deston. Try to use paragraphs to your advantage - I'd break paragraphs here to indicate that you are about to reflect on this aspect of society. Like the euphemistic way you used "gained wealth" too. The arrival of the wealthy and noble Marquis every year was a moment of compliance, where each young woman would seemingly have no choice but to marry these men. Procedural and granted, women bought in to the idea that marrying a man of noble class and engulfing themselves in their riches, would be a better life than an easygoing one at home. But more than that, their desire to conform to the “standard” overshadowed their internal desires and they succumbed to the pressure of leading such a life. These last few sentences feel a bit conceptually blatant, just beyond the point where I'd go, "Okay, this student is telling me their concept directly." It's not too bad, but it could be better - Try to describe the situation in a way that SHOWS me these things, don't just tell me them.
I too, would have bought in to living in a façade of splendour, admitting myself to my pre-determined fate, just like every young woman in Deston. But since my mother Peyton’s sudden death, which in my memory is tainted with flashes of blood, and her attempts to conceal her agonisisng pain from me before she said goodbye to the world she thought she lived in, and ended it all. I know better than to accept this fate which will lead me to a harrowing struggle with identity, just as my mother faced. I think it is interesting that you don't go into detail about this seemingly important plot element. It suggests that the character doesn't want to deal with/remember that aspect of their life. It seems insignificant because you don't give it much time - That might suit your purpose!
My last conversation with my mother opened my eyes to the fallaciousness of being involved in this “ritualistic” ordeal that had become the ‘done’ thing in Deston.
“Priscilla” my mother started, staring absentmindedly at the makeshift fire we had going on. I smiled politely right on through, encouraging her to continue when she got carried away in thought.
“I wish I had known better when I was young” she admitted, her gaze still fixated on the fire. I felt uneasy as I awaited her next words and let out a cough. An otherwise small cough which reverberated in the silence that was in the space between us.
“But how could you have known better mother. In actual fact, I still am inching towards the prospect of marrying one of them” Watch that your dialogue is realistic! It was great up to here. Try and picture the conversation taking place: Would YOU, in your characters shoes and in their style, say it this way? Is that dialogue line representative of realistic speech?
“PRISCILLA!!”
I flinched. Love how you are playing with sentence length.
She lowered her tone and shakily retracted, “sorry, I’m just so ashamed of myself” and faltered as a sob constricted her throat.
“But you left him, and you are the best mother I could’ve asked for” I smiled solemnly, digging my nails into the crevases between my thumb and finger to help reduce the urge to cry. A wave of sorrow hit me, and a sharp ache started to fill me- one which could not be shaken. She really was the best mother I could ask for, especially given our circumstances. Many late nights, she would come home, tattered and somewhat displaced as she vented to me about the ill treatment she received from her ex-husband. I didn’t know any better than to offer her hugs and close embrace to make up for my lack of knowing how to console her emotionally. To this day, I can feel her clammy touch and warm alcoholic breath releasing warm wisps into my ear, as she breathed heavily in tears whilst I stood still, seized with impotence (does this make sense?) I think it does, and I think it works really well to paint the picture!
“That doesn’t change the fact that I let myself be mistreated and bought” she cried helplessly. Almost like dejavu, I looked on, motionless. Realistic dialogue - Watch it ;D
Abashedly wiping her tears, she cleared her throat and quavered, “Listen baby, you can’t let others influence you. It can be dangerous otherwise. I should know. Only then will you discover your selfhood, and only then shall you feel the agonizing screams in your head, quieten. Quieter screams” She laughed at the last part. Realistic dialogue - Watch that you don't let the dialogue become an easy way to communicate your concepts.
And this conversation replays in my head all the time, consuming all my thoughts and leaving me perplexed and in awe. Perplexed at how easily we comply with majority. And in awe of my mother for experiencing such difficulty and yet making sure to warn me of this gullible way with which the young women here, accept the Marquis false promises and how the relationship of power and submission ultimately leads to our internal destruction.
Because of my mother, I know better and I will seek a relationship of mutual affection and equality. A relationship built on underlying respect and one which empowers me, instead of leaving me feeling disconnected. Concept a little too blatant here.
Because which is worse, to comply with majority whilst rejecting your true self, or experiencing your true self yet being rejected by majority? Because of my mother, I know that belonging is about being accepted for your true self and if you reject your true self, you are throwing away any prospects of belonging. Using the word belonging in a belonging creative, much like using "discovery" in a discovery creative, should be avoided as much as possible in almost every circumstance. It's just too obvious, you need more subtlety than that.
I really like your writing style sssona09! Really clever manipulation of language to create some powerful imagery, you developed some effective symbols (particularly in the intro), and I love that you play with longer and shorter sentences to create a sense of drama and tension where necessary. Super effective stuff, excellent work there! :)
In terms of conceptual sophistication - I think the concept is clever. The context is really cool, I like the historical place you have taken it and that makes the concept hit home that little bit harder. I know you don't specifically give a time period - I think you should. Giving this a historical context that matches the world space you are creating would take care of a lot of the explanation for you, leaving you more room to develop your characters.
I think the way you portray the concept is, for the most part, too obvious! It's either a straight explanation of the concept without much subtlety (again, using "belonging" in your creative is a big no no in most cases), or it comes as direct speech from your characters. You aren't showing me, you are telling me - You can be more sophisticated than that!! It's a classic case of show not tell, but this is much tougher, because it is really difficult to show your concepts in your events and characters rather than describe them directly. It's the main thing you need to work on :)
I do think you've chosen the correct stimulus - Stimulus A could also work! If, for example, you got Stimulus A in your Prelim Exams, you could have the protagonist conflicted between the warnings of her mother and the real feelings she has for a man in her village - Perhaps a tad cheesy but I think that would work, even in its current form it could work :)
Also watch to make sure your dialogue is realistic. It plays a large role in your story - Making your dialogue really genuine and realistic will be crucial. Have friends read it aloud to you, and be honest - Does it sound real? Or does it sound fake? :)
Really great stuff sssona09! Clever concept, great use of language, great context and setting - Just about adjusting how it is communicated :)
I shall work on everything you said and polish it and I'm actually so happy with the extensive feedback you gave so I can make this one real good ;D
I find it hard showing instead of telling, because I sometimes feel like the teachers would think my story has no relations to Beloning unless I explain the aspect of Belonging. And I wanna really tell them how exactly belonging makes up my story but yeah, I guess I need to work on that :/ Thanks for pointing that out and explaining how I work with it! :)
:D
Post by: mcheema on April 23, 2017, 10:01:05 am
I just wanted to know how long roughly does it take to receive feedback if I post my creative writing?
Post by: jamonwindeyer on April 23, 2017, 10:49:45 am
Hi,
I just wanted to know how long roughly does it take to receive feedback if I post my creative writing?
Hey hey! No guarantees, but we usually get to it in 24-48 hours, but if the markers happen to have exams/assessments or it is a busy period it could be a little longer - Best to upload a decent amount of time before any due dates to make sure we've got time to give it great feedback and you've got time to implement that feedback :)
Post by: mcheema on April 23, 2017, 11:04:32 am
Thanks
Post by: jamonwindeyer on April 23, 2017, 11:08:01 am
Also I just wanted to know if there is an atarnotes article that provides any tips to help improve creative writing skills. If there is can you please link it
Thanks
You got it! Feel free to ask any follow up questions there as well :)
Post by: Zxqn on April 23, 2017, 03:09:23 pm
*******************
The smell of fire was poignant; overwhelming my senses, distorting my vision even weakening any sort of physical movement attempted .The sky appeared gloomy and despondent with clouds that seemed to strangely manifest themselves into a sort of peaceful melancholy. Bloody bare feet and torn clothes had become a symbol for the constant dejection we faced on a daily basis. Figures of fear-Figures of sorrow- Figures of despair ran hopelessly in search of some tranquility where the incessant onslaught of missiles had become the soundtrack to our lives. I stared at the barren burning desolate land, my surroundings were driven by the need for answers, the necessity of closure where mothers sobbed for their children and children ached for their mothers.
But I ached for something different,
I ask the heavens why?
Why were the innocent tormented while the guilty enjoyed life?
Why we were the victims of mans desire for power?
The sound of gunfire remained and echoed throughout my ears...
**********************
Fluorescent lights flickered over the dashboard of my mother’s car as we entered the harbour. The illumination of a never ending land full of mini-markets and unwavering happiness picked at an aching part of me I did not know existed. A feeling that my child-like inner peace would never return. A feeling of perpetual fear and emptiness.
“Sarah”
My mind wandered elsewhere
“Sarah!”
Suddenly the serious contemplation was disrupted
“Okay! I’m coming”
While we dodged through crowds’ part of the gaiety; strangers laughed endlessly as they ate previously unheard of foods and appeared devoid of any sort of past or present heartache. It was exceedingly loud.But it was the type of loudness that comforted you in a way a cold eerie silence could never achieve. My worn-out sneakers caused a slight chuckle to escape me as I stood near a woman who owned a fifteen thousand dollar Hermes handbag.
"I don't think I have ever owned anything that costs that much even our car is worth less than that" my mother said in her somewhat judgmental tone.
"That’s the way the world is - what do you expect?" My brother replied exasperated while chewing on an already finished corn cob.
"The poor get poorer and the rich get richer"
Ignoring his initiation of a political discussion I left him to an unnecessary rant. Admiring the different vendors and the individual stories their markets tell. There is something about discovering the live of strangers that is truly fascinating. Vast amounts of spices, vegetables, fruits, antiques and jewelry each represented a unique and unknown tale. As I observe aimlessly a merchant catches my eye. The man had a fringe of white hair around his balding, mottled scalp. A scarce grey beard yet his eyes had warmth that radiated love and hopefulness.
“How are you darling?” he spoke in the gentlest tone yet somehow full of grace
“I’m good thanks”
“Are you really?-” The old man paused
“You see the eyes are the mirror of the soul and will always tell the truth even if your mouth is telling a lie”
A blast of cold air passed through my coat and prickled along my skin raising the hairs on my neck.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on April 23, 2017, 03:32:39 pm
hiii so this is my unfinished creative it hasnt been edited or anything i was wondering if you could just give me some rough feedback hopefully it'll end in a discovery which leads to renewed perceptions due to what the old man tells her
Welcome to the forums Zxqn! ;D
Thanks for posting your essay - Our essay marking rules require you to have 15 posts for each essay you'd like feedback for. This is just to make sure the markers can keep up ;D
If you hang around the site a bit, I bet you'll reach that threshold in no time :)
Post by: selinayinz on April 27, 2017, 04:33:41 pm
At the heart of London, amongst the drivel of everyday life at the train station and the shuffle and drag of feet and the incessant wails of cumbersome trains, there is a tune that soars above the raucous din. At platform five, George stands expectantly amidst the busy train life, clutching a bowler hat and a wooden instrument case. As the station clock sings its monotonous melody to indicate midday, the young man stoops over, gently placing the case on the ground as if it were a precious child. Expertly, he fiddles with the latches; he knows the left one can get jammed on cold days such as today. When the case finally opens, he eases out the instrument with care; a magnificent violin, his pride and joy. With a flourish, he brandishes his bow like the master of a sword, ready to defeat the mundane with a tap of colour, through music. Poised and ready, with nimble fingers he manipulates notes, sliding swiftly and franticly along the fingerboard, while an expert hand draws the bow, varying from feather-light strokes to strong strikes upon the strings.
The meandering melodies transform from mournful tunes to light-hearted ditties, from lilting waltzes to upbeat polkas. At his feet lay a battered case, the red velvety lining already faded from use and age. As the music courses through the station, the young man loses all concept of time. He is enthralled; completely entranced by his own art and oblivious to the world around him. He no longer hears the sounds of the station; he hears only the beauty of his own refrain… until a single discordant note interrupts his bliss. Confused, he continues to play, only to notice the dissonant harmony which accompanied his music, faint but growing stronger. Minor sevenths and diminished tunes erupted around him and he could not fathom why. It sounded like an argument, sharp and clashing with his own song. As he stopped to inspect his violin, a sweet lyrical sound pierced the din of the station. He paused.
Another melody.
A pretty euphony of note passages contrasted with his own classical tunes. They were strangely alluring, a combination of chromatic tones and diminished sevenths created a bizarre musical cacophony which was confusing yet enrapturing. As another train rumbled away from the station platform, he turned and noticed a girl standing on the opposite side.
She was young, possibly fifteen years old, and is dressed in a smart yellow frock. She stood, elegant and poised with her violin, grinning mischievously at him. Smiling, she lifted her bow as if initiating a challenge, an unspoken dare which beckoned him to a duel of melodies.
He accepted her invitation, and imitated her action, preparing to strike.
I do not play with any guidance, no score nor script.
Closing my eyes, I inhaled the cool smoky air of the station, imagining the incessant chugging of wheels and the roar of the engine, the calls of station managers and the chatter of voices. The hubbub around me translates in my mind, into a collection of sounds, forming a song of many voices. To some, it may sound strange, as it was not a traditional sort of composition but the melody was a foreign language that could only be understood by some. It was fascinating, the way phrases and bars, rests and singular notes created a living melody, sung with bated breath. As I opened my eyes again, a new sound unfamiliar to the racquet of the station pervaded my senses.
Him.
He played with such rigour, completely opposite to my own sense of flair, that I could not understand it. As I tried to continue my own story, his passages interrupted mine, creating a confrontational engagement of chords which were unpleasant and discomforting. I paused, allowing him to conclude his performance, a complex arrangement that showed more skill than representation. However our differences do not deter me from my narrative.
I continue my tune, revelling in the intricacy and delicacy of song, an expression of pleasure and happiness, as opposed to his speedy virtuosic nature. I feel the swell of each bridge mimic the low timbre of the horn, I capture spiralling chromatic chords depicting the trails of smoke in the fresh morning. My song dances sweet and true, joyful and enrapturing. This was my story…
Would he understand the elaborate words that were woven with the dip of my bow…?
Duelling voices echoed above the racket of the station, compelling melodies from two instruments.
The young man listens intently to the girl’s story, memorising and learning. Once her refrain is over, he begins to play once more, this time, he adds little flourishes, embellishing the melody with a new note or passage as if implementing new words of a foreign language. It was a strange new melody that was created, and was more enthralling than the last.
A sudden miraculous discovery; the music echoed about the station, dancing melodies singing in perfect harmony with each other. The performance shined, captivating melodies woven with the dip of the bow, a polyphony of voices to create a single narrative.
As the last of the melody fades away, a vibrato of sadness, there is a moment of silence, save for the rumble of passing trains and pattering feet. A moment passes.
Then, he raises his bow again.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on April 27, 2017, 07:59:16 pm
Hi!! This is my creative writing piece (it got 13/15 and the teacher commented on adding more sensory imagery to build ambience but that's pretty much it.) How can I improve it?
Hey Selina! Thanks for posting your Creative - I can see you also posted a module essay! Which would you like us to mark first? You'll need 30 posts to qualify for both to be marked ;D
Post by: Snew on April 30, 2017, 03:23:36 pm
I was a victim of classical music. I winced, each mournful strain of Handel’s Minuet heaved out, sounding as painful for the cellist as it was the audience. And not forgetting the poor accompanist. She sat on the piano stool, rigid, and bored as she produced one block chord after the other to go along with the flat melody. I firmly believed it could pass as some kind of medieval torture method. I wondered if I was the only one whose neck was beginning to strain, as the front row forced me to tilt my head back unnaturally. I began to turn to my mother, intending to grace her with the grimace that without a doubt was plastered all over my face, but I thought better of it. I set my jaw and stared hard at the floor. Why did I even bother coming? All for this stupid little recital… I felt a sharp dig to my ribcage, and came face to face with my mother’s sharp gaze. She didn’t had to say a word. Her reprimanding look was enough to direct my resentment back to the floor. With the final bar of the minuet and the audience’s short burst of half hearted applause, my heart began to quicken its thuds against my ribcage, and my breaths gradually began to shallow. I delved into my handbag, shakily retrieving my water bottle and glugging it, the sudden realisation of dehydration overwhelming any sense of propriety. With the curtain’s reopening, my body seized up, frozen in place as I watched my younger sister walk onto the stage, violin in hand.
I tried to reason within myself. Stop being so silly! I silently scolded. There was no reason for such a turmoil of emotions running through me. It was a primary school recital, for heaven’s sake. The music was certainly not the stuff of Paganini and Tchaikovsky. I sank back in my seat, trying to relax as the lights dimmed and a hush fell over the audience. My sister lifted the instrument, casting a petite, narrow shadow across the stage. I saw her chest rise, then fall, and she begun. The subdued melody rose and fell smoothly, the audience awash with it’s beauty, even if for only a few short minutes.
Before long, there were tears silently cascading down my cheeks, ones that I had stubbornly refused to shed for so long. My father’s favourite violin solo floated around the tiny hall, conjuring up images I had pushed to the back of my mind for so long. His wide, warm smile. Teaching me to gently pluck the strings. The last time I ever heard his voice, imploring me never to give up on what I loved. And now, confronted with them, centre stage, I realised I had never truly grieved. Not just the loss of my beloved father, but the music that brought such light into my life. The tunes, that accompanied and comforted me through my youth, that had been torn away, alongside my father. I turned to look at my mother, but I could see she was lost in the piece, reliving a sorrow that would never truly leave us. My heart ached, as I recalled all the times over the last two years I had slammed a door in her face. Screaming for my sister to go away. Shutting them out, when we needed each other the most. When I needed them the most.
With the violin’s final refrain, I felt the smallest of smiles forming, even through my misty eyes. The small school hall audience, packed with beaming parents and teachers, clapped enthusiastically. My sister’s deep bow to the audience expressed a deeper gratitude than anyone else in the room could discern. Trembling, I got to my feet, and locking eyes with my sister, clapped until my hands stung. Her eyes widened, and my mother looked between us with apprehension. As the applause died out, the audience began to make their way out of the room, resuming previous chatter and reliving day-to-day life stories with one another. However, I could feel a change deep within, reopening me to life and love and the beauty of the music that is weaved amongst it, transforming the darkened, heavy heart I had carried. I began to move, my only quest to reach my sister. My mother trailed along behind me, unaware of the sea change that had taken hold of me. I had almost reached my sister, who was standing off the stage, fingering her violin bow aimlessly. She caught my eye and turned to face me. Her eyes began to glisten, and I knew she understood. Reaching out to each other, we folded into an embrace. “Brook, I’m so so...” I began, but she gently cut me off, and held me even tighter. “There is nothing to apologise for. I love you Maya.” I felt an arm slip around my waist, and I turned to face my mother, her face softening. Clutching us both, I could feel her exhale, and I did too. We had finally re-discovered the love and loss that bound our family together, and found our way back to each other.
Post by: Bubbly_bluey on May 04, 2017, 01:26:29 pm
"Is this in or after WW2? There are too many questions I am left with at the end. The neighbours and the death by conscription did not add any meaning to the story. It feels like years that the father distances himself- this mromise doesn't sound very believable. The narrative itself is hard to follow."
I was wondering if you could suggest a way to address these issues because the story appeared to flow well in my head but maybe it was not expressed in my writing properly. It took a long time to come up with the idea so I didn't really want to change my storybut if it is best to change to a new story then I will.
Spoiler
The kettle whistles the clock ticks and the radio stutters. The sun washes its warm glow around kitchen, upon the frail figure of my mother who sat alone, completely unaware of my presence. Watching, as she caresses the spine of the album, that holds all of our precious memories. One by one as the pages flip, times that were long buried deep within our hearts unravel. I hear her chuckle as she reveals a girl with bright red cheeks, happily slurping the spoonful of strawberry jam whilst sneaking a gleeful glance at the camera.
"I remember you used to always hit your head on the wall until you could have your strawberry jam! What a troublemaker you were then!” Startle that she notice me, I couldn't contain my laughter as I begin reminiscing the days before her illness, where I would frantically dive under her dress, wedging myself between her legs whenever I got to school.
Those days quickly went by, the nights turned into distant memories. Reality hit hard when Mother had the first of many strokes. How ignorant I was, unaware of the illnesses that could have slowly deteriorated her closer to death. There was nothing to do, as I helplessly watched neighbours giving freshly ironed clothes, blankets and meals.
I remember dashing outside every morning, a sound recorder at hand, reporting every bit of detail; from Mr Parlio painting his porch to the weather forecast. Replaying the messages and interviews, brought a new life of news reporting that was other than Hitler's Nazis. It was much to Mother’s relief, that I had unfortunately lost the device, ending my journalist career.
Turning the pages, a black-and-white photo revealed a lanky figure, awkwardly standing like a soldier, arms side by side, behind my elegantly smiling mother. The man was handsome in his suited attire, and hair combed perfectly back. His distinct jaw line, freshly cleaned for the occasion revealed that he was at the prime for his age. Despite this, he still had the same stone-chiselled face he would always put on whenever I tried to talk to him when he came home. Was I that much of a burden that he could not acknowledge my own existence?
He was a stranger in our house. Mother could never hold an entire conversation with him; he simply nodded and with a sigh trudged to his room and disappeared the next morning.
Conscription had been called and I remember watching Mr and Mrs Parlio embracing their farewell whilst Mary was swollen in tears. But not a word was exchanged between us: only a brief kiss before picking up his case and a nodded farewell. That was the last time I ever saw him. But despite this, there was not one tear shed, nor a sharp pinning of remorse. In fact it only felt natural that he left, being that he spent most of his time at work. That was the first time the realisation hit; that I never really loved him, nor found any interest to involve with him sentimental behaviour.
Yet, now, as my eyes wander to his enigmatic presence, I can't help but sense that I had once known this stranger.
My mother, with her thin shaking fingers, delicately traced his outline.
"You two… look so much alike," she whispers almost choking in her tears.
All I could do was nod. It was true; anyone who saw us would agree but those living in this house will know otherwise. With each flip, I couldn't help but search for him through the group of people and finding out that he was once in the Junior Choir. Each photo became enticing as I began to discover more about him. Why had it taken this long?
"Cindy, your father... I’ve kept this from you for all these years.” My eyes widen, as Mother tried turning around in her chair, forcing a smile.
That cannot be good.
“In the bedroom cupboard on the far right hand corner there will be a safe. Bring it down for me please."
Quickly dashing up the stairs, my mind buzzing with curiosity that I had to run my hands along the walls for support. Never had I felt so disorientated with my trembling hands when I pry open the knob of the cupboard. Feeling my way through the laundry pile, my hands wove into the very back corner until they cup around a tiny safe. I ran my fingers through its cold rusty edges and the excitement and fear crept throughout.
Suddenly, my fingers slipped. My heart freezes as the safe’s hinge shatters, it contents sprawling out.
Sweat trickles down my spine, cheeks burning bright red. The dim light from the bedside table fought against the darkness of the night swallowing the room.
"Have you found it yet?" The sound of Mother drowned away. There lies on the floor, piles of dirty letters, all crumpled and torn. In elegant cursive writing, they were all addressed from Berlin to Mother.
One after another without a single blink, each sentence was haunted by the bloodiness of the war; from widespread diseases to sleeping next to piles of rotting corpses. My nails dug deep into my palms as I stared in dismay.
Every inch of muscle froze when I laid my eyes on the last of the letters:
“At the moment you read this, I may not have made it. It is an unfortunate fate that us men must live to die in war like our fathers did. Endless heartache from the disappearance of loved one is something I would never dare for dear Cindy to ever feel. As cruel as it may seem my every intention to distance myself from any affection possible proved a success as you say she’s coping abnormally well.
If I hurt her in any way, it was not intended to be, rather to ensure our child's happiness. This is by no means a sacrifice made against my will nor do I need pity for it because it was done out of genuine love.
However I am guilty of a selfish act in the hope to keep my sanity. So I will return this to her before I’ll never get the chance to.
Deepest sincerelys, Edward Harper”
The anger after the initial reading quickly turned to utter shame and guilt. However, as I unravelled the final parcel, there was no control of anything so overwhelming. Not realising my mother was standing outside, the tears blinding my vision and my heart screaming when the tiny recorder I thought lost 18 years ago, replayed the recording of the same voice I'll never hear again.
"I love you."
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 04, 2017, 02:16:29 pm
Hi! I was wondering if I could possibly get an estimate mark out of 15 for this, and any feedback to improve is welcomed :) Thank you heaps! <3
Hey Snew! So sorry for the delay, I had a butt-tonne of assessments this week and so haven't been able to do a heap of marking - Your creative is attached with comments in bold! ;D
Spoiler
I was a victim of classical music. Really interesting opening line - Definitely attracts attention. Also personifies classical music a bit which I like. I winced, each mournful strain of Handel’s Minuet heaved out, sounding as painful for the cellist as it was the audience. And not forgetting the poor accompanist. She sat on the piano stool, rigid, and bored as she produced one block chord after the other to go along with the flat melody. I firmly believed it could pass as some kind of medieval torture method. Really like the way you've started! Sets the scene and tone really nicely. I'd add a paragraph break here though - Shorter paragraphs tend to be easier for the reader to digest! I wondered if I was the only one whose neck was beginning to strain, as the front row forced me to tilt my head back unnaturally. I began to turn to my mother, intending to grace her with the grimace that without a doubt was plastered all over my face, but I thought better of it. I set my jaw and stared hard at the floor. Why did I even bother coming? All for this stupid little recital… I feel you need something to accentuate this. Maybe even just a new line where you say "Ow!" or something - The interruption to the train of thought just seems a little lackluster. I felt a sharp dig to my ribcage, and came face to face with my mother’s sharp gaze. She didn’t had to say a word. Her reprimanding look was enough to direct my resentment back to the floor. With the final bar of the minuet and the audience’s short burst of half hearted applause, my heart began to quicken its thuds against my ribcage, and my breaths gradually began to shallow. I delved into my handbag, shakily retrieving my water bottle and glugging it, the sudden realisation of dehydration overwhelming any sense of propriety. With the curtain’s reopening, my body seized up, frozen in place as I watched my younger sister walk onto the stage, violin in hand.
I tried to reason within myself. Stop being so silly! I silently scolded. There was no reason for such a turmoil of emotions running through me. It was a primary school recital, for heaven’s sake. The music was certainly not the stuff of Paganini and Tchaikovsky. I sank back in my seat, trying to relax as the lights dimmed and a hush fell over the audience. My sister lifted the instrument, casting a petite, narrow shadow across the stage. I saw her chest rise, then fall, and she begun. The subdued melody rose and fell smoothly, the audience awash with it’s beauty, even if for only a few short minutes. I feel you should do a little more to set the tone of this player - Try and draw comparisons with the previous performance for the character. Really delve into this, because it is interesting and significant that the attitude has changed so dramatically and so quickly.
Before long, there were tears silently cascading down my cheeks, ones that I had stubbornly refused to shed for so long. My father’s favourite violin solo floated around the tiny hall, conjuring up images I had pushed to the back of my mind for so long. His wide, warm smile. Teaching me to gently pluck the strings. I think you'd benefit from putting an actual, fully formed flashback in at this point! Perhaps extend the section of the sister playing and have it interweave with memories of the father? The last time I ever heard his voice, imploring me never to give up on what I loved. And now, confronted with them, centre stage, I realised I had never truly grieved. Not just the loss of my beloved father, but the music that brought such light into my life. The tunes, that accompanied and comforted me through my youth, that had been torn away, alongside my father. I turned to look at my mother, but I could see she was lost in the piece, reliving a sorrow that would never truly leave us. My heart ached, as I recalled all the times over the last two years I had slammed a door in her face. Screaming for my sister to go away. Shutting them out, when we needed each other the most. When I needed them the most. I think you are doing a little too much "telling" of the concepts, rather than showing.
With the violin’s final refrain, I felt the smallest of smiles forming, even through my misty eyes. The small school hall audience, packed with beaming parents and teachers, clapped enthusiastically. My sister’s deep bow to the audience expressed a deeper gratitude than anyone else in the room could discern. Trembling, I got to my feet, and locking eyes with my sister, clapped until my hands stung. Her eyes widened, and my mother looked between us with apprehension. As the applause died out, the audience began to make their way out of the room, resuming previous chatter and reliving day-to-day life stories with one another. However, I could feel a change deep within, reopening me to life and love and the beauty of the music that is weaved amongst it, transforming the darkened, heavy heart I had carried. I began to move, my only quest to reach my sister. My mother trailed along behind me, unaware of the sea change that had taken hold of me. I had almost reached my sister, who was standing off the stage, fingering her violin bow aimlessly. She caught my eye and turned to face me. Her eyes began to glisten, and I knew she understood. Reaching out to each other, we folded into an embrace. “Brook, I’m so so...” I began, but she gently cut me off, and held me even tighter. “There is nothing to apologise for. I love you Maya.” Watch that your dialogue is realistic - It breaks the realism of the story if it isn't. I felt an arm slip around my waist, and I turned to face my mother, her face softening. Clutching us both, I could feel her exhale, and I did too. We had finally re-discovered the love and loss that bound our family together, and found our way back to each other.
I tried to reason within myself. Stop being so silly! I silently scolded. There was no reason for such a turmoil of emotions running through me. It was a primary school recital, for heaven’s sake. The music was certainly not the stuff of Paganini and Tchaikovsky. I sank back in my seat, trying to relax as the lights dimmed and a hush fell over the audience. My sister lifted the instrument, casting a petite, narrow shadow across the stage. I saw her chest rise, then fall, and she begun. The subdued melody rose and fell smoothly, the audience awash with it’s beauty, even if for only a few short minutes. I feel you should do a little more to set the tone of this player - Try and draw comparisons with the previous performance for the character. Really delve into this, because it is interesting and significant that the attitude has changed so dramatically and so quickly.
Before long, there were tears silently cascading down my cheeks, ones that I had stubbornly refused to shed for so long. My father’s favourite violin solo floated around the tiny hall, conjuring up images I had pushed to the back of my mind for so long. His wide, warm smile. Teaching me to gently pluck the strings. I think you'd benefit from putting an actual, fully formed flashback in at this point! Perhaps extend the section of the sister playing and have it interweave with memories of the father? The last time I ever heard his voice, imploring me never to give up on what I loved. And now, confronted with them, centre stage, I realised I had never truly grieved. Not just the loss of my beloved father, but the music that brought such light into my life. The tunes, that accompanied and comforted me through my youth, that had been torn away, alongside my father. I turned to look at my mother, but I could see she was lost in the piece, reliving a sorrow that would never truly leave us. My heart ached, as I recalled all the times over the last two years I had slammed a door in her face. Screaming for my sister to go away. Shutting them out, when we needed each other the most. When I needed them the most. I think you are doing a little too much "telling" of the concepts, rather than showing.
With the violin’s final refrain, I felt the smallest of smiles forming, even through my misty eyes. The small school hall audience, packed with beaming parents and teachers, clapped enthusiastically. My sister’s deep bow to the audience expressed a deeper gratitude than anyone else in the room could discern. Trembling, I got to my feet, and locking eyes with my sister, clapped until my hands stung. Her eyes widened, and my mother looked between us with apprehension. As the applause died out, the audience began to make their way out of the room, resuming previous chatter and reliving day-to-day life stories with one another. However, I could feel a change deep within, reopening me to life and love and the beauty of the music that is weaved amongst it, transforming the darkened, heavy heart I had carried. I began to move, my only quest to reach my sister. My mother trailed along behind me, unaware of the sea change that had taken hold of me. I had almost reached my sister, who was standing off the stage, fingering her violin bow aimlessly. She caught my eye and turned to face me. Her eyes began to glisten, and I knew she understood. Reaching out to each other, we folded into an embrace. “Brook, I’m so so...” I began, but she gently cut me off, and held me even tighter. “There is nothing to apologise for. I love you Maya.” Watch that your dialogue is realistic - It breaks the realism of the story if it isn't. I felt an arm slip around my waist, and I turned to face my mother, her face softening. Clutching us both, I could feel her exhale, and I did too. We had finally re-discovered the love and loss that bound our family together, and found our way back to each other.
So the comments throughout your creative are quite limited, because I LOVE your writing style! You set a great mood early on and it carries through nicely, your style is interesting and it maintains reader interest. As a writer, you are doing extremely well!
My main piece of feedback concerns how you are presenting your concepts, it's a little deus ex machina. What this means is, a lot of the plot details are sort of just 'brought up,' and not adequately explained. You have that one paragraph that covers the father and his death, the significance of the violin, and the issues the family is experiencing. That's pretty much every significant plot element, contained within a single paragraph. As a result, it feels a little rushed, and the details aren't fleshed out as well as they could be!
Indeed, on the whole, this means your concepts are presented in a very simplistic and direct way. They are all told to the audience, rather than presented to us in a more subtle way as the text develops. This is the biggest area of improvement for your piece right now.
I'd extend the section where the sister is playing, have that encompass most if not all of your short story. Have flashbacks weaved in that SHOW the relationship with the father, how the violin plays in to that. Have flashbacks to conflicts with the mother and the sister, perhaps even that afternoon before the recital there could have been a significant argument. But you need to show these things, not just say "There was conflict." It's a really tricky thing to go to that next level of abstraction, but once you do, you'll notice the quality of your writing increase massively! :)
Right now, I'd wager your Creative is in the upper mid-range, maybe 10 or 11 out of 15? I could never say for sure, especially without stimulus and criteria. To push higher, it's all about that conceptual sophistication, because as I said - Your writing itself is phenomenal! ;D
I really hope this helps, and definitely let me know if you'd like any of this clarified! :)
Post by: Snew on May 04, 2017, 07:43:16 pm
Hey Snew! So sorry for the delay, I had a butt-tonne of assessments this week and so haven't been able to do a heap of marking - Your creative is attached with comments in bold! ;D
No worries at all, thanks for taking time to give such great feedback!! Thank you for the kind words, and especially the advice for the flashback, I can definitely improve on that. Thanks again :D
Random side note: I got the opening line from one of the creative writing stimuli that Elyse put up! Really helped me get a decent idea :D
Post by: legorgo18 on May 04, 2017, 09:22:43 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 04, 2017, 09:28:19 pm
Hello, im about to finish off editing my creative and am not very comfortable posting it online. I know this is against the conditions but i would love some feedback, can we do like an e-mail type of feedback if thats alright?
Hey legorgo! Sorry my friend, but if we do it for one we do it for everyone, so unfortunately we can only offer feedback on the forums :)
No reason to be uncomfortable posting it online though! We don't bite ;)
Post by: elysepopplewell on May 05, 2017, 08:07:52 am
Hey I just got my english creative back and I got 9/15 (for me this is not great. I'm terrible in creative). The comments were about how I was changing tense between the past and present (caused confusion), but I was trying to show that it was like a flashback to her past. Also the historical aspects were not accurate.
"Is this in or after WW2? There are too many questions I am left with at the end. The neighbours and the death by conscription did not add any meaning to the story. It feels like years that the father distances himself- this mromise doesn't sound very believable. The narrative itself is hard to follow."
I was wondering if you could suggest a way to address these issues because the story appeared to flow well in my head but maybe it was not expressed in my writing properly. It took a long time to come up with the idea so I didn't really want to change my storybut if it is best to change to a new story then I will.
Hey! I'll have a look at this. If I feel like I'm losing the plot at any point, I'll stop and point it out. So if it's slipping away from me, I'll identify the point so we can look at how to make a more smooth transition.
Spoiler
The kettle whistles the clock ticks and the radio stutters. We need some more punctuation in here - I suggest a comma after "whistles" unless you'd rather make each part a tiny truncated sentence, but the comma works well. The sun washes its warm glow around kitchen, upon the frail figure of my mother who sat alone, completely unaware of my presence. Watching, as she caresses the spine of the album, that holds all of our precious memories. One by one as the pages flip, times that were long buried deep within our hearts unravel. I hear her chuckle as she reveals a girl with bright red cheeks, happily slurping the a spoonful of strawberry jam whilst sneaking a gleeful glance at the camera. I like the imagery here, it's very vibrant and I am really catching on to it all. It creates a nice, happy, picture in my head.
"I remember you used to always hit your head on the wall until you could have your strawberry jam! What a troublemaker you were then!” Startled that she noticed me, I couldn't contain my laughter as I begin reminiscing the days before her illness,Fullstopwhere I would frantically dive under her dress, wedging myself between her legs whenever I got to school. This is a really cute image
Those days quickly went by, the nights turned into distant memories. Reality hit hard when Mother had the first of many strokes. Do you actually want to call her mother? Mother suggests we're in a very posh setting, or mother suggests a stance of distance. Otherwise, "mum" is the best word to use,
I think, to show the relationship and the endearment. How ignorant I was, unaware of the illnesses that could have slowly deteriorated her closer to death. There was nothing to do, as I helplessly watched neighbours giving freshly ironed clothes, blankets and meals.
I remember dashing outside every morning, a sound recorder at hand, reporting every bit of detail; from Mr Parlio painting his porch to the weather forecast on the radio. (Otherwise it sounds a bit like Mr Parlio is giving the forecast.. Replaying the messages and interviews no need for a comma here, brought a new life of news reporting that was other than Hitler's Nazis. It was much to Mother’s relief, that I had unfortunately lost the device, ending my journalist career. This last sentence just seems a bit odd - you lost a device and you lost your career at the same time? It just seems like a bizarre escalation that makes me question the story a bit. Not that this couldn't happen of course, I suppose it could. But there's not enough context for me to accept this, instead I'm wondering why leaving your recorder on the park bench means your career as a journalist ends. Also, I didn't recognise the person was a journalist, and I think what gave me this impression is the way they recorded the weather forecast. I thought they were just a child recording everything they could for their mother. If this was about being a journalist, I'd swap out that part about weather forecast and give another example of an interview you'd given.
Turning the pages, a black-and-white photo revealed a lanky figure, awkwardly standing like a soldier, arms side by side, behind my elegantly smiling mother. The man was handsome in his suited attire, and hair combed perfectly back. His distinct jaw line, freshly cleaned for the occasion revealed that he was at the prime for his age. Despite this, he still had the same stone-chiselled face he would always put on whenever I tried to talk to him when he came home. Was I that much of a burden that he could not acknowledge my own existence? Similarly to the last sentence I commented on, this just seems a bit dramatic and bizarre. Given the context, this seems so odd and hard to follow - because I see a photo of a distinct jaw law, and then suddenly we're talking about the same person not acknowledging existence. Of course, this could very well be true and believable, but we need to consider the best way to go about it, and for me, this is too much of a jump. Perhaps showing instead of telling is better here. I think the last sentence needs to be more subtle, more soft. That way we are invited to experience empathy.
He was a stranger in our house. Mother could never hold an entire conversation with him; he simply nodded and with a sigh trudged to his room and disappeared the next morning.
Conscription had been called and I remember watching Mr and Mrs Parlio embracing their farewell whilst Mary was swollen in tears. But not a word was exchanged between us: only a brief kiss before picking up his case and a nodded farewell. That was the last time I ever saw him. But despite this, there was not one tear shed, nor a sharp pinning of remorse. In fact it only felt natural that he left, being that he spent most of his time at work. That was the first time the realisation hit; that I never really loved him, nor found any interest to involve with him sentimental behaviour.
Yet, now, as my eyes wander to his enigmatic presence, I can't help but sense that I had once known this stranger.
My mother, with her thin shaking fingers, delicately traced his outline.
"You two… look so much alike," she whispers almost choking in her tears.
All I could do was nod. It was true; anyone who saw us would agree but those living in this house will know otherwise. With each flip, I couldn't help but search for him through the group of people and finding out that he was once in the Junior Choir. Each photo became enticing as I began to discover more about him. Why had it taken this long?
"Cindy, your father... I’ve kept this from you for all these years.” My eyes widen, as Mother tried turning around in her chair, forcing a smile.
That cannot be good.
“In the bedroom cupboard on the far right hand corner there will be a safe. Bring it down for me please."
Quickly dashing up the stairs, my mind buzzing with curiosity that I had to run my hands along the walls for support. Never had I felt so disorientated with my trembling hands when I pry open the knob of the cupboard. Feeling my way through the laundry pile, my hands wove into the very back corner until they cup around a tiny safe. I ran my fingers through its cold rusty edges and the excitement and fear crept throughout.
Suddenly, my fingers slipped. My heart freezes as the safe’s hinge shatters, it contents sprawling out.
Sweat trickles down my spine, cheeks burning bright red. The dim light from the bedside table fought against the darkness of the night swallowing the room.
"Have you found it yet?" The sound of Mother drowned away. There lies on the floor, piles of dirty letters, all crumpled and torn. In elegant cursive writing, they were all addressed from Berlin to Mother.
One after another without a single blink, each sentence was haunted by the bloodiness of the war; from widespread diseases to sleeping next to piles of rotting corpses. My nails dug deep into my palms as I stared in dismay.
Every inch of muscle froze when I laid my eyes on the last of the letters: I really loved this part, I found myself racing through the sentences because I was so excited to know what happened next. I especially love, "Berlin to Mother" instead of "from Father to Mother" simply because its archaic and I love that. But, I think it's just too convenient that you picked up the last and most important letter straight away. Again, it is possibly, but unlikely and just too convenient. Perhaps if there's only one on yellow paper, or there's only one still in the envelope, or something like this. Rather than just knowing it's the last letter and it will apply to you, there needs to be some kind of mundane reality to the exceptional circumstance.
“At the moment you read this, I may not have made it. It is an unfortunate fate that us men must live to die in war like our fathers did. Endless heartache from the disappearance of loved one is something I would never dare for dear Cindy to ever feel. As cruel as it may seem my every intention to distance myself from any affection possible proved a success as you say she’s coping abnormally well.
If I hurt her in any way, it was not intended to be, rather to ensure our child's happiness. This is by no means a sacrifice made against my will nor do I need pity for it because it was done out of genuine love.
However I am guilty of a selfish act in the hope to keep my sanity. So I will return this to her before I’ll never get the chance to.
Deepest sincerelys, Edward Harper”
The anger after the initial reading quickly turned to utter shame and guilt. However, as I unravelled the final parcel, there was no control of anything so overwhelming. Not realising my mother was standing outside, the tears blinding my vision and my heart screaming when the tiny recorder I thought lost 18 years ago, replayed the recording of the same voice I'll never hear again.
"I love you."
"I remember you used to always hit your head on the wall until you could have your strawberry jam! What a troublemaker you were then!” Startled that she noticed me, I couldn't contain my laughter as I begin reminiscing the days before her illness,Fullstop
Those days quickly went by, the nights turned into distant memories. Reality hit hard when Mother had the first of many strokes. Do you actually want to call her mother? Mother suggests we're in a very posh setting, or mother suggests a stance of distance. Otherwise, "mum" is the best word to use,
I think, to show the relationship and the endearment. How ignorant I was, unaware of the illnesses that could have slowly deteriorated her closer to death. There was nothing to do, as I helplessly watched neighbours giving freshly ironed clothes, blankets and meals.
I remember dashing outside every morning, a sound recorder at hand, reporting every bit of detail; from Mr Parlio painting his porch to the weather forecast on the radio. (Otherwise it sounds a bit like Mr Parlio is giving the forecast.. Replaying the messages and interviews no need for a comma here, brought a new life of news
Turning the pages, a black-and-white photo revealed a lanky figure, awkwardly standing like a soldier, arms side by side, behind my elegantly smiling mother. The man was handsome in his suited attire, and hair combed perfectly back. His distinct jaw line, freshly cleaned for the occasion revealed that he was at the prime for his age. Despite this, he still had the same stone-chiselled face he would always put on whenever I tried to talk to him when he came home. Was I that much of a burden that he could not acknowledge my own existence? Similarly to the last sentence I commented on, this just seems a bit dramatic and bizarre. Given the context, this seems so odd and hard to follow - because I see a photo of a distinct jaw law, and then suddenly we're talking about the same person not acknowledging existence. Of course, this could very well be true and believable, but we need to consider the best way to go about it, and for me, this is too much of a jump. Perhaps showing instead of telling is better here. I think the last sentence needs to be more subtle, more soft. That way we are invited to experience empathy.
He was a stranger in our house. Mother could never hold an entire conversation with him; he simply nodded and with a sigh trudged to his room and disappeared the next morning.
Conscription had been called and I remember watching Mr and Mrs Parlio embracing their farewell whilst Mary was swollen in tears. But not a word was exchanged between us: only a brief kiss before picking up his case and a nodded farewell. That was the last time I ever saw him. But despite this, there was not one tear shed, nor a sharp pinning of remorse. In fact it only felt natural that he left, being that he spent most of his time at work. That was the first time the realisation hit; that I never really loved him, nor found any interest to involve with him sentimental behaviour.
Yet, now, as my eyes wander to his enigmatic presence, I can't help but sense that I had once known this stranger.
My mother, with her thin shaking fingers, delicately traced his outline.
"You two… look so much alike," she whispers almost choking in her tears.
All I could do was nod. It was true; anyone who saw us would agree but those living in this house will know otherwise. With each flip, I couldn't help but search for him through the group of people and finding out that he was once in the Junior Choir. Each photo became enticing as I began to discover more about him. Why had it taken this long?
"Cindy, your father... I’ve kept this from you for all these years.” My eyes widen, as Mother tried turning around in her chair, forcing a smile.
That cannot be good.
“In the bedroom cupboard on the far right hand corner there will be a safe. Bring it down for me please."
Quickly dashing up the stairs, my mind buzzing with curiosity that I had to run my hands along the walls for support. Never had I felt so disorientated with my trembling hands when I pry open the knob of the cupboard. Feeling my way through the laundry pile, my hands wove into the very back corner until they cup around a tiny safe. I ran my fingers through its cold rusty edges and the excitement and fear crept throughout.
Suddenly, my fingers slipped. My heart freezes as the safe’s hinge shatters, it contents sprawling out.
Sweat trickles down my spine, cheeks burning bright red. The dim light from the bedside table fought against the darkness of the night swallowing the room.
"Have you found it yet?" The sound of Mother drowned away. There lies on the floor, piles of dirty letters, all crumpled and torn. In elegant cursive writing, they were all addressed from Berlin to Mother.
One after another without a single blink, each sentence was haunted by the bloodiness of the war; from widespread diseases to sleeping next to piles of rotting corpses. My nails dug deep into my palms as I stared in dismay.
Every inch of muscle froze when I laid my eyes on the last of the letters: I really loved this part, I found myself racing through the sentences because I was so excited to know what happened next. I especially love, "Berlin to Mother" instead of "from Father to Mother" simply because its archaic and I love that. But, I think it's just too convenient that you picked up the last and most important letter straight away. Again, it is possibly, but unlikely and just too convenient. Perhaps if there's only one on yellow paper, or there's only one still in the envelope, or something like this. Rather than just knowing it's the last letter and it will apply to you, there needs to be some kind of mundane reality to the exceptional circumstance.
“At the moment you read this, I may not have made it. It is an unfortunate fate that us men must live to die in war like our fathers did. Endless heartache from the disappearance of loved one is something I would never dare for dear Cindy to ever feel. As cruel as it may seem my every intention to distance myself from any affection possible proved a success as you say she’s coping abnormally well.
If I hurt her in any way, it was not intended to be, rather to ensure our child's happiness. This is by no means a sacrifice made against my will nor do I need pity for it because it was done out of genuine love.
However I am guilty of a selfish act in the hope to keep my sanity. So I will return this to her before I’ll never get the chance to.
Deepest sincerelys, Edward Harper”
The anger after the initial reading quickly turned to utter shame and guilt. However, as I unravelled the final parcel, there was no control of anything so overwhelming. Not realising my mother was standing outside, the tears blinding my vision and my heart screaming when the tiny recorder I thought lost 18 years ago, replayed the recording of the same voice I'll never hear again.
"I love you."
I really enjoyed this creative, I loved to read it. I didn't actually struggle with the tense changing at all, I was never lost, I always understood. So my suggestion now is to give this creative to another English teacher at your school for his or her opinion, simply because I understood, your teacher didn't, so one more opinion will help. I suppose you could use *** between lines of flash backs but it made perfect sense to me! In terms of the story line, I thought it was easy to follow and I was engaged enough, at the beginning the imagery is beautiful and rosy, which is a nice contrast to what comes throughout. There are three parts of the story that are just too convenient, as I pointed out. But, I want to talk specifically about the recorder. So the recorder becomes really important in the story, very important. But I'm just thrown by the "journalist career" thing - did you mean it in a more colloquial version of career rather than as an actual career? Like I'd say, "My shopping career was over when I went into debt." I think my confusion about that is what lead me to question things later on, rather than being able to accept the full story.
I think the discovery is strong, the emotions are high, and I actually think this is quite wonderfully written. This is the first time I've genuinely not been able to empathise with the comments of a teacher at all, so I'm sorry that this puts you in a bit of an awkward spot. I suggest getting a third opinion on the plot and tense flow, because to me it really flowed quite nicely.
Hopefully this gives you a hand instead of confusing you more. Happy to answer any more questions you might have :)
Post by: selinayinz on May 06, 2017, 01:16:55 pm
Hey Selina! Thanks for posting your Creative - I can see you also posted a module essay! Which would you like us to mark first? You'll need 30 posts to qualify for both to be marked ;D
Hi Jamon! Sorry only just saw this reply. Can I have my essay marked first :)
Thank you!
Post by: AnnaBethy on May 07, 2017, 02:39:31 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on May 07, 2017, 07:53:59 pm
Hi I posted this on like the blog version of your first post but am unsure if it is regularly checked.... Do you have anymore conclusion/resolution tips? I am up to that part in my story and a bit stuck on how to resolve without sounding too child-like.
Hey AnnaBethy! Are you writing a short story or different type of text? I suggest staying away from all things "and then I woke up" or "and then I realised it was just a dream." That might go without saying ;) Students are always looking for ways to avoid being cliche, which is absolutely wonderful. Although, I've marked over 100 creative writing pieces on this forum and have rarely thought "wow, cliche!" Every story has been told before, it's about the way you tell it that makes it different. You could write a few alternate endings and show them to your friends and see which gets the best reaction!
If you get 15 posts on the forums here, we'll give you some feedback on your entire creative :) But, if you need more immediate help, feel free to give me more specific details about your creative and I'll try and help out :)
Hi Jamon! Sorry only just saw this reply. Can I have my essay marked first :)
Thank you!
I'll do this shortly for you! Won't be long :)
Post by: Max Kawasakii on May 07, 2017, 08:26:43 pm
The following is an extract from the text I For Isobel(pg.46);
‘If I’d been allowed to know how sick he was…’ Aunt Noelene was shouting now.
‘Allowed to know. Didn’t want to know. You and Yvonne have never wanted to know anything that didn’t suit you.’
‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten a thing or two, too. You haven’t always been an angel.’
=>(The small creative idea comes here, offering insight to the implications of Aunt Noelene's statement.)
Hearing those words sent May’s mind into disarray, it was as if thousands of cogs that were spinning together simultaneously had stopped, frozen in time, she was remembering. Remembering a time before Isobel.
The atmosphere at the dinner table was as warm and lively as ever, there were smiles, laughter, and an elephant.
Rob was fiddling with the red and white Hornypohn radio whilst talking of his plans for tomorrow.
‘I say we start off the morning with a game of tennis, the court looks as good as ever these days. Then we can take Margaret into town to have a look at the shops, and after that…’.
He was so entranced by the radio that be was oblivious to the interjections.
‘Rob… Rob… Rob! Can you sit down we need to talk.’ He turned around with seeming mildly bewildered, then sat at the table across from May.
‘Rob, I am with child.’ Her face conveyed a shame face smile.
‘Oh isn’t this good news, we’re going to have another child….. Rob?’
He sat there white faced, ‘May, we discussed a year back, that we could not afford another child. How is it now that we are expecting. How is this possible.’
‘Why don’t you remember, it was that night, you know that night when you came home, I’m sure we, don’t you remember..?’
Rob sat with a set face and luminous glare, he pushed away from the table, straightened up and drew breath. The ear piercing sound of his open hand across the side of her face broke the silence.
She burst into shrieks of lamentation ‘Rob, tell me you love me, say you love me, I want to hear it, say it Rob!’ Silence followed her soft sobs of despair.
‘Know this you spiteful, malevolent creature, my sisters will hear of this sinful act, they will know and they will never forget.’ He hissed.
-----
Super short I know! It will just be a small part of my essay, but I have to nail it, feedback will be greatly appreciated.
Post by: Wales on May 10, 2017, 05:08:51 pm
Hey Wales!! Sure thing, I'll pop the Creative below with some comments throughout:
So this is a REALLY effective story to be telling for Discovery. It is simple, the premise is powerful, and it is super character focused. Don't you dare change the idea unless you absolutely have to for a stimulus, because if keep working on this piece, you will get 15. The story is there, the concepts are there - Now it is just about execution.
Well today I got my assessment back. 15/15 :) My teacher was very impressed at my creative. The only one to receive 15/15. Really regained my rank for english after my term 1 bomb ahah.
Wouldn't of been able to have done it without you Jamon my man, you were a fantastic help.
Cheers, Wales
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 10, 2017, 05:12:16 pm
I for Isobel is a text about Identity, self discovery, abuse and a whole lot of other things. Basically for my creative sac I want to be able to implement this idea of mine that Isobel was an unwanted child. Hence why the following is a very short piece because it has to be adaptable, but regardless the general Idea will remain. (In case that didn't make sense, our creative sac will be prompted, hence my idea's have to be adaptable.)
The following is an extract from the text I For Isobel(pg.46);
‘If I’d been allowed to know how sick he was…’ Aunt Noelene was shouting now.
‘Allowed to know. Didn’t want to know. You and Yvonne have never wanted to know anything that didn’t suit you.’
‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten a thing or two, too. You haven’t always been an angel.’
=>(The small creative idea comes here, offering insight to the implications of Aunt Noelene's statement.)
Hearing those words sent May’s mind into disarray, it was as if thousands of cogs that were spinning together simultaneously had stopped, frozen in time, she was remembering. Remembering a time before Isobel.
The atmosphere at the dinner table was as warm and lively as ever, there were smiles, laughter, and an elephant.
Rob was fiddling with the red and white Hornypohn radio whilst talking of his plans for tomorrow.
‘I say we start off the morning with a game of tennis, the court looks as good as ever these days. Then we can take Margaret into town to have a look at the shops, and after that…’.
He was so entranced by the radio that be was oblivious to the interjections.
‘Rob… Rob… Rob! Can you sit down we need to talk.’ He turned around with seeming mildly bewildered, then sat at the table across from May.
‘Rob, I am with child.’ Her face conveyed a shame face smile.
‘Oh isn’t this good news, we’re going to have another child….. Rob?’
He sat there white faced, ‘May, we discussed a year back, that we could not afford another child. How is it now that we are expecting. How is this possible.’
‘Why don’t you remember, it was that night, you know that night when you came home, I’m sure we, don’t you remember..?’
Rob sat with a set face and luminous glare, he pushed away from the table, straightened up and drew breath. The ear piercing sound of his open hand across the side of her face broke the silence.
She burst into shrieks of lamentation ‘Rob, tell me you love me, say you love me, I want to hear it, say it Rob!’ Silence followed her soft sobs of despair.
‘Know this you spiteful, malevolent creature, my sisters will hear of this sinful act, they will know and they will never forget.’ He hissed.
-----
Super short I know! It will just be a small part of my essay, but I have to nail it, feedback will be greatly appreciated.
Hey Max! Sorry for the late reply friend, been super swamped with assignments this week so have been neglecting the marking threads a little :P I see you are in VCE, if you still needed help with this, best to pop it here to get it looked at by a VCE marker! All the markers here did the HSC in NSW, I don't think we'd be as helpful as our friends south of the border :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 10, 2017, 05:14:14 pm
Well today I got my assessment back. 15/15 :) My teacher was very impressed at my creative. The only one to receive 15/15. Really regained my rank for english after my term 1 bomb ahah.
Wouldn't of been able to have done it without you Jamon my man, you were a fantastic help.
Cheers, Wales
Ayyyyy!! Congratulations Wales, legendary stuff, well done! Really awesome to see you persevere and be rewarded for the hard work :) so glad I could help, but it's all you my friend, you earned it 8)
Post by: Wales on May 10, 2017, 05:20:55 pm
Ayyyyy!! Congratulations Wales, legendary stuff, well done! Really awesome to see you persevere and be rewarded for the hard work :) so glad I could help, but it's all you my friend, you earned it 8)
:) It was rather enjoyable too. Time to polish up my essay for my trials and correct a few minor errors in the Creative and Band 6 here I come :D
Post by: Snew on May 17, 2017, 07:28:01 pm
I really hope this helps, and definitely let me know if you'd like any of this clarified! :)
Hey Jamon!! I was wondering if you had any further tips about the dialogue, how to make it more realistic or perhaps not including it at all. I was thinking of having a family hug at the end or something :)
Thank you! :D
Post by: sophiemacpherso on May 17, 2017, 10:00:52 pm
The melancholy breeze disseminated our myriad of resentment through the rows of blush roses. Inconvenience flourished at our feet in the form of weeds, as if to rectify themselves from previous endeavors of their eradication. “You’ll never have a pretty rose garden if its filled with weeds,” he would say through an enduring grin, “Pick up a shovel. Start digging”.
A sharp gust of wind spat implacable drops of salt water onto the crimson roses. “It’s getting dark,” Emily asserted. I turned my head to the diminishing, effulgent sphere and thought about the last time he’d seen the sun. It had been 10 days since that cheerful orb, due south, peeped above his beautiful garden and dipped from his view forever.
As twilight set in, Emily and I gathered ourselves and started home, placidly observing the ripples that imbued the murky water. As she plucked one of the crumbled roses from its prickly countenance, she turned to me, “He wouldn’t have wanted it like this Sarah. He would’ve wanted us to keep busy, keep helping Mum out with the shop.” The sound of her voice reverberated in my ears but I couldn’t hear her. All I could see was the decimation of the garden. 10 days and it was almost destroyed. The soil had been eroded by the escalating tide, other crops had infiltrated the beds strictly reserved for roses. Children trampled the garden beds in search for their soccer ball and left the roses lying forlorn across the lawn, emaciated by their neglect.
Suddenly, I was one of those 13 year old children again, crusading against the monotonous perils of my naïve existence. I was helping Grandpa water his cherished shrubs as Ma cooked the supper inside.
“Emily!” I yelled angrily, “Get me the shovel from the garden shed!”.
“Sophia, ask nicely please. You’ll never get anywhere in life by losing your temper,” Grandpa interjected. His blue eyes, brimming with knowledge and benevolence, crinkled congenially as he looked back at me.
“Sorry Grandpa,” I replied, as I shrunk down embarrassedly.
Another gust of wind chilled my bones as I continued to walk, 10 years on from my 13 year old self. Tears began to sting my eyes as the amplitude of my loss emanated throughout my body in waves as we entered my home.
The mid-Autumn chill radiated throughout the living room. No amount of warmth would thaw the frost in that room. Not even Emily could warm me, as she attempted to placate my quivering with a multitude of blankets.
“I just can’t believe he’s gone,” I said to Emily, my voice wet and cracking. As tears obscured my vision, I closed my eyes.
Suddenly, I was 14 again and Emily and I were running through Grandad’s beds of beach roses. The incessant pitter patter of our feet liberated me from the burden of school, of homework, of any struggles a 14 year old could have in the world. As we ran inside we would shovel Arnotts cookie clusters into our mouths, letting the delectable biscuit disintegrate into nothing inside our mouths. Grandad would sit there and listen to our troubles, about anything that was wrong, and inscribe his wealth of wisdom into our minds forever.
“It’s like there’s nothing to fill the void. We saw him almost every day for the entirety of our lives and now he’s just gone,” I sobbed as Emily lulled me to sleep.
Now, its ten years later and not a day goes past where I don’t think about him. His wry smile, his hardened integrity, a facet to the beauty and charm of the human experience. But maybe his departure was a message. Some underlying, didactic message about the inexorable nature of life. Because that’s the thing – it goes on. It continues in its perennial cycles, regardless of the ephemeral humans that encompass it. And maybe that’s where the importance of the roses lay. Controlling something external like that – it gives us space to breathe; gave him space to breathe. Opened his mind up to the multitude of opportunities we have in our privileged perception of the world. And maybe that’s the purpose of loss. To remind us of the transience of our existence, the sub-ordinance we hold in the natural environment – as transitory and evanescent as a rose.
And so Em and I started tending to our own rose garden. Grandad’s elusive roses ceased to exist, but they lived on to us. For weeks and weeks after his passing it rained. The deluge dripped perpetually from the moiling sky and the days were dreary and cold. But eventually it got easier. Our loss became more and more tolerable as we honoured the knowledge he morally instilled in us, and we grew, like the beautiful roses in his garden.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 18, 2017, 11:43:52 am
Hey Jamon!! I was wondering if you had any further tips about the dialogue, how to make it more realistic or perhaps not including it at all. I was thinking of having a family hug at the end or something :)
Thank you! :D
Family hug is bordering on cheesy, in my opinion - It's like those movies where the whole family hugs and you think, "Bleehh," those cringeworthy moments that just don't really happen in real life. The family hugs often (not always) fall into that category ;D
Read your dialogue aloud, and ask yourself, would this actually be said in that scenario? Is that how people actually speak? Try just randomly chatting to someone about something similar to what you want to right, take note of what they say and how they say it. I'd wager students who do Drama would be good at this! It's purely about realism, which is a really hard thing to do :)
Post by: DalvinT on May 18, 2017, 09:31:08 pm
I just finished my second draft of my creative writing for Discovery!
IT'S REALLY HORRIBLE because I'm just really bad in creative writing in general :(((((
But yeah, I just need a quick run through of my grammar, structure, control of language, plot/character development and the exploration of DISCOVERY.
THANKS HEAPSSS ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on May 19, 2017, 12:08:30 am
Hey guys!! I was wondering if you'd be able to read my creative draft... I feel like it's far too conceptual and not eventful enough as I struggled to try to make it cover all areas of the discovery syllabus.. Anyway, any feedback would be amazing, thanks so much :)
Hey Sophie! Excited to have a look at this one for you :) The comments are in bold in the spoiler.
Spoiler
The melancholy mmm...at first I read this and thought "I think it should be melancholic" but after doing some research, I think melancholy works.
I'm thinking melancholic is better, because it means to be expressing sadness, whereas melancholy means to feel sadness, and I'm not sure the wind can do that. I think I'm reading too far in to this, I actually learnt something new by realising melancholy was a noun and an adjective. Perhaps check with your teacher on this, just because it's right at the beginning so it stands out, but I can't give you definitive advice. You very well could be right! breeze disseminated our myriad of resentment through the rows of blush roses. I think there's a lot going on in the first sentence: melancholy, disseminated, myriad, resentment, roses. It's a lot of images for me to connect and I think it detracts from whatever imagery you're trying to portray. Inconvenience flourished at our feet in the form of weeds, as if to rectify themselves from previous endeavors of their eradication. “You’ll never have a pretty rose garden if its filled with weeds,” he would say through an enduring grin, “Pick up a shovel. Start digging”.
A sharp gust of wind spat implacable drops of salt water onto the crimson roses. “It’s getting dark,” Emily asserted. I turned my head to the diminishing, effulgent sphere and thought about the last time he’d seen the sun. It had been 10 days since that cheerful orb, due south, peeped above his beautiful garden and dipped from his view forever.
As twilight set in, Emily and I gathered ourselves and started home, placidly observing the ripples that imbued the murky water. As she plucked one of the crumbled roses from its prickly countenance, she turned to me, “He wouldn’t have wanted it like this Sarah. He would’ve wanted us to keep busy, keep helping Mum out with the shop.” The sound of her voice reverberated in my ears but I couldn’t hear her. All I could see was the decimation of the garden. 10 days and it was almost destroyed. The soil had been eroded by the escalating tide, other crops had infiltrated the beds strictly reserved for roses. Children trampled the garden beds in search for their soccer ball and left the roses lying forlorn across the lawn, emaciated by their neglect.
Suddenly, I was one of those 13 year old children again, crusading against the monotonous perils of my naïve existence. I was helping Grandpa water his cherished shrubs as Ma cooked the supper inside. I love that you've used Grandpa and Ma - it may seem small but I find that when people do creative writing, they always go to "mother and father" and "grandmother and grandfather" which I think isn't very good for creating voice, because it doesn't sound unique. But when you have a grandpa and a ma, it's really nice, it sticks!
“Emily!” I yelled angrily, “Get me the shovel from the garden shed!”.
“Sophia, ask nicely please. You’ll never get anywhere in life by losing your temper,” Grandpa interjected. His blue eyes, brimming with knowledge and benevolence, crinkled congenially as he looked back at me. Love the imagery of the eyes - reminds me of my own poppy.
“Sorry Grandpa,” I replied, as I shrunk down embarrassedly.
Another gust of wind chilled my bones as I continued to walk, 10 years on from my 13 year old self. Tears began to sting my eyes as the amplitude of my loss emanated throughout my body in waves as we entered my home.
The mid-Autumn chill radiated throughout the living room. No amount of warmth would thaw the frost in that room. Not even Emily could warm me, as she attempted to placate my quivering with a multitude of blankets.
“I just can’t believe he’s gone,” I said to Emily, my voice wet and cracking. As tears obscured my vision, I closed my eyes.
Looking at your use of suddenly. I've read lots of guides online by renowned authors about what they think you should avoid. Suddenly, they say, is one of them. The reason being, it's a missed opportunity to transport someone with urgency through the manipulation of language. Instead, by saying suddenly, you've just put us there and we had no invitation. But when you are forced to eradicate suddenly and bring us to the sudden platform differently,
you invite the reader to engage with the time swap.
Suddenly, I was 14 again and Emily and I were running through Grandad’s beds of beach roses. The incessant pitter patter of our feet liberated me from the burden of school, of homework, of any struggles a 14 year old I don't like the repetition of 14 - just because it's in your last sentence. Maybe try "teenager." or "young teen" or something to that end. could have in the world. As we ran inside we would shovel Arnotts cookie clusters into our mouths, letting the delectable biscuit disintegrate into nothing inside our mouths. Grandad would sit there and listen to our troubles, about anything that was wrong, and inscribe his wealth of wisdom into our minds forever.
“It’s like there’s nothing to fill the void. We saw him almost every day for the entirety of our lives and now he’s just gone,” I sobbed as Emily lulled me to sleep.
Now, its ten years later and not a day goes past where I don’t think about him. His wry smile, his hardened integrity, a facet to the beauty and charm of the human experience. But maybe his departure was a message. Some underlying, didactic message about the inexorable nature of life. Because that’s the thing – it goes on. It continues in its perennial cycles, regardless of the ephemeral humans that encompass it. And maybe that’s where the importance of the roses lay. Controlling something external like that – it gives us space to breathe; gave him space to breathe. Opened his mind up to the multitude of opportunities we have in our privileged perception of the world. And maybe that’s the purpose of loss. To remind us of the transience of our existence, the sub-ordinance we hold in the natural environment – as transitory and evanescent as a rose.
And so Em and I started tending to our own rose garden. Grandad’s elusive roses ceased to exist, but they lived on to us. For weeks and weeks after his passing it rained. The deluge dripped perpetually from the moiling sky and the days were dreary and cold. But eventually it got easier. Our loss became more and more tolerable as we honoured the knowledge he morally instilled in us, and we grew, like the beautiful roses in his garden.
I'm thinking melancholic is better, because it means to be expressing sadness, whereas melancholy means to feel sadness, and I'm not sure the wind can do that. I think I'm reading too far in to this, I actually learnt something new by realising melancholy was a noun and an adjective. Perhaps check with your teacher on this, just because it's right at the beginning so it stands out, but I can't give you definitive advice. You very well could be right! breeze disseminated our myriad of resentment through the rows of blush roses. I think there's a lot going on in the first sentence: melancholy, disseminated, myriad, resentment, roses. It's a lot of images for me to connect and I think it detracts from whatever imagery you're trying to portray. Inconvenience flourished at our feet in the form of weeds, as if to rectify themselves from previous endeavors of their eradication. “You’ll never have a pretty rose garden if its filled with weeds,” he would say through an enduring grin, “Pick up a shovel. Start digging”.
A sharp gust of wind spat implacable drops of salt water onto the crimson roses. “It’s getting dark,” Emily asserted. I turned my head to the diminishing, effulgent sphere and thought about the last time he’d seen the sun. It had been 10 days since that cheerful orb, due south, peeped above his beautiful garden and dipped from his view forever.
As twilight set in, Emily and I gathered ourselves and started home, placidly observing the ripples that imbued the murky water. As she plucked one of the crumbled roses from its prickly countenance, she turned to me, “He wouldn’t have wanted it like this Sarah. He would’ve wanted us to keep busy, keep helping Mum out with the shop.” The sound of her voice reverberated in my ears but I couldn’t hear her. All I could see was the decimation of the garden. 10 days and it was almost destroyed. The soil had been eroded by the escalating tide, other crops had infiltrated the beds strictly reserved for roses. Children trampled the garden beds in search for their soccer ball and left the roses lying forlorn across the lawn, emaciated by their neglect.
Suddenly, I was one of those 13 year old children again, crusading against the monotonous perils of my naïve existence. I was helping Grandpa water his cherished shrubs as Ma cooked the supper inside. I love that you've used Grandpa and Ma - it may seem small but I find that when people do creative writing, they always go to "mother and father" and "grandmother and grandfather" which I think isn't very good for creating voice, because it doesn't sound unique. But when you have a grandpa and a ma, it's really nice, it sticks!
“Emily!” I yelled angrily, “Get me the shovel from the garden shed!”.
“Sophia, ask nicely please. You’ll never get anywhere in life by losing your temper,” Grandpa interjected. His blue eyes, brimming with knowledge and benevolence, crinkled congenially as he looked back at me. Love the imagery of the eyes - reminds me of my own poppy.
“Sorry Grandpa,” I replied, as I shrunk down embarrassedly.
Another gust of wind chilled my bones as I continued to walk, 10 years on from my 13 year old self. Tears began to sting my eyes as the amplitude of my loss emanated throughout my body in waves as we entered my home.
The mid-Autumn chill radiated throughout the living room. No amount of warmth would thaw the frost in that room. Not even Emily could warm me, as she attempted to placate my quivering with a multitude of blankets.
“I just can’t believe he’s gone,” I said to Emily, my voice wet and cracking. As tears obscured my vision, I closed my eyes.
Looking at your use of suddenly. I've read lots of guides online by renowned authors about what they think you should avoid. Suddenly, they say, is one of them. The reason being, it's a missed opportunity to transport someone with urgency through the manipulation of language. Instead, by saying suddenly, you've just put us there and we had no invitation. But when you are forced to eradicate suddenly and bring us to the sudden platform differently,
you invite the reader to engage with the time swap.
Suddenly, I was 14 again and Emily and I were running through Grandad’s beds of beach roses. The incessant pitter patter of our feet liberated me from the burden of school, of homework, of any struggles a 14 year old I don't like the repetition of 14 - just because it's in your last sentence. Maybe try "teenager." or "young teen" or something to that end. could have in the world. As we ran inside we would shovel Arnotts cookie clusters into our mouths, letting the delectable biscuit disintegrate into nothing inside our mouths. Grandad would sit there and listen to our troubles, about anything that was wrong, and inscribe his wealth of wisdom into our minds forever.
“It’s like there’s nothing to fill the void. We saw him almost every day for the entirety of our lives and now he’s just gone,” I sobbed as Emily lulled me to sleep.
Now, its ten years later and not a day goes past where I don’t think about him. His wry smile, his hardened integrity, a facet to the beauty and charm of the human experience. But maybe his departure was a message. Some underlying, didactic message about the inexorable nature of life. Because that’s the thing – it goes on. It continues in its perennial cycles, regardless of the ephemeral humans that encompass it. And maybe that’s where the importance of the roses lay. Controlling something external like that – it gives us space to breathe; gave him space to breathe. Opened his mind up to the multitude of opportunities we have in our privileged perception of the world. And maybe that’s the purpose of loss. To remind us of the transience of our existence, the sub-ordinance we hold in the natural environment – as transitory and evanescent as a rose.
And so Em and I started tending to our own rose garden. Grandad’s elusive roses ceased to exist, but they lived on to us. For weeks and weeks after his passing it rained. The deluge dripped perpetually from the moiling sky and the days were dreary and cold. But eventually it got easier. Our loss became more and more tolerable as we honoured the knowledge he morally instilled in us, and we grew, like the beautiful roses in his garden.
This is so beautiful. As I was reading this I was forced to think of my own poppy the entire time! So wonderful! That's when you know you've done a good job :) You've included so many areas of discovery here. Remember, stories are usually plot driven or character driven. Don't fear that your plot isn't complicated, because the integrity of the characters drives it.
As for some suggestions; I think the flashback is a little jarring just because of the "suddenly" and repetition of her being 14 - it's like I'm being alerted a few times over that the flashback has begun when I've already realised. Otherwise, the imagery is perfect, even if the language is a little heavy at the beginning. I think the weight of your language for the most part works really well with a simple plot, it's a nice balance! I felt really touched by this story, and I think it will thrive really well in an exam, just like the roses :)
Have you tried adapting this to a stimulus yet? I only fear that because the language is so delicate, that you might be thrown when trying to engage with the stimulus. How confident do you feel with the possibility of a stimulus? :)
Post by: sophiemacpherso on May 19, 2017, 03:33:49 pm
Hey Sophie! Excited to have a look at this one for you :) The comments are in bold in the spoiler.SpoilerThe melancholy mmm...at first I read this and thought "I think it should be melancholic" but after doing some research, I think melancholy works.
I'm thinking melancholic is better, because it means to be expressing sadness, whereas melancholy means to feel sadness, and I'm not sure the wind can do that. I think I'm reading too far in to this, I actually learnt something new by realising melancholy was a noun and an adjective. Perhaps check with your teacher on this, just because it's right at the beginning so it stands out, but I can't give you definitive advice. You very well could be right! breeze disseminated our myriad of resentment through the rows of blush roses. I think there's a lot going on in the first sentence: melancholy, disseminated, myriad, resentment, roses. It's a lot of images for me to connect and I think it detracts from whatever imagery you're trying to portray. Inconvenience flourished at our feet in the form of weeds, as if to rectify themselves from previous endeavors of their eradication. “You’ll never have a pretty rose garden if its filled with weeds,” he would say through an enduring grin, “Pick up a shovel. Start digging”.
A sharp gust of wind spat implacable drops of salt water onto the crimson roses. “It’s getting dark,” Emily asserted. I turned my head to the diminishing, effulgent sphere and thought about the last time he’d seen the sun. It had been 10 days since that cheerful orb, due south, peeped above his beautiful garden and dipped from his view forever.
As twilight set in, Emily and I gathered ourselves and started home, placidly observing the ripples that imbued the murky water. As she plucked one of the crumbled roses from its prickly countenance, she turned to me, “He wouldn’t have wanted it like this Sarah. He would’ve wanted us to keep busy, keep helping Mum out with the shop.” The sound of her voice reverberated in my ears but I couldn’t hear her. All I could see was the decimation of the garden. 10 days and it was almost destroyed. The soil had been eroded by the escalating tide, other crops had infiltrated the beds strictly reserved for roses. Children trampled the garden beds in search for their soccer ball and left the roses lying forlorn across the lawn, emaciated by their neglect.
Suddenly, I was one of those 13 year old children again, crusading against the monotonous perils of my naïve existence. I was helping Grandpa water his cherished shrubs as Ma cooked the supper inside. I love that you've used Grandpa and Ma - it may seem small but I find that when people do creative writing, they always go to "mother and father" and "grandmother and grandfather" which I think isn't very good for creating voice, because it doesn't sound unique. But when you have a grandpa and a ma, it's really nice, it sticks!
“Emily!” I yelled angrily, “Get me the shovel from the garden shed!”.
“Sophia, ask nicely please. You’ll never get anywhere in life by losing your temper,” Grandpa interjected. His blue eyes, brimming with knowledge and benevolence, crinkled congenially as he looked back at me. Love the imagery of the eyes - reminds me of my own poppy.
“Sorry Grandpa,” I replied, as I shrunk down embarrassedly.
Another gust of wind chilled my bones as I continued to walk, 10 years on from my 13 year old self. Tears began to sting my eyes as the amplitude of my loss emanated throughout my body in waves as we entered my home.
The mid-Autumn chill radiated throughout the living room. No amount of warmth would thaw the frost in that room. Not even Emily could warm me, as she attempted to placate my quivering with a multitude of blankets.
“I just can’t believe he’s gone,” I said to Emily, my voice wet and cracking. As tears obscured my vision, I closed my eyes.
Looking at your use of suddenly. I've read lots of guides online by renowned authors about what they think you should avoid. Suddenly, they say, is one of them. The reason being, it's a missed opportunity to transport someone with urgency through the manipulation of language. Instead, by saying suddenly, you've just put us there and we had no invitation. But when you are forced to eradicate suddenly and bring us to the sudden platform differently,
you invite the reader to engage with the time swap.
Suddenly, I was 14 again and Emily and I were running through Grandad’s beds of beach roses. The incessant pitter patter of our feet liberated me from the burden of school, of homework, of any struggles a 14 year old I don't like the repetition of 14 - just because it's in your last sentence. Maybe try "teenager." or "young teen" or something to that end. could have in the world. As we ran inside we would shovel Arnotts cookie clusters into our mouths, letting the delectable biscuit disintegrate into nothing inside our mouths. Grandad would sit there and listen to our troubles, about anything that was wrong, and inscribe his wealth of wisdom into our minds forever.
“It’s like there’s nothing to fill the void. We saw him almost every day for the entirety of our lives and now he’s just gone,” I sobbed as Emily lulled me to sleep.
Now, its ten years later and not a day goes past where I don’t think about him. His wry smile, his hardened integrity, a facet to the beauty and charm of the human experience. But maybe his departure was a message. Some underlying, didactic message about the inexorable nature of life. Because that’s the thing – it goes on. It continues in its perennial cycles, regardless of the ephemeral humans that encompass it. And maybe that’s where the importance of the roses lay. Controlling something external like that – it gives us space to breathe; gave him space to breathe. Opened his mind up to the multitude of opportunities we have in our privileged perception of the world. And maybe that’s the purpose of loss. To remind us of the transience of our existence, the sub-ordinance we hold in the natural environment – as transitory and evanescent as a rose.
And so Em and I started tending to our own rose garden. Grandad’s elusive roses ceased to exist, but they lived on to us. For weeks and weeks after his passing it rained. The deluge dripped perpetually from the moiling sky and the days were dreary and cold. But eventually it got easier. Our loss became more and more tolerable as we honoured the knowledge he morally instilled in us, and we grew, like the beautiful roses in his garden.
This is so beautiful. As I was reading this I was forced to think of my own poppy the entire time! So wonderful! That's when you know you've done a good job :) You've included so many areas of discovery here. Remember, stories are usually plot driven or character driven. Don't fear that your plot isn't complicated, because the integrity of the characters drives it.
As for some suggestions; I think the flashback is a little jarring just because of the "suddenly" and repetition of her being 14 - it's like I'm being alerted a few times over that the flashback has begun when I've already realised. Otherwise, the imagery is perfect, even if the language is a little heavy at the beginning. I think the weight of your language for the most part works really well with a simple plot, it's a nice balance! I felt really touched by this story, and I think it will thrive really well in an exam, just like the roses :)
Have you tried adapting this to a stimulus yet? I only fear that because the language is so delicate, that you might be thrown when trying to engage with the stimulus. How confident do you feel with the possibility of a stimulus? :)
Thank you sosososoosoo much for your help! The feedback was beyond helpful, thankyou so much again. I've only really attempted to adapt it to one stimulus but I will try for more in the lead up to trials, I definitely agree with you there though and might have to find some implicit ways to link it in so it's easier to adapt in the exam !! :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 21, 2017, 11:17:27 pm
Hey!
I just finished my second draft of my creative writing for Discovery!
IT'S REALLY HORRIBLE because I'm just really bad in creative writing in general :(((((
But yeah, I just need a quick run through of my grammar, structure, control of language, plot/character development and the exploration of DISCOVERY.
THANKS HEAPSSS ;D
Hey Dalvin! Creative is attached below with feedback:
Spoiler
“Mmmmm…, that’s an A ”, I mumbled as my brother presses the white ivorite keys of the ebony Steinways and Sons grand piano. I like the idea of this opening - Interesting! However, I was a little confused, because 'Mmmm' can be read in many ways. It almost sounds like you are eating. Perhaps swap to just 'That's an A.' It was always nice to hear the piano being played again… living away from home was taking several tolls within my life, but I guess it’s worth for what I will come to be. This is a HEAP of detail in one go - I know you haven't gone into much detail yet, but try and set the scene first.
As the single note continued to dissipate as I sat at the dining table. My eyes instantly caught onto the pearly white paper with my brother’s writing on it to which I quickly pulled it towards me. I skimmed through it and all that I noticed from his incomprehensible writing, such that of Dr. Wallace’s, was the word “apple”. I wondered what it meant, sitting there staring at the negative space of the paper. Apple. Apple. I continued to repeat.
“Bump”, as the piano hammers hit the thick iron strings. Don't use speech marks if it isn't direct speech - Just say bump.
”Mmmm. G#” I said under my breath. Again, I'd ditch the 'Mmm.'
“Prelude in C# minor – Rachmaninoff” I immediately spoke unconsciously. I then paused the thoughts of my brother’s words, and there I was. Staring at the pearly white paper where my mind travelled back to 7 years ago when I began to learn this piece. That stage in my life was when my music changed. I'd like you to put more into this flashback, it is quite quick - Try to really invest time and lines into the important bits!
Skyrocketing from the chair, I ventured into my room in search for my old journal. Though the search was long, I finally dug it up from the piles of notes I had from high school. Covered in dust, I took a vigorous blow at it and a mountain of dust erupted from the surface causing a tingling sensation of my nostrils and a fuzzed vision.
[10th March 2010] “My soulless self once again talking to myself. Was this what was written in the journal? Make sure if you are swapping forms, that you write exactly as it would be written in a journal. Today was when I received [sic] another music piece from my teacher. What's the purpose of the [sic]? I can't spot the error, you've spelt received correctly. Further, be careful putting errors in purposefully in a Creative - It backfires easily. For a piano competition that was. Nothing special and nothing exciting, just like every other piece. Why must the piano be something I must do… and this pontless [sic] piano compitition. I was always been called... a robotic? yet perfectonisst pianist. That didn’t bother me thouh. [sic].. “
Other than laughing at my horrible grammar, it was a good reminder for how much I have changed. The pessimist self only looked at life downhill, to which I wondered how I was like that before. But it wasn’t until one day, where my beloved grandfather passed away, still remembering the passing bells that rang at his funeral as I stood with death-like eyes staring at the futile soil.
Ring.
...
Ring.
… I like the touch of the rings, but I'd like you to again spend a bit more time really creating this image for the reader. It seems just a little rushed - By trying to pack so much in it is losing its power.
Diary: [20th March 2010] “The piano competition was in a few weeks. Watch for tense - If you are writing in a journal, this should be "is in a few weeks." My only faovrtie [sic] grandpa passed away recently, and those passing bells still ring in me. He was a great man, one who challenged and escaped the terror in 1970s China. Is this how a younger character would talk, about "terror in 1970's China?"
But… Something else happened too. Something, extradoinary [sic]. It was a different experience on the piano. My grieving and solemness was separating my perfrectionsim [sic] in my playing. Again, watch for realism. A child wouldn't write in a journal this way. But for the sake of my weak state and to ploguh [sic] through piano practice. My fingers and mind. It... IIt... did something. Painting this artwork I made. Lively and strong, yet monotonous in its tone colours. It was sort of a story. A man… sleeping… trapped in a dream within a dream. It was unusual, but this phenonmon [sic]. It never happened to me before. I was just overwhelmed with warmth it gave me.” Really like some of the imagery here, but it just doesn't suit the younger voice you are trying to create. You don't have someone making spelling/grammar mistakes then talking with elaborate imagery and verbose word choice.
As I raised my eyes above the horizon of the book, I was reminded of the 14 year old self, to which I began to recognise and appreciate what I have accomplished and come to. This is who I am now, a developed and mature young man. I have continued to let go of everything of my past. And finding the true purpose for me to live, to live as a lawyer. I suppose my mind and world determined my clear vision.
As my pride fulfils my ego, I pondered on what else I could begin to appreciate more. I flicked to a random page and continued to read my darkened experiences. I like the structure here, of these frequent journal entries and subsequent reflection. But it just seems like some of these reflections are a little rushed, some of the pictures you are painting and fully painted. Right now, I'm thinking, "Oh, he's a Lawyer." Would have been great to lead up to this, have the character working hard at Law School, or whatever. Not so abrupt.
Diary: [1st April 2012] 2 years since I wrote in this impeccable journal… And I’ve got to say, I’ve become a better person. I realised that life is full of nice things. Music has become the roots to my existence, and as I am writing this… I see that, I hated music a lot before… Again, watch realism.
To me, letting go truly is the answer to becoming a better person. But it wasn’t that easy to discovery something that we cannot go searching for. The mind is our enemy yet our foe. It is the poor expectations and assumptions that blurs the lenses of our eyes.
You see, I now appreciated that having a wider approach to life will make us happier. I now appreciate - Watch for tense issues. Reading a book won’t do much, but living those words will. It’s like hanging those inspirational quotes in your room, but just leaving it there for designing. But you’ve only taken its significance as a minute fraction to your life. As I begin to mature more, it is that these are the important moments. The rollercoaster of human experiences become the valuable aspect in our life. Trust Me. GO. RUN.” Again, I like the idea behind this - But it just doesn't quite suit a journal entry.
As I finished reading this, I took a deep breath and released it without holding it for more than one second, when a sudden burst of urge triggered me to swiftly grab my car keys.
I had the need to drive somewhere…
“My grandpa’s graveyard”, my mind immediately suggested.
It reminded me that I haven’t visited in decades, to which the thought transformed into guilt that shivered every part of me. In a spontaneous manner, it continued to find an answer to why I haven’t visited ever since. Yet, no answer came to mind... only that concreted thought that only made me want to get their faster.
[PORTMENTON CEMETERY]
As I walked upon the uneven path to my grandfather’s gravestone, I noticed a string of bleakness that thrived through the rotted lifeless leaves, veiny branches and dead grounds. This is a really significant scene - Describe it more!
“16th March 2010… Xulao Xian – beloved father and grandfather.” – engraved within the spirit of my grandpa.
My eyes scrolled left to right vigorously at the gravestone not knowing what to do as my fingers paced back and forth, on the rough textured wooden bench staring at the grave undisturbed – observing every detail and revisiting the fond memories I had as a child.
“Apples are indeed the culture of life” – the gravestone further read.
My mind fixated on those words, repeating it over and over again as if I expected to find the answer the more I said it.
Within the next breath, I froze staring obliviously at the gravestone.
Those words… my brother… the apple. It all makes sense now. My grandpa always said he adored the apples. Though, he never really explained what it meant… only hinted that being one who took the apple could only understand the true human nature. This seems like a bit of a force to make that symbol fit - That piece of paper earlier didn't form a big part of the plot. So the symbolism playing such a big part at the finish seems very awkward.
The Apple, was a fruit of wisdom and knowledge that only came with rebellion. A sudden rush of thoughts ran through my head, but slowed down as I took deep breaths. My mind settled as I realised I had mistaken the way life was meant to be. It was then I knew that the differences within people was the foundation of human capacity, rather than letting go of the history. This seems like a really big conceptual dump - Getting all your concepts out at the end. It's a little forced, more subtlety is going to serve you better!
…
Diary: [12th May 2019]
“This day embarks the turning point of my life. It is the significance of today that shapes my life from today on.. Seeing life beyond now to a place of true fulfillment. Through the process, I am ready to encounter new surprises and places. It is strength of relationship between us and the world that drives us to the right journey and to the right places.
My grandfather once said,
DON’T KNOW WHICH ONE TO INCLUDE AS THE GRANDPA’S QUOTE
[ “It is growth of the stars that matter, rather than the full shine of its form ”. ]
[ “ It Is that those that come and continue that matter. Rather than the shining stars of the journey” ]
[ “It is the stars that you see on your journey, rather than the star you see at the end.” ]
[ “It is the experience of enjoying the apple that allows you to understand the core of your life”. ]
The stars links to the milestones of the process within discovery OR I could bring back the symbolism of the apple again.
To me, I like the last quote because it shows how we need to actually understand what is going on in our journey rather than just mindlessly going through it for the sake for it. So therefore, it links in how discoveries of any kind → self-discovery, physical etc. are necessary for individuals to progress further. It is the first step to everything… That way, the individual is then able to gain understandings and perspectives that broadens their world and enriches their relationships between their self and places. I personally think the third one is the best, purely because the fourth one tries to make a link back to the apple symbol, but it doesn't quite work properly imo. Still feels a little forced.
As the single note continued to dissipate as I sat at the dining table. My eyes instantly caught onto the pearly white paper with my brother’s writing on it to which I quickly pulled it towards me. I skimmed through it and all that I noticed from his incomprehensible writing, such that of Dr. Wallace’s, was the word “apple”. I wondered what it meant, sitting there staring at the negative space of the paper. Apple. Apple. I continued to repeat.
“Bump”, as the piano hammers hit the thick iron strings. Don't use speech marks if it isn't direct speech - Just say bump.
”Mmmm. G#” I said under my breath. Again, I'd ditch the 'Mmm.'
“Prelude in C# minor – Rachmaninoff” I immediately spoke unconsciously. I then paused the thoughts of my brother’s words, and there I was. Staring at the pearly white paper where my mind travelled back to 7 years ago when I began to learn this piece. That stage in my life was when my music changed. I'd like you to put more into this flashback, it is quite quick - Try to really invest time and lines into the important bits!
Skyrocketing from the chair, I ventured into my room in search for my old journal. Though the search was long, I finally dug it up from the piles of notes I had from high school. Covered in dust, I took a vigorous blow at it and a mountain of dust erupted from the surface causing a tingling sensation of my nostrils and a fuzzed vision.
[10th March 2010] “My soulless self once again talking to myself. Was this what was written in the journal? Make sure if you are swapping forms, that you write exactly as it would be written in a journal. Today was when I received [sic] another music piece from my teacher. What's the purpose of the [sic]? I can't spot the error, you've spelt received correctly. Further, be careful putting errors in purposefully in a Creative - It backfires easily. For a piano competition that was. Nothing special and nothing exciting, just like every other piece. Why must the piano be something I must do… and this pontless [sic] piano compitition. I was always been called... a robotic? yet perfectonisst pianist. That didn’t bother me thouh. [sic].. “
Other than laughing at my horrible grammar, it was a good reminder for how much I have changed. The pessimist self only looked at life downhill, to which I wondered how I was like that before. But it wasn’t until one day, where my beloved grandfather passed away, still remembering the passing bells that rang at his funeral as I stood with death-like eyes staring at the futile soil.
Ring.
...
Ring.
… I like the touch of the rings, but I'd like you to again spend a bit more time really creating this image for the reader. It seems just a little rushed - By trying to pack so much in it is losing its power.
Diary: [20th March 2010] “The piano competition was in a few weeks. Watch for tense - If you are writing in a journal, this should be "is in a few weeks." My only faovrtie [sic] grandpa passed away recently, and those passing bells still ring in me. He was a great man, one who challenged and escaped the terror in 1970s China. Is this how a younger character would talk, about "terror in 1970's China?"
But… Something else happened too. Something, extradoinary [sic]. It was a different experience on the piano. My grieving and solemness was separating my perfrectionsim [sic] in my playing. Again, watch for realism. A child wouldn't write in a journal this way. But for the sake of my weak state and to ploguh [sic] through piano practice. My fingers and mind. It... IIt... did something. Painting this artwork I made. Lively and strong, yet monotonous in its tone colours. It was sort of a story. A man… sleeping… trapped in a dream within a dream. It was unusual, but this phenonmon [sic]. It never happened to me before. I was just overwhelmed with warmth it gave me.” Really like some of the imagery here, but it just doesn't suit the younger voice you are trying to create. You don't have someone making spelling/grammar mistakes then talking with elaborate imagery and verbose word choice.
As I raised my eyes above the horizon of the book, I was reminded of the 14 year old self, to which I began to recognise and appreciate what I have accomplished and come to. This is who I am now, a developed and mature young man. I have continued to let go of everything of my past. And finding the true purpose for me to live, to live as a lawyer. I suppose my mind and world determined my clear vision.
As my pride fulfils my ego, I pondered on what else I could begin to appreciate more. I flicked to a random page and continued to read my darkened experiences. I like the structure here, of these frequent journal entries and subsequent reflection. But it just seems like some of these reflections are a little rushed, some of the pictures you are painting and fully painted. Right now, I'm thinking, "Oh, he's a Lawyer." Would have been great to lead up to this, have the character working hard at Law School, or whatever. Not so abrupt.
Diary: [1st April 2012] 2 years since I wrote in this impeccable journal… And I’ve got to say, I’ve become a better person. I realised that life is full of nice things. Music has become the roots to my existence, and as I am writing this… I see that, I hated music a lot before… Again, watch realism.
To me, letting go truly is the answer to becoming a better person. But it wasn’t that easy to discovery something that we cannot go searching for. The mind is our enemy yet our foe. It is the poor expectations and assumptions that blurs the lenses of our eyes.
You see, I now appreciated that having a wider approach to life will make us happier. I now appreciate - Watch for tense issues. Reading a book won’t do much, but living those words will. It’s like hanging those inspirational quotes in your room, but just leaving it there for designing. But you’ve only taken its significance as a minute fraction to your life. As I begin to mature more, it is that these are the important moments. The rollercoaster of human experiences become the valuable aspect in our life. Trust Me. GO. RUN.” Again, I like the idea behind this - But it just doesn't quite suit a journal entry.
As I finished reading this, I took a deep breath and released it without holding it for more than one second, when a sudden burst of urge triggered me to swiftly grab my car keys.
I had the need to drive somewhere…
“My grandpa’s graveyard”, my mind immediately suggested.
It reminded me that I haven’t visited in decades, to which the thought transformed into guilt that shivered every part of me. In a spontaneous manner, it continued to find an answer to why I haven’t visited ever since. Yet, no answer came to mind... only that concreted thought that only made me want to get their faster.
[PORTMENTON CEMETERY]
As I walked upon the uneven path to my grandfather’s gravestone, I noticed a string of bleakness that thrived through the rotted lifeless leaves, veiny branches and dead grounds. This is a really significant scene - Describe it more!
“16th March 2010… Xulao Xian – beloved father and grandfather.” – engraved within the spirit of my grandpa.
My eyes scrolled left to right vigorously at the gravestone not knowing what to do as my fingers paced back and forth, on the rough textured wooden bench staring at the grave undisturbed – observing every detail and revisiting the fond memories I had as a child.
“Apples are indeed the culture of life” – the gravestone further read.
My mind fixated on those words, repeating it over and over again as if I expected to find the answer the more I said it.
Within the next breath, I froze staring obliviously at the gravestone.
Those words… my brother… the apple. It all makes sense now. My grandpa always said he adored the apples. Though, he never really explained what it meant… only hinted that being one who took the apple could only understand the true human nature. This seems like a bit of a force to make that symbol fit - That piece of paper earlier didn't form a big part of the plot. So the symbolism playing such a big part at the finish seems very awkward.
The Apple, was a fruit of wisdom and knowledge that only came with rebellion. A sudden rush of thoughts ran through my head, but slowed down as I took deep breaths. My mind settled as I realised I had mistaken the way life was meant to be. It was then I knew that the differences within people was the foundation of human capacity, rather than letting go of the history. This seems like a really big conceptual dump - Getting all your concepts out at the end. It's a little forced, more subtlety is going to serve you better!
…
Diary: [12th May 2019]
“This day embarks the turning point of my life. It is the significance of today that shapes my life from today on.. Seeing life beyond now to a place of true fulfillment. Through the process, I am ready to encounter new surprises and places. It is strength of relationship between us and the world that drives us to the right journey and to the right places.
My grandfather once said,
DON’T KNOW WHICH ONE TO INCLUDE AS THE GRANDPA’S QUOTE
[ “It is growth of the stars that matter, rather than the full shine of its form ”. ]
[ “ It Is that those that come and continue that matter. Rather than the shining stars of the journey” ]
[ “It is the stars that you see on your journey, rather than the star you see at the end.” ]
[ “It is the experience of enjoying the apple that allows you to understand the core of your life”. ]
The stars links to the milestones of the process within discovery OR I could bring back the symbolism of the apple again.
To me, I like the last quote because it shows how we need to actually understand what is going on in our journey rather than just mindlessly going through it for the sake for it. So therefore, it links in how discoveries of any kind → self-discovery, physical etc. are necessary for individuals to progress further. It is the first step to everything… That way, the individual is then able to gain understandings and perspectives that broadens their world and enriches their relationships between their self and places. I personally think the third one is the best, purely because the fourth one tries to make a link back to the apple symbol, but it doesn't quite work properly imo. Still feels a little forced.
So I really like the ideas behind this Creative, lots of cool concepts and great elements - There are two things I'd raise as potential issues:
1 - Your Creative is very busy. Lots of plot elements, lots of sections. The symbolism of the apple, the grandfather, the piano/music theme, and lots of other little things thrown in too. Plus, it is 1500 words - Do you think you can write this in 40 minutes? I would work on really simplifying this, because with so much happening it is hard as a reader to hone in on the important pieces.
2- The language in the journal entries doesn't seem real. It isn't how a character of the younger age would express themselves in that form. Their writing would be less verbose, based more on events and personal reflection rather than more general/conceptual thoughts. As a result, it comes across unnaturally, very forced, and takes the audience out of your story. Writing journals/diary entries properly, in a way that seems realistic to the character voice, is a very hard thing to do.
I do, however, really like the idea of flashing back to the younger versions of yourself, and I think the journal entries are the right way to do that. I think the entries should be shorter, and there should also be less other stuff jumbling the story up - Make it more focused. Hell, it could even be your character walking down the path to the Grandfather's Grave, reading journal entries as they go, with brief interludes in between. Something simple like that.
I also want you to consider what Discovery concept you are pushing here - There should be one big one. Yes, others might be there, but there should be one that overrides the others and it should be the one you focus on communicating to the reader. Right now, I don't get one strong one coming through :)
I hope this feedback helps!! Oh, and I marked areas worth a relook for grammar/expression/spelling in red - Just the ones I spotted ;D
Post by: DalvinT on May 22, 2017, 09:46:21 pm
Hey Dalvin! Creative is attached below with feedback:Spoiler“Mmmmm…, that’s an A ”, I mumbled as my brother presses the white ivorite keys of the ebony Steinways and Sons grand piano. I like the idea of this opening - Interesting! However, I was a little confused, because 'Mmmm' can be read in many ways. It almost sounds like you are eating. Perhaps swap to just 'That's an A.' It was always nice to hear the piano being played again… living away from home was taking several tolls within my life, but I guess it’s worth for what I will come to be. This is a HEAP of detail in one go - I know you haven't gone into much detail yet, but try and set the scene first.
As the single note continued to dissipate as I sat at the dining table. My eyes instantly caught onto the pearly white paper with my brother’s writing on it to which I quickly pulled it towards me. I skimmed through it and all that I noticed from his incomprehensible writing, such that of Dr. Wallace’s, was the word “apple”. I wondered what it meant, sitting there staring at the negative space of the paper. Apple. Apple. I continued to repeat.
“Bump”, as the piano hammers hit the thick iron strings. Don't use speech marks if it isn't direct speech - Just say bump.
”Mmmm. G#” I said under my breath. Again, I'd ditch the 'Mmm.'
“Prelude in C# minor – Rachmaninoff” I immediately spoke unconsciously. I then paused the thoughts of my brother’s words, and there I was. Staring at the pearly white paper where my mind travelled back to 7 years ago when I began to learn this piece. That stage in my life was when my music changed. I'd like you to put more into this flashback, it is quite quick - Try to really invest time and lines into the important bits!
Skyrocketing from the chair, I ventured into my room in search for my old journal. Though the search was long, I finally dug it up from the piles of notes I had from high school. Covered in dust, I took a vigorous blow at it and a mountain of dust erupted from the surface causing a tingling sensation of my nostrils and a fuzzed vision.
[10th March 2010] “My soulless self once again talking to myself. Was this what was written in the journal? Make sure if you are swapping forms, that you write exactly as it would be written in a journal. Today was when I received [sic] another music piece from my teacher. What's the purpose of the [sic]? I can't spot the error, you've spelt received correctly. Further, be careful putting errors in purposefully in a Creative - It backfires easily. For a piano competition that was. Nothing special and nothing exciting, just like every other piece. Why must the piano be something I must do… and this pontless [sic] piano compitition. I was always been called... a robotic? yet perfectonisst pianist. That didn’t bother me thouh. [sic].. “
Other than laughing at my horrible grammar, it was a good reminder for how much I have changed. The pessimist self only looked at life downhill, to which I wondered how I was like that before. But it wasn’t until one day, where my beloved grandfather passed away, still remembering the passing bells that rang at his funeral as I stood with death-like eyes staring at the futile soil.
Ring.
...
Ring.
… I like the touch of the rings, but I'd like you to again spend a bit more time really creating this image for the reader. It seems just a little rushed - By trying to pack so much in it is losing its power.
Diary: [20th March 2010] “The piano competition was in a few weeks. Watch for tense - If you are writing in a journal, this should be "is in a few weeks." My only faovrtie [sic] grandpa passed away recently, and those passing bells still ring in me. He was a great man, one who challenged and escaped the terror in 1970s China. Is this how a younger character would talk, about "terror in 1970's China?"
But… Something else happened too. Something, extradoinary [sic]. It was a different experience on the piano. My grieving and solemness was separating my perfrectionsim [sic] in my playing. Again, watch for realism. A child wouldn't write in a journal this way. But for the sake of my weak state and to ploguh [sic] through piano practice. My fingers and mind. It... IIt... did something. Painting this artwork I made. Lively and strong, yet monotonous in its tone colours. It was sort of a story. A man… sleeping… trapped in a dream within a dream. It was unusual, but this phenonmon [sic]. It never happened to me before. I was just overwhelmed with warmth it gave me.” Really like some of the imagery here, but it just doesn't suit the younger voice you are trying to create. You don't have someone making spelling/grammar mistakes then talking with elaborate imagery and verbose word choice.
As I raised my eyes above the horizon of the book, I was reminded of the 14 year old self, to which I began to recognise and appreciate what I have accomplished and come to. This is who I am now, a developed and mature young man. I have continued to let go of everything of my past. And finding the true purpose for me to live, to live as a lawyer. I suppose my mind and world determined my clear vision.
As my pride fulfils my ego, I pondered on what else I could begin to appreciate more. I flicked to a random page and continued to read my darkened experiences. I like the structure here, of these frequent journal entries and subsequent reflection. But it just seems like some of these reflections are a little rushed, some of the pictures you are painting and fully painted. Right now, I'm thinking, "Oh, he's a Lawyer." Would have been great to lead up to this, have the character working hard at Law School, or whatever. Not so abrupt.
Diary: [1st April 2012] 2 years since I wrote in this impeccable journal… And I’ve got to say, I’ve become a better person. I realised that life is full of nice things. Music has become the roots to my existence, and as I am writing this… I see that, I hated music a lot before… Again, watch realism.
To me, letting go truly is the answer to becoming a better person. But it wasn’t that easy to discovery something that we cannot go searching for. The mind is our enemy yet our foe. It is the poor expectations and assumptions that blurs the lenses of our eyes.
You see, I now appreciated that having a wider approach to life will make us happier. I now appreciate - Watch for tense issues. Reading a book won’t do much, but living those words will. It’s like hanging those inspirational quotes in your room, but just leaving it there for designing. But you’ve only taken its significance as a minute fraction to your life. As I begin to mature more, it is that these are the important moments. The rollercoaster of human experiences become the valuable aspect in our life. Trust Me. GO. RUN.” Again, I like the idea behind this - But it just doesn't quite suit a journal entry.
As I finished reading this, I took a deep breath and released it without holding it for more than one second, when a sudden burst of urge triggered me to swiftly grab my car keys.
I had the need to drive somewhere…
“My grandpa’s graveyard”, my mind immediately suggested.
It reminded me that I haven’t visited in decades, to which the thought transformed into guilt that shivered every part of me. In a spontaneous manner, it continued to find an answer to why I haven’t visited ever since. Yet, no answer came to mind... only that concreted thought that only made me want to get their faster.
[PORTMENTON CEMETERY]
As I walked upon the uneven path to my grandfather’s gravestone, I noticed a string of bleakness that thrived through the rotted lifeless leaves, veiny branches and dead grounds. This is a really significant scene - Describe it more!
“16th March 2010… Xulao Xian – beloved father and grandfather.” – engraved within the spirit of my grandpa.
My eyes scrolled left to right vigorously at the gravestone not knowing what to do as my fingers paced back and forth, on the rough textured wooden bench staring at the grave undisturbed – observing every detail and revisiting the fond memories I had as a child.
“Apples are indeed the culture of life” – the gravestone further read.
My mind fixated on those words, repeating it over and over again as if I expected to find the answer the more I said it.
Within the next breath, I froze staring obliviously at the gravestone.
Those words… my brother… the apple. It all makes sense now. My grandpa always said he adored the apples. Though, he never really explained what it meant… only hinted that being one who took the apple could only understand the true human nature. This seems like a bit of a force to make that symbol fit - That piece of paper earlier didn't form a big part of the plot. So the symbolism playing such a big part at the finish seems very awkward.
The Apple, was a fruit of wisdom and knowledge that only came with rebellion. A sudden rush of thoughts ran through my head, but slowed down as I took deep breaths. My mind settled as I realised I had mistaken the way life was meant to be. It was then I knew that the differences within people was the foundation of human capacity, rather than letting go of the history. This seems like a really big conceptual dump - Getting all your concepts out at the end. It's a little forced, more subtlety is going to serve you better!
…
Diary: [12th May 2019]
“This day embarks the turning point of my life. It is the significance of today that shapes my life from today on.. Seeing life beyond now to a place of true fulfillment. Through the process, I am ready to encounter new surprises and places. It is strength of relationship between us and the world that drives us to the right journey and to the right places.
My grandfather once said,
DON’T KNOW WHICH ONE TO INCLUDE AS THE GRANDPA’S QUOTE
[ “It is growth of the stars that matter, rather than the full shine of its form ”. ]
[ “ It Is that those that come and continue that matter. Rather than the shining stars of the journey” ]
[ “It is the stars that you see on your journey, rather than the star you see at the end.” ]
[ “It is the experience of enjoying the apple that allows you to understand the core of your life”. ]
The stars links to the milestones of the process within discovery OR I could bring back the symbolism of the apple again.
To me, I like the last quote because it shows how we need to actually understand what is going on in our journey rather than just mindlessly going through it for the sake for it. So therefore, it links in how discoveries of any kind → self-discovery, physical etc. are necessary for individuals to progress further. It is the first step to everything… That way, the individual is then able to gain understandings and perspectives that broadens their world and enriches their relationships between their self and places. I personally think the third one is the best, purely because the fourth one tries to make a link back to the apple symbol, but it doesn't quite work properly imo. Still feels a little forced.
So I really like the ideas behind this Creative, lots of cool concepts and great elements - There are two things I'd raise as potential issues:
1 - Your Creative is very busy. Lots of plot elements, lots of sections. The symbolism of the apple, the grandfather, the piano/music theme, and lots of other little things thrown in too. Plus, it is 1500 words - Do you think you can write this in 40 minutes? I would work on really simplifying this, because with so much happening it is hard as a reader to hone in on the important pieces.
2- The language in the journal entries doesn't seem real. It isn't how a character of the younger age would express themselves in that form. Their writing would be less verbose, based more on events and personal reflection rather than more general/conceptual thoughts. As a result, it comes across unnaturally, very forced, and takes the audience out of your story. Writing journals/diary entries properly, in a way that seems realistic to the character voice, is a very hard thing to do.
I do, however, really like the idea of flashing back to the younger versions of yourself, and I think the journal entries are the right way to do that. I think the entries should be shorter, and there should also be less other stuff jumbling the story up - Make it more focused. Hell, it could even be your character walking down the path to the Grandfather's Grave, reading journal entries as they go, with brief interludes in between. Something simple like that.
I also want you to consider what Discovery concept you are pushing here - There should be one big one. Yes, others might be there, but there should be one that overrides the others and it should be the one you focus on communicating to the reader. Right now, I don't get one strong one coming through :)
I hope this feedback helps!! Oh, and I marked areas worth a relook for grammar/expression/spelling in red - Just the ones I spotted ;D
YESS!! Thank you Jamon for the help!! HEAPSSS! I definitely reduced how much was going.
So I took away the graveyard scenery and had all events occur in the the lounge room.
allowing the diary entries to somewhat drives the plot.
I took away the symbolism of the apple and just had the piano and the music piece as the symbolic motif.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on May 22, 2017, 09:47:42 pm
YESS!! Thank you Jamon for the help!! HEAPSSS! I definitely reduced how much was going.
So I took away the graveyard scenery and had all events occur in the the lounge room.
allowing the diary entries to somewhat drives the plot.
I took away the symbolism of the apple and just had the piano and the music piece as the symbolic motif.
Awesome to hear! I reckon making it a little simpler will definitely help your conceptual clarity ;D
Post by: Zainbow on June 11, 2017, 08:11:16 pm
Put simply, I'm terrible at short stories. I just can't write the plot into intelligible sentences that are both clever and not boring, so I've decided to test out poetry. At the moment I have a first draft complete, but I'm not sure how long it should be or if it's good enough. Is there a disadvantage to not writing a short story? I was told by someone that its safer to have a short story because that's what the markers will be expecting. Also, if I were to submit my creative as a poem, what would the general expectation of it be?
Thanks in advance :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on June 11, 2017, 11:42:08 pm
Hey!
Put simply, I'm terrible at short stories. I just can't write the plot into intelligible sentences that are both clever and not boring, so I've decided to test out poetry. At the moment I have a first draft complete, but I'm not sure how long it should be or if it's good enough. Is there a disadvantage to not writing a short story? I was told by someone that its safer to have a short story because that's what the markers will be expecting. Also, if I were to submit my creative as a poem, what would the general expectation of it be?
Thanks in advance :)
Hey! I'm sorry to be a bit of a downer, but poetry puts you at a significant disadvantage. There's a few reasons:
- Poems are shorter. You have less space to develop your concepts and less space to show you are a strong composer.
- Poems are often very open to interpretation, it is unpredictable as to the sort of reception of it will get.
- Poems are harder to write than pretty much any other text type. It takes a very effective writer to pull off properly, especially under time.
The blanket advice I've always received, and that I pass on, is that you can attempt any text type. Feature article, short story, speech, diary - No disadvantage for not writing a narrative. But poetry is tough - It is too difficult and too short; the length is the big thing that markers won't like. Now as much as I tend to agree with this stance, you can be the exception, but know that it probably isn't the easiest course of action, at least in my opinion :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on June 12, 2017, 07:19:08 pm
Hey!
Put simply, I'm terrible at short stories. I just can't write the plot into intelligible sentences that are both clever and not boring, so I've decided to test out poetry. At the moment I have a first draft complete, but I'm not sure how long it should be or if it's good enough. Is there a disadvantage to not writing a short story? I was told by someone that its safer to have a short story because that's what the markers will be expecting. Also, if I were to submit my creative as a poem, what would the general expectation of it be?
Thanks in advance :)
Adding on to Jamon's advice: Consider writing poetry amongst a short story? That way, the poetry can still be a brilliant feature, but you have the story to cushion it, to adapt to the stimulus, as a back up, etc. You get to show a few writing techniques this way which is great! :)
Post by: Wales on June 13, 2017, 09:36:14 pm
Hey!
Put simply, I'm terrible at short stories. I just can't write the plot into intelligible sentences that are both clever and not boring, so I've decided to test out poetry. At the moment I have a first draft complete, but I'm not sure how long it should be or if it's good enough. Is there a disadvantage to not writing a short story? I was told by someone that its safer to have a short story because that's what the markers will be expecting. Also, if I were to submit my creative as a poem, what would the general expectation of it be?
Thanks in advance :)
I suggest sticking to a story also.
Find a film, show, book you enjoy. Take ONE scene out of it and try bring out the syllabus requirements out of that scene. It's a good starting ground :) There's plenty of exemplars around here and the amazing guide Elyse wrote. Have a look.
Poem is certainly unusual but Jamon and Elyse have provided you with the downsides. It's incredibly hard to compete against a short story when you write a poem.
Post by: Zainbow on June 15, 2017, 05:17:39 pm
Hey! I'm sorry to be a bit of a downer, but poetry puts you at a significant disadvantage. There's a few reasons:
- Poems are shorter. You have less space to develop your concepts and less space to show you are a strong composer.
- Poems are often very open to interpretation, it is unpredictable as to the sort of reception of it will get.
- Poems are harder to write than pretty much any other text type. It takes a very effective writer to pull off properly, especially under time.
The blanket advice I've always received, and that I pass on, is that you can attempt any text type. Feature article, short story, speech, diary - No disadvantage for not writing a narrative. But poetry is tough - It is too difficult and too short; the length is the big thing that markers won't like. Now as much as I tend to agree with this stance, you can be the exception, but know that it probably isn't the easiest course of action, at least in my opinion :)
Adding on to Jamon's advice: Consider writing poetry amongst a short story? That way, the poetry can still be a brilliant feature, but you have the story to cushion it, to adapt to the stimulus, as a back up, etc. You get to show a few writing techniques this way which is great! :)
I suggest sticking to a story also.
Find a film, show, book you enjoy. Take ONE scene out of it and try bring out the syllabus requirements out of that scene. It's a good starting ground :) There's plenty of exemplars around here and the amazing guide Elyse wrote. Have a look.
Poem is certainly unusual but Jamon and Elyse have provided you with the downsides. It's incredibly hard to compete against a short story when you write a poem.
Thanks guys :)
I've started working on a short story now, I might post it here when it's finished
Post by: Zainbow on June 17, 2017, 04:59:32 pm
I took your advice and wrote a story, but I'm really unsure of it. Can someone read over it please?
Spoiler
The baby slept.
His soft features delicately moving with each breath. His eyelids fluttered, and his hands innocently fisted on his stomach.
From above, I watched.
Gently bubbling in his slumber, the baby slept soundlessly. He lay in the centre of the room, where the drawn curtains stopped any light.
He let out a soft, short cry, like a meowing kitten.
Mindfully I looked over, searching for any sources of discomfort. He quickly fell asleep again. His posture radiated his innocence; ignorant of the quiet world immediately around him, too invested in his doze to care.
Gently stirring the air from above, I hung from the ceiling rotating, simply fulfilling my duty of ventilation and observation,
She lingered at the door, watching him like me, a smile tugging at her lips. Gracefully she made her way beside him and looked down in admiration. Behind her, a photo of his similarly peaceful face stood on the shelf.
He too enters the room, standing at her side and mimicking the radiation of love.
The baby unconsciously basked in his parents’ awe. There they stood, watching over their baby as I watched over all of them, bestowing
them with gentle zephyrs of air.
She averts her eyes and looks at him, quietly uttering her words.
He shifts on his feet and rests his hands on the baby’s cot. The baby responds with a soft hum.
He mutters a reply and in her confusion to turns to him. I return to admiring the innocent child that slept oblivious to his parents. I busily went on my merry way atop the room, fanning the air gracefully.
He turned towards the door but a firm grasp on his arm hindered him, pulling him back to the baby and the room and her firm questioning.
Sighing a short reply, he provokes her staggered astonishment. Behind her I see the baby continue his nonchalant nap, his arms and legs stretched all comfortably without a care of his surroundings. His small hands, his small lips, his small nose, all resting emotionless in peaceful slumber. I watch as a brief flutter of his nose disrupts the motionlessness of his resting face. I observe this isolated peace as the frustration of her newfound shock transforms the softness of her eyes to disbelief.
He leaves the room and, with a glance towards her peaceful baby, she follows in barely concealed disturbance.
The room returns to its peace, the baby once again consuming it with his soundlessness.
His photo on the shelf offers a past replication this moment.
And, I continued to watch.
The baby slept.
His repetitive breathing evoke a synchronised movement of his features. Laying there lazily, his hands fisted on his stomach, the baby offers no reason for excitement.
In my boredom, I watched from the side of the room.
Except for an occasional drool in his mindless state, the baby slept quietly in the centre, the drawn curtains keeping any light out.
A whine escaped his lips.
Uninterested in him I looked about the room, resting upon the monotonously spinning blade at the ceiling.
She stopped at the door watching him, barely contributing to the ever-so exciting scene before me. In unnecessary awe she made her way to him, this meaningless moment reminding me of the similar occasion of his sleep framed and placed on me.
And just when I thought no one could possibly wish to join this boring enclose, he enters, joining her side and contributing to this endless and mind-numbing encounter.
And all the baby did was lay there, absorbing his parents awe effortlessly.
In my quiet disgruntlement at this scene, I notice her mumble a question, facing him expecting a reply.
He shifts on his feet and rests his hands on the baby’s cot.
He looks at the baby as she awaits the answer, and he finally mutters a brief reply. Apparently this answer wasn’t good enough as she now turns her full attention to him, demanding a clarification to his response. At sight of this my interest perks. Yes! Something other than a sleeping baby!
Hesitantly he looks at her and sucks in his lips, his prolonged contemplation driving me mad. Do something! Say something! Don’t make me wait here, you have my attention now.
As if reading my mind, she reaffirms her need for an explanation.
With frustration, he rakes his hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at her, though she continues to persist, her tone getting louder and my excitement now growing. I wonder at what has caused this scene. Did he do something? What did he say? What will she do now?
He aims for the door in attempted escape, but, in last-minute reflex, she grips his arm and pulls him back to her persistent questioning.
With a strained face he lets out a fleeting remark, short but enough to have her let go of him. She stands unmoving, looking at him, new uncertainties now flashing in her eyes. I too wonder how she’ll react to this newfound provocation. Will she get angry? No, that’ll wake hr baby up. Will she let it go? No, I can see it in her eyes she won’t. I look on at the two and the situation that now confronts them, or more so, challenges them.
But alas, the gripping scene ends too quickly as he swiftly exits and she, too, at his heel.
I feel my interest slip away as I am left with the dull room, the indolent baby, the droning fan. Once again I find myself facing a monotonous existence, any exhilaration short-lived My surroundings mock me, reminding me I hold a frame of a similar situation to this.
But in my aimless observation of this inaction, I ponder the excitement of before, wondering if it will ripple this quiet again.
His soft features delicately moving with each breath. His eyelids fluttered, and his hands innocently fisted on his stomach.
From above, I watched.
Gently bubbling in his slumber, the baby slept soundlessly. He lay in the centre of the room, where the drawn curtains stopped any light.
He let out a soft, short cry, like a meowing kitten.
Mindfully I looked over, searching for any sources of discomfort. He quickly fell asleep again. His posture radiated his innocence; ignorant of the quiet world immediately around him, too invested in his doze to care.
Gently stirring the air from above, I hung from the ceiling rotating, simply fulfilling my duty of ventilation and observation,
She lingered at the door, watching him like me, a smile tugging at her lips. Gracefully she made her way beside him and looked down in admiration. Behind her, a photo of his similarly peaceful face stood on the shelf.
He too enters the room, standing at her side and mimicking the radiation of love.
The baby unconsciously basked in his parents’ awe. There they stood, watching over their baby as I watched over all of them, bestowing
them with gentle zephyrs of air.
She averts her eyes and looks at him, quietly uttering her words.
He shifts on his feet and rests his hands on the baby’s cot. The baby responds with a soft hum.
He mutters a reply and in her confusion to turns to him. I return to admiring the innocent child that slept oblivious to his parents. I busily went on my merry way atop the room, fanning the air gracefully.
He turned towards the door but a firm grasp on his arm hindered him, pulling him back to the baby and the room and her firm questioning.
Sighing a short reply, he provokes her staggered astonishment. Behind her I see the baby continue his nonchalant nap, his arms and legs stretched all comfortably without a care of his surroundings. His small hands, his small lips, his small nose, all resting emotionless in peaceful slumber. I watch as a brief flutter of his nose disrupts the motionlessness of his resting face. I observe this isolated peace as the frustration of her newfound shock transforms the softness of her eyes to disbelief.
He leaves the room and, with a glance towards her peaceful baby, she follows in barely concealed disturbance.
The room returns to its peace, the baby once again consuming it with his soundlessness.
His photo on the shelf offers a past replication this moment.
And, I continued to watch.
The baby slept.
His repetitive breathing evoke a synchronised movement of his features. Laying there lazily, his hands fisted on his stomach, the baby offers no reason for excitement.
In my boredom, I watched from the side of the room.
Except for an occasional drool in his mindless state, the baby slept quietly in the centre, the drawn curtains keeping any light out.
A whine escaped his lips.
Uninterested in him I looked about the room, resting upon the monotonously spinning blade at the ceiling.
She stopped at the door watching him, barely contributing to the ever-so exciting scene before me. In unnecessary awe she made her way to him, this meaningless moment reminding me of the similar occasion of his sleep framed and placed on me.
And just when I thought no one could possibly wish to join this boring enclose, he enters, joining her side and contributing to this endless and mind-numbing encounter.
And all the baby did was lay there, absorbing his parents awe effortlessly.
In my quiet disgruntlement at this scene, I notice her mumble a question, facing him expecting a reply.
He shifts on his feet and rests his hands on the baby’s cot.
He looks at the baby as she awaits the answer, and he finally mutters a brief reply. Apparently this answer wasn’t good enough as she now turns her full attention to him, demanding a clarification to his response. At sight of this my interest perks. Yes! Something other than a sleeping baby!
Hesitantly he looks at her and sucks in his lips, his prolonged contemplation driving me mad. Do something! Say something! Don’t make me wait here, you have my attention now.
As if reading my mind, she reaffirms her need for an explanation.
With frustration, he rakes his hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at her, though she continues to persist, her tone getting louder and my excitement now growing. I wonder at what has caused this scene. Did he do something? What did he say? What will she do now?
He aims for the door in attempted escape, but, in last-minute reflex, she grips his arm and pulls him back to her persistent questioning.
With a strained face he lets out a fleeting remark, short but enough to have her let go of him. She stands unmoving, looking at him, new uncertainties now flashing in her eyes. I too wonder how she’ll react to this newfound provocation. Will she get angry? No, that’ll wake hr baby up. Will she let it go? No, I can see it in her eyes she won’t. I look on at the two and the situation that now confronts them, or more so, challenges them.
But alas, the gripping scene ends too quickly as he swiftly exits and she, too, at his heel.
I feel my interest slip away as I am left with the dull room, the indolent baby, the droning fan. Once again I find myself facing a monotonous existence, any exhilaration short-lived My surroundings mock me, reminding me I hold a frame of a similar situation to this.
But in my aimless observation of this inaction, I ponder the excitement of before, wondering if it will ripple this quiet again.
Regardless, I'll be taking it in to the exam because rn I'd rather a story than a poem as my creative. (Also, our english trial is this Monday :'( )
Thanks
Post by: elysepopplewell on June 17, 2017, 07:05:14 pm
Hey!
I took your advice and wrote a story, but I'm really unsure of it. Can someone read over it please?
Regardless, I'll be taking it in to the exam because rn I'd rather a story than a poem as my creative. (Also, our english trial is this Monday :'( )
Thanks
Hey Zainbow! Pointers are in bold font below :)
Spoiler
The baby slept.
His soft features delicately moving with each breath. His eyelids fluttered, and his hands innocently fisted on his stomach.
From above, I watched.
Gently bubbling in his slumber, the baby slept soundlessly. He lay in the centre of the room, where the drawn curtains stopped any light.
He let out a soft, short cry, like a meowing kitten.
Mindfully I looked over, searching for any sources of discomfort. He quickly fell asleep again. His posture radiated I know what you're saying here,
but I don't really like the wording. I think there are better ways of wording this part. his innocence; ignorant of the quiet world immediately around him, too invested in his doze to care.
Gently stirring the air from above, I hung from the ceiling rotating, simply fulfilling my duty of ventilation and observation,
She lingered at the door, watching him like me, a smile tugging at her lips. Gracefully she made her way beside him and looked down in admiration. Behind her, a photo of his similarly peaceful face stood on the shelf.
He too enters the room, standing at her side and mimicking the radiation of love.
The baby unconsciously basked in his parents’ awe. There they stood, watching over their baby as I watched over all of them, bestowing
them with gentle zephyrs of air.
She averts her eyes and looks at him, quietly uttering her words.
He shifts on his feet and rests his hands on the baby’s cot. The baby responds with a soft hum.
He mutters a reply and in her confusion to turns to him. I return to admiring the innocent child that slept oblivious to his parents. I busily went on my merry way atop the room, fanning the air gracefully.
He turned towards the door but a firm grasp on his arm hindered him, pulling him back to the baby and the room and her firm questioning.
Sighing a short reply, he provokes her staggered astonishment. Behind her I see the baby continue his nonchalant nap, his arms and legs stretched all comfortably without a care of his surroundings. His small hands, his small lips, his small nose, all resting emotionless in peaceful slumber. I watch as a brief flutter of his nose disrupts the motionlessness of his resting face. I observe this isolated peace as the frustration of her newfound shock transforms the softness of her eyes to disbelief.
He leaves the room and, with a glance towards her peaceful baby, she follows in barely concealed disturbance.
The room returns to its peace, the baby once again consuming it with his soundlessness.
His photo on the shelf offers a past replication this moment.
And, I continued to watch.
The baby slept.
His repetitive breathing evoke a synchronised movement of his features. Laying there lazily, his hands fisted on his stomach, the baby offers no reason for excitement.
In my boredom, I watched from the side of the room.
Except for an occasional drool in his mindless state, the baby slept quietly in the centre, the drawn curtains keeping any light out.
A whine escaped his lips.
Uninterested in him I looked about the room, resting upon the monotonously spinning blade at the ceiling.
She stopped at the door watching him, barely contributing to the ever-so exciting scene before me. In unnecessary awe she made her way to him, this meaningless moment reminding me of the similar occasion of his sleep framed and placed on me.
And just when I thought no one could possibly wish to join this boring enclose, he enters, joining her side and contributing to this endless and mind-numbing encounter.
And all the baby did was lay there, absorbing his parents awe effortlessly.
In my quiet disgruntlement at this scene, I notice her mumble a question, facing him expecting a reply.
He shifts on his feet and rests his hands on the baby’s cot.
He looks at the baby as she awaits the answer, and he finally mutters a brief reply. Apparently This is the most subjective thing that's been said by the narrator who is otherwise really impartial - so I'm not sure about this. I've been enjoying the omniscience of the narrator so far, but the "apparently"
makes it a voice that's no longer impartial, which is something I've enjoyed about the narrator. Reading forward, I can see you're moving into more of a different voice from the narrator, but I maintain that "apparently" sounds sassy and a little immature, which I don't think the narrator is.this answer wasn’t good enough as she now turns her full attention to him, demanding a clarification to his response. At sight of this my interest perks. Yes! Something other than a sleeping baby!
Hesitantly he looks at her and sucks in his lips, his prolonged contemplation driving me mad. Do something! Say something! Don’t make me wait here, you have my attention now.
As if reading my mind, she reaffirms her need for an explanation.
With frustration, he rakes his hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at her, though she continues to persist, her tone getting louder and my excitement now growing. I wonder at what has caused this scene. Did he do something? What did he say? What will she do now?
He aims for the door in attempted escape, but, in last-minute reflex, she grips his arm and pulls him back to her persistent questioning.
With a strained face he lets out a fleeting remark, short but enough to have her let go of him. She stands unmoving, looking at him, new uncertainties now flashing in her eyes. I too wonder how she’ll react to this newfound provocation. Will she get angry? No, that’ll wakehr ?? baby up. Will she let it go? No, I can see it in her eyes she won’t. I look on at the two and the situation that now confronts them, or more so, challenges them.
But alas, the gripping scene ends too quickly as he swiftly exits and she, too, at his heel.
I feel my interest slip away as I am left with the dull room, the indolent baby, the droning fan. Once again I find myself facing a monotonous existence, any exhilaration short-lived My surroundings mock me, reminding me I hold a frame of a similar situation to this.
But in my aimless observation of this inaction, I ponder the excitement of before, wondering if it will ripple this quiet again.
His soft features delicately moving with each breath. His eyelids fluttered, and his hands innocently fisted on his stomach.
From above, I watched.
Gently bubbling in his slumber, the baby slept soundlessly. He lay in the centre of the room, where the drawn curtains stopped any light.
He let out a soft, short cry, like a meowing kitten.
Mindfully I looked over, searching for any sources of discomfort. He quickly fell asleep again. His posture radiated I know what you're saying here,
but I don't really like the wording. I think there are better ways of wording this part. his innocence; ignorant of the quiet world immediately around him, too invested in his doze to care.
Gently stirring the air from above, I hung from the ceiling rotating, simply fulfilling my duty of ventilation and observation,
She lingered at the door, watching him like me, a smile tugging at her lips. Gracefully she made her way beside him and looked down in admiration. Behind her, a photo of his similarly peaceful face stood on the shelf.
He too enters the room, standing at her side and mimicking the radiation of love.
The baby unconsciously basked in his parents’ awe. There they stood, watching over their baby as I watched over all of them, bestowing
them with gentle zephyrs of air.
She averts her eyes and looks at him, quietly uttering her words.
He shifts on his feet and rests his hands on the baby’s cot. The baby responds with a soft hum.
He mutters a reply and in her confusion to turns to him. I return to admiring the innocent child that slept oblivious to his parents. I busily went on my merry way atop the room, fanning the air gracefully.
He turned towards the door but a firm grasp on his arm hindered him, pulling him back to the baby and the room and her firm questioning.
Sighing a short reply, he provokes her staggered astonishment. Behind her I see the baby continue his nonchalant nap, his arms and legs stretched all comfortably without a care of his surroundings. His small hands, his small lips, his small nose, all resting emotionless in peaceful slumber. I watch as a brief flutter of his nose disrupts the motionlessness of his resting face. I observe this isolated peace as the frustration of her newfound shock transforms the softness of her eyes to disbelief.
He leaves the room and, with a glance towards her peaceful baby, she follows in barely concealed disturbance.
The room returns to its peace, the baby once again consuming it with his soundlessness.
His photo on the shelf offers a past replication this moment.
And, I continued to watch.
The baby slept.
His repetitive breathing evoke a synchronised movement of his features. Laying there lazily, his hands fisted on his stomach, the baby offers no reason for excitement.
In my boredom, I watched from the side of the room.
Except for an occasional drool in his mindless state, the baby slept quietly in the centre, the drawn curtains keeping any light out.
A whine escaped his lips.
Uninterested in him I looked about the room, resting upon the monotonously spinning blade at the ceiling.
She stopped at the door watching him, barely contributing to the ever-so exciting scene before me. In unnecessary awe she made her way to him, this meaningless moment reminding me of the similar occasion of his sleep framed and placed on me.
And just when I thought no one could possibly wish to join this boring enclose, he enters, joining her side and contributing to this endless and mind-numbing encounter.
And all the baby did was lay there, absorbing his parents awe effortlessly.
In my quiet disgruntlement at this scene, I notice her mumble a question, facing him expecting a reply.
He shifts on his feet and rests his hands on the baby’s cot.
He looks at the baby as she awaits the answer, and he finally mutters a brief reply. Apparently This is the most subjective thing that's been said by the narrator who is otherwise really impartial - so I'm not sure about this. I've been enjoying the omniscience of the narrator so far, but the "apparently"
makes it a voice that's no longer impartial, which is something I've enjoyed about the narrator. Reading forward, I can see you're moving into more of a different voice from the narrator, but I maintain that "apparently" sounds sassy and a little immature, which I don't think the narrator is.this answer wasn’t good enough as she now turns her full attention to him, demanding a clarification to his response. At sight of this my interest perks. Yes! Something other than a sleeping baby!
Hesitantly he looks at her and sucks in his lips, his prolonged contemplation driving me mad. Do something! Say something! Don’t make me wait here, you have my attention now.
As if reading my mind, she reaffirms her need for an explanation.
With frustration, he rakes his hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at her, though she continues to persist, her tone getting louder and my excitement now growing. I wonder at what has caused this scene. Did he do something? What did he say? What will she do now?
He aims for the door in attempted escape, but, in last-minute reflex, she grips his arm and pulls him back to her persistent questioning.
With a strained face he lets out a fleeting remark, short but enough to have her let go of him. She stands unmoving, looking at him, new uncertainties now flashing in her eyes. I too wonder how she’ll react to this newfound provocation. Will she get angry? No, that’ll wake
But alas, the gripping scene ends too quickly as he swiftly exits and she, too, at his heel.
I feel my interest slip away as I am left with the dull room, the indolent baby, the droning fan. Once again I find myself facing a monotonous existence, any exhilaration short-lived My surroundings mock me, reminding me I hold a frame of a similar situation to this.
But in my aimless observation of this inaction, I ponder the excitement of before, wondering if it will ripple this quiet again.
This was an easy enough to follow story - I was never lost and didn't have to read things twice to be certain. But, in terms of discovery I think there could be more brought to the surface. At the moment I'm a bit confused about what is happening in the text, not because of how it's written, but just because I feel like I must have missed something because of how anti-climatic it is. I love the writing style as very simple, it has an air of tranquility about it. But, I think it works best, this writing style, if the plot is really interesting. When you inject plain writing style with a passionate plot, you have great success. But towards the end I'm left wondering what the discovery is. I can see a discovery in the shift in the dynamic between the couple, but I'm actively looking for that. What kind of discovery are you hoping to put forward? I'm happy to chat about this with you and I will happily try and give you advice to adjust the story in time for submission :)
Post by: Zainbow on June 18, 2017, 10:42:43 pm
Thanks for the feedback! I have changed a few things with my story as you suggested, I also clarified the discovery situation and added a few more techniques. Idk if I should post the revised version yet bc I haven't made another 15 posts yet, but I will as soon as I can.
Thanks!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on June 18, 2017, 11:04:39 pm
Hey
Thanks for the feedback! I have changed a few things with my story as you suggested, I also clarified the discovery situation and added a few more techniques. Idk if I should post the revised version yet bc I haven't made another 15 posts yet, but I will as soon as I can.
Thanks!
Only four to go Zainbow! You'll get that up easy ;D
Post by: Zainbow on June 18, 2017, 11:11:12 pm
Only four to go Zainbow! You'll get that up easy ;D
Lol I'll make that up now
Post by: teapancakes08 on June 25, 2017, 11:53:59 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on June 26, 2017, 03:43:50 am
Weird question, but what's the general consensus on profanity in creative writing pieces?
My perspective on this is that when I look at the greatest works I've read that have used profanities - it's always got a purpose. Character building? Expression of distress? Humour? But I think the appropriate thing to ask yourself is: Am I doing this purely for shock value? Because if you are, then you're copping out. Skillful writing will also achieve shock value.
As for what the markers think - I'd lean more on the side of prudence than boasting of profanities. I'd avoid C words, be very careful with fuck, and also be aware of the way gendered slurs appear as well. But, I think you can use it if skilfully done - just don't let it be a distasteful cop out! :)
Post by: Wales on June 27, 2017, 11:24:28 am
Weird question, but what's the general consensus on profanity in creative writing pieces?
I've personally been told multiple times to avoid them.
Given that, using profanity does create a atmosphere that you may desire within your creative. If you can replace it with "he swore" or "after muttering a string of profanities he" etc.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on June 27, 2017, 11:52:54 am
Weird question, but what's the general consensus on profanity in creative writing pieces?
To throw my hat in, I used profanity in my Creative (at least I did on a few occasions, it was a little different every time) :P just once, it was at a dramatic point in the story where I wanted to heighten tension, and my teachers responded well to it. At the end of the day, profanity is a technique we identify in others texts. We can use that technique in our own writing ;D
You are far more likely to pulled up on subject matter being inappropriate than the words themselves :)
Post by: Wales on June 27, 2017, 12:00:00 pm
To throw my hat in, I used profanity in my Creative (at least I did on a few occasions, it was a little different every time) :P just once, it was at a dramatic point in the story where I wanted to heighten tension, and my teachers responded well to it. At the end of the day, profanity is a technique we identify in others texts. We can use that technique in our own writing ;D
You are far more likely to pulled up on subject matter being inappropriate than the words themselves :)
Just going to adjust your hat :D
Completely agree. If you use it appropriately it should be okay. You should still ask your teacher about it though, they won't mark you down for using profanity as after all, it is a technique =]
Post by: kb123 on July 02, 2017, 11:03:50 am
Spoiler
Illuminated with bright light, the arena was alive. The noise from people rushing to find their seats resonated around the stadium, while the aroma of hot chips permeated through the air. The gymnastics championship was only seconds away from commencing.
A gymnast strode onto the competition floor, her blond hair in a neat bun and dressed in a blue leotard that exposed her long, lithe limbs, the material embedded with incandescent crystals, evoking a roar from the audience.
Yet Alina remained silent, her svelte figure melded into the vast sea of spectators.
The gymnast presented herself, lifting her chin up. Alina smirked as someone in the crowd remarked on her professionalism. Presenting nicely does not make you a successful gymnast, Alina knew from experience. No matter how ostentatious a gymnast’s leotard was, they are nothing if the score their routine receives from the judges are mediocre.
And in that department, there were none on her level.
Alina was a one in a million rhythmic gymnast. Having been surrounded with praise by her family and friends as a future Olympian since the age of four, no one knew this fact better than herself. 18 years old and at the peak of her gymnastics career, she held the winner’s podium in her hands.
She had come to Melbourne on a family vacation, but after hearing that the Australian Gymnastics Championships were underway nearby, she had decided to grab a ticket. Alina was curious what the gymnasts in a country like Australia could offer, at least that is what she told herself. In truth, she was not watching out of genuine interest but rather to reassure her own superiority, just as her coach would want her to do.
Alina nonchalantly watched as the gymnast got into starting position, her aquamarine ribbon in a swirl at her side. This place was no Russia – she did not expect anything remotely good from this no-name. She couldn’t comprehend why the audience around her were so absorbed already – the gymnast had not yet shown any skill whatsoever.
And then the gymnast’s accompanying music began to play and her performance started.
The classical music trickled around the stadium slowly, sending the audience shuffling to the edge of their seats, while Alina remained lying against the back of her seat, her arms judgementally crossed in her lap. Then, gradually, the sweet ebb grew larger and larger until it was no longer a trickling stream but a dynamic current of tonality, whirling around the arena and drawing the audience into a stupor. The gymnast’s turquoise ribbon, a river of flowing silk, spiralled through the air while she executed arduous pivots, jumps and balances that required extreme flexibility and strength with apparent ease, the myriad of sewed-on crystals on her leotard franticly reflecting the brilliant light of the arena, emanating luminous sparks of colour like a spinning disco ball. As Alina watched the gymnast’s slender body moving as freely as though her bones were made of rubber, the criticisms she had prepared in her mind melted away.
* * *
“You call that rhythmic gymnastics? That was even worse than your other attempts!” Alina’s coach screamed at the top of her lungs. “Do it again!”
“Yes, coach.”
It had been four hours since training started. Under the cold, calculating eyes of her coach, Alina performed her ribbon routine for the umpteenth time - she had to use all her strength to stop her body from collapsing with exhaustion.
Tears brimmed at Alina’s eyes when she dropped the ribbon again. She couldn’t do it anymore. Alina faced her coach, staring at her hands, lacking the courage to look into her incensed eyes.
‘Coach… Let me take a break… I can’t do it any better in this state…’ Alina cried.
Her coach’s eyes only widened further, her pupils beginning to quiver. Alina crawled into small ball, her head between her knees, hiding away from another wave of abuse.
‘DO NOT MAKE ME REPEAT MYSELF.’ Her coach declared, her face a dark crimson, looking down on Alina. ‘You are part of the Russian National Team - do you not understand what that means?’
‘But can’t I afford a break like other gymnasts?’ Alina whimpered.
She could feel her coach’s harsh gaze burning into the back of her neck. ‘No, you cannot! That is why nobody can win against Russians like you! Get up and do it again!’
Alina stared at her bloody toes and bruise-spotted legs - she felt like a rock crashed and crumbled to pieces by ruthless ocean waves. Looking back at her ribbon, she noticed that it was tearing apart just like her passion for the sport, the sport she had dedicated her whole life to, thinking her devotion would never end.
* * *
Soon, the flowing river of melody resided back to a single stream, the gymnast’s pace slowing down with the music until it vanished into complete silence, the gymnast ending her routine in an impeccable split.
Alina realised what an unexpectedly magnificent performance it had been.
She now knew what she had lost all those years ago when she became a part of the Russian National Team. Before all the demands from her coach had started, Alina had possessed a love for rhythmic gymnastics, ardently watching other gymnast’s performances with pure pleasure. It was as though the collective light of expectations, training and competitions had overwhelmed the timid glow of the sport’s true elegance. Just because a gymnast wasn’t the best in the world, does not mean they weren’t worth watching.
Alina would soon go back to training in Russia, where her coach will scream at her to work harder. But it was worth it, she realised. Though she may not have found a reunion with her coach, Alina’s motivation to train was reignited to a flame equal in radiance to the one that burned during her very first years of gymnastics, as she was once again united with the beauty of her sport.
There was still much more to learn.
As the gymnast bowed to the audience, Alina stood up with the rest of the spectators and joined in with the thunderous applause.
A gymnast strode onto the competition floor, her blond hair in a neat bun and dressed in a blue leotard that exposed her long, lithe limbs, the material embedded with incandescent crystals, evoking a roar from the audience.
Yet Alina remained silent, her svelte figure melded into the vast sea of spectators.
The gymnast presented herself, lifting her chin up. Alina smirked as someone in the crowd remarked on her professionalism. Presenting nicely does not make you a successful gymnast, Alina knew from experience. No matter how ostentatious a gymnast’s leotard was, they are nothing if the score their routine receives from the judges are mediocre.
And in that department, there were none on her level.
Alina was a one in a million rhythmic gymnast. Having been surrounded with praise by her family and friends as a future Olympian since the age of four, no one knew this fact better than herself. 18 years old and at the peak of her gymnastics career, she held the winner’s podium in her hands.
She had come to Melbourne on a family vacation, but after hearing that the Australian Gymnastics Championships were underway nearby, she had decided to grab a ticket. Alina was curious what the gymnasts in a country like Australia could offer, at least that is what she told herself. In truth, she was not watching out of genuine interest but rather to reassure her own superiority, just as her coach would want her to do.
Alina nonchalantly watched as the gymnast got into starting position, her aquamarine ribbon in a swirl at her side. This place was no Russia – she did not expect anything remotely good from this no-name. She couldn’t comprehend why the audience around her were so absorbed already – the gymnast had not yet shown any skill whatsoever.
And then the gymnast’s accompanying music began to play and her performance started.
The classical music trickled around the stadium slowly, sending the audience shuffling to the edge of their seats, while Alina remained lying against the back of her seat, her arms judgementally crossed in her lap. Then, gradually, the sweet ebb grew larger and larger until it was no longer a trickling stream but a dynamic current of tonality, whirling around the arena and drawing the audience into a stupor. The gymnast’s turquoise ribbon, a river of flowing silk, spiralled through the air while she executed arduous pivots, jumps and balances that required extreme flexibility and strength with apparent ease, the myriad of sewed-on crystals on her leotard franticly reflecting the brilliant light of the arena, emanating luminous sparks of colour like a spinning disco ball. As Alina watched the gymnast’s slender body moving as freely as though her bones were made of rubber, the criticisms she had prepared in her mind melted away.
* * *
“You call that rhythmic gymnastics? That was even worse than your other attempts!” Alina’s coach screamed at the top of her lungs. “Do it again!”
“Yes, coach.”
It had been four hours since training started. Under the cold, calculating eyes of her coach, Alina performed her ribbon routine for the umpteenth time - she had to use all her strength to stop her body from collapsing with exhaustion.
Tears brimmed at Alina’s eyes when she dropped the ribbon again. She couldn’t do it anymore. Alina faced her coach, staring at her hands, lacking the courage to look into her incensed eyes.
‘Coach… Let me take a break… I can’t do it any better in this state…’ Alina cried.
Her coach’s eyes only widened further, her pupils beginning to quiver. Alina crawled into small ball, her head between her knees, hiding away from another wave of abuse.
‘DO NOT MAKE ME REPEAT MYSELF.’ Her coach declared, her face a dark crimson, looking down on Alina. ‘You are part of the Russian National Team - do you not understand what that means?’
‘But can’t I afford a break like other gymnasts?’ Alina whimpered.
She could feel her coach’s harsh gaze burning into the back of her neck. ‘No, you cannot! That is why nobody can win against Russians like you! Get up and do it again!’
Alina stared at her bloody toes and bruise-spotted legs - she felt like a rock crashed and crumbled to pieces by ruthless ocean waves. Looking back at her ribbon, she noticed that it was tearing apart just like her passion for the sport, the sport she had dedicated her whole life to, thinking her devotion would never end.
* * *
Soon, the flowing river of melody resided back to a single stream, the gymnast’s pace slowing down with the music until it vanished into complete silence, the gymnast ending her routine in an impeccable split.
Alina realised what an unexpectedly magnificent performance it had been.
She now knew what she had lost all those years ago when she became a part of the Russian National Team. Before all the demands from her coach had started, Alina had possessed a love for rhythmic gymnastics, ardently watching other gymnast’s performances with pure pleasure. It was as though the collective light of expectations, training and competitions had overwhelmed the timid glow of the sport’s true elegance. Just because a gymnast wasn’t the best in the world, does not mean they weren’t worth watching.
Alina would soon go back to training in Russia, where her coach will scream at her to work harder. But it was worth it, she realised. Though she may not have found a reunion with her coach, Alina’s motivation to train was reignited to a flame equal in radiance to the one that burned during her very first years of gymnastics, as she was once again united with the beauty of her sport.
There was still much more to learn.
As the gymnast bowed to the audience, Alina stood up with the rest of the spectators and joined in with the thunderous applause.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 02, 2017, 11:13:07 am
Hi! Could somebody please give me feedback on my discovery creative and if it would get 15/15 if I incorporate the stimulus well?
Hey kb123! According to my spreadsheet, you only have enough posts to get either this or your essay marked right now - Any preference as to which we tackle? You'll need 75 posts to get feedback on both ;D
Post by: DalvinT on July 02, 2017, 12:18:24 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 02, 2017, 04:09:14 pm
Hey guys! I'm just wondering if it is necessary to have a climax in my creative? Cause my teacher says it doesn't, then when I get it marked for an assessment task by another teacher, I got marked down for not having a drive/climax to the plot.
Hey Dalvin! Technically no, but you don't want to write a story that feels unfinished, to the point where the reader is left without any sort of even partial resolution to the issues you've raised. You want some form of conclusion, and that does require some sort of climax (the nature of the climax, very much your choice, it doesn't have to be a full and complete resolution to all loose ends) ;D kind of like, in the Harry Potter series, the story isn't over until the end of the last book/movie, but the viewer/reader still feels satisfied at the end of each chapter/section :)
Post by: DalvinT on July 02, 2017, 10:23:05 pm
Hey Dalvin! Technically no, but you don't want to write a story that feels unfinished, to the point where the reader is left without any sort of even partial resolution to the issues you've raised. You want some form of conclusion, and that does require some sort of climax (the nature of the climax, very much your choice, it doesn't have to be a full and complete resolution to all loose ends) ;D kind of like, in the Harry Potter series, the story isn't over until the end of the last book/movie, but the viewer/reader still feels satisfied at the end of each chapter/section :)
Yeah I get what you mean hahaha! i'll send my creative when i'm done making some edits from the feedback I got from the assessment
Post by: kb123 on July 03, 2017, 12:21:58 pm
Hey kb123! According to my spreadsheet, you only have enough posts to get either this or your essay marked right now - Any preference as to which we tackle? You'll need 75 posts to get feedback on both ;D
Ahh then just the essay :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 03, 2017, 02:07:33 pm
Ahh then just the essay :)
Sure! I'll get on that for you in the coming days
Post by: Opengangs on July 05, 2017, 07:53:32 pm
Is the discovery concept strong enough based on this synopsis?
Synopsis:
A girl, Lola, reflects on the pained memories her father instilled on her during his final few days. The memories that come flashing back at her causes Lola to break down. Each night, her hope diminishes until one cold night when the stars shine down on her. There is a physical and an emotional transformation that Lola faces, her mood drastically changes and she is renewed.
The concepts of discovery that I alluded to in the creative piece were:
- fresh and intensely meaningful, emotional and physical (emotional attachment that she has with her father; pained memories instilled in her during his final days)
- new worlds and values, stimulate new ideas, renewed perspectives (renewed perspective that Lola faces in the end)
- transformative (both physically and emotionally, the protagonist encounters a transformation)
- ramifications may differ for individuals and their worlds (renewed perspective)
I would send my creative piece in for marking, but I don't have enough posts :)
Thanks!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 05, 2017, 09:15:48 pm
Just a quick question in regards to the Creative aspect of discovery.
Is the discovery concept strong enough based on this synopsis?
Synopsis:
A girl, Lola, reflects on the pained memories her father instilled on her during his final few days. The memories that come flashing back at her causes Lola to break down. Each night, her hope diminishes until one cold night when the stars shine down on her. There is a physical and an emotional transformation that Lola faces, her mood drastically changes and she is renewed.
The concepts of discovery that I alluded to in the creative piece were:
- fresh and intensely meaningful, emotional and physical (emotional attachment that she has with her father; pained memories instilled in her during his final days)
- new worlds and values, stimulate new ideas, renewed perspectives (renewed perspective that Lola faces in the end)
- transformative (both physically and emotionally, the protagonist encounters a transformation)
- ramifications may differ for individuals and their worlds (renewed perspective)
I would send my creative piece in for marking, but I don't have enough posts :)
Thanks!
Hey!! Based on your synopsis, I think the Discovery element is definitely there! You'd want to make sure it is done well and in a unique style - The story you are doing is a reasonably common one. That is, character suffers the loss of a family member, is pained by it, but ultimately finds closure and new understanding and that they'll remember the "good times." Obviously I'm over simplifying your story, and it is the intricacies that differentiate, but do be careful! ;D
Feel free to post your full Creative, you'll be at 15 posts by the time you get the feedback, and even if not, you've been insanely helpful around the forums. Happy to give you an advance ;)
Post by: Opengangs on July 05, 2017, 09:22:11 pm
My creative has always been my weakest point in the English course, so any sort of feedback is appreciated. I've tried to incorporate a lot of imagery, and I feel like I've done enough to enthral the reader. I knew that the premise of my story line was fairly 'cliche' or overdone, but I think I've differentiated it enough?? Again, my biggest concern is the overall notion of discovery within this creative.
Thanks!
Creative #2:
Spoiler
A sigh
Lola sighed. Her sigh was of a winter’s breeze, chilling and gentle, adorned by the bleak, thin wind.
One memory. That was all it took for Lola to burst like water from a dam. She clutched the wooden frame, her mind fixated to the painful reflections of his face. However, it was more than that; it was the kind of desolation that came from a person who’s lost all hope. Her tears combined with the cold and damp aura that permeated the room. The wailing echoed around the dull room. It wasn’t just the memory; it was the pain that her late father instilled in her during his last few days.
She focused on his eyes, which glistened with laughter that she once adored. But this time, the same eyes laughed back at her. The same eyes reminded her of what she lost. The same eyes reminded her of these painful memories. She clutched it tighter in her hand and pressed it harder towards her chest, his head leaning towards her heart. It was at this moment that she could feel his heartbeat. Just one more time.
No matter how hard Lola tried to hold in these tears, anyone could sense she was pained. She would cry out to anyone in sight, whispering: “Dad, come sit with me. Hold me close. Hug me one more time”. Nothing.
Lola sighed. Her sigh was of a winter’s breeze, chilling and gentle, adorned by the bleak, thin wind. She knew that he was safe up there, but refused to believe it. To believe it meant that she was bereft of his kisses and cuddles.
She approached the drawer that her father gave to her when she was eight. Behind the broken eyes and washed out foundation, Lola gave a gentle smile. Silence evaporated into the air, as the desolate breeze played her childhood music. Touching the cold and dark handle, Lola revealed the contents of the drawer. Photographs of her family filled the drawer, with each photograph rekindling memories of days gone by.
It was never in her best interest to look at the best photographs, for she was afraid of damaging them. But these were merely snapshots of the best memories; memories that didn’t result in Lola bursting or traumatised. It was in these moments that the very people that she cared about the most will vanish from her mind -- almost as if they weren’t ever there. But it’s these memories that Lola knew to keep, to soothe her when bad memories attempted to erase these moments from her.
Night had fallen fast; no more than an hour ago was the sky painted with hues of orange and red. The dark was illuminated by the glimmering of stars. As each star glinted in the sky, Lola could hear the soft breaths of her father. She looked up towards the stars, which laid like blankets overhead, feeling secure. Her fears. Her sorrows. Her lies -- they all lingered at a distance. No longer did she have to feel afraid. No longer did she have to stand behind shadows.
As she looked up, her fears crumbled beneath her feet. She could now believe it -- she could now believe her dad was safe. All she needed was reassurance. Finally, her mind was at ease. Lola laid, sank in her bed. Every muscle was slouched, and even her heart beated slowly. She stared blankly at the constellations of the stars, mesmerised by the different shapes and complexities of each constellation.
Midnight fell as the susurration of leaves, that had once lulled Lola to sleep, became a soothing lullaby to Lola. The luminous stars scattered across the heavens. Lola strolled out towards the park where she and her dad used to spend the spring breaks together.
She strolled across the concrete, the same way her dad carried her almost twenty years ago. And as the spring breeze tousled her hair, her cheeks lit up all of the stars in the night sky. The brisk spring breeze whispered to Lola, the same way her dad used to whisper to her. The soft textures of the grass swayed in unison with the gusts of occasional gale.
As the sun rose, giving the warm tones back to the earth, Lola felt a sense of renewal -- almost as if these insecurities and tensions leached out during the night. Her steps felt lighter and muttered her final words: “Perhaps, this is what happiness feels like. Perhaps, this is what it feels like when the battle is over.”
Lola sighed. Her sigh was of a winter’s breeze, chilling and gentle, adorned by the bleak, thin wind.
One memory. That was all it took for Lola to burst like water from a dam. She clutched the wooden frame, her mind fixated to the painful reflections of his face. However, it was more than that; it was the kind of desolation that came from a person who’s lost all hope. Her tears combined with the cold and damp aura that permeated the room. The wailing echoed around the dull room. It wasn’t just the memory; it was the pain that her late father instilled in her during his last few days.
She focused on his eyes, which glistened with laughter that she once adored. But this time, the same eyes laughed back at her. The same eyes reminded her of what she lost. The same eyes reminded her of these painful memories. She clutched it tighter in her hand and pressed it harder towards her chest, his head leaning towards her heart. It was at this moment that she could feel his heartbeat. Just one more time.
No matter how hard Lola tried to hold in these tears, anyone could sense she was pained. She would cry out to anyone in sight, whispering: “Dad, come sit with me. Hold me close. Hug me one more time”. Nothing.
Lola sighed. Her sigh was of a winter’s breeze, chilling and gentle, adorned by the bleak, thin wind. She knew that he was safe up there, but refused to believe it. To believe it meant that she was bereft of his kisses and cuddles.
She approached the drawer that her father gave to her when she was eight. Behind the broken eyes and washed out foundation, Lola gave a gentle smile. Silence evaporated into the air, as the desolate breeze played her childhood music. Touching the cold and dark handle, Lola revealed the contents of the drawer. Photographs of her family filled the drawer, with each photograph rekindling memories of days gone by.
It was never in her best interest to look at the best photographs, for she was afraid of damaging them. But these were merely snapshots of the best memories; memories that didn’t result in Lola bursting or traumatised. It was in these moments that the very people that she cared about the most will vanish from her mind -- almost as if they weren’t ever there. But it’s these memories that Lola knew to keep, to soothe her when bad memories attempted to erase these moments from her.
Night had fallen fast; no more than an hour ago was the sky painted with hues of orange and red. The dark was illuminated by the glimmering of stars. As each star glinted in the sky, Lola could hear the soft breaths of her father. She looked up towards the stars, which laid like blankets overhead, feeling secure. Her fears. Her sorrows. Her lies -- they all lingered at a distance. No longer did she have to feel afraid. No longer did she have to stand behind shadows.
As she looked up, her fears crumbled beneath her feet. She could now believe it -- she could now believe her dad was safe. All she needed was reassurance. Finally, her mind was at ease. Lola laid, sank in her bed. Every muscle was slouched, and even her heart beated slowly. She stared blankly at the constellations of the stars, mesmerised by the different shapes and complexities of each constellation.
Midnight fell as the susurration of leaves, that had once lulled Lola to sleep, became a soothing lullaby to Lola. The luminous stars scattered across the heavens. Lola strolled out towards the park where she and her dad used to spend the spring breaks together.
She strolled across the concrete, the same way her dad carried her almost twenty years ago. And as the spring breeze tousled her hair, her cheeks lit up all of the stars in the night sky. The brisk spring breeze whispered to Lola, the same way her dad used to whisper to her. The soft textures of the grass swayed in unison with the gusts of occasional gale.
As the sun rose, giving the warm tones back to the earth, Lola felt a sense of renewal -- almost as if these insecurities and tensions leached out during the night. Her steps felt lighter and muttered her final words: “Perhaps, this is what happiness feels like. Perhaps, this is what it feels like when the battle is over.”
Post by: K9810 on July 06, 2017, 10:57:37 am
Escape
The ground below him fluttered with lights. Packed with pedestrians, the streets exhaled car fumes and smoke littered from cigarette butts. A thin layer of smoke masked the sky. Across, a series of cranes and bulldozers invaded the construction site that was building the new apartments. Xavier closed the window; the smoke that unapologetically wafted up his nostrils and tightened his weak lungs. He sat on his couch and switched on his 32-inch flat screen TV that hung below the air conditioner. He had to escape; the noise, the pollution. And explore the tranquillity that nature offered. Let us show you this place where wonder grows and lead you to secrets hidden beneath green hills…to somewhere like nowhere you’ve ever seen. Images of blue skies and breezy seas flashed past the screen. It reminded him of the time he went hiking.
* * *
He walked as the stones crunched beneath his shoes. He found it. The breath-taking scenery was so foreign to him. The sky was dyed azure blue and it casted rays of gold onto the feathers of the kea which glided swiftly through the borderless skies. A dome of warmth from the sun enclosed him offering him comfort. There was a delicate, earthy scent that filled the air; the dirt, the crushed leaves of the trees. It was breezy, but he liked it. His cheeks dimpled as his lungs inflated with a dose of fresh, light air. It was cool but his lungs were relieved with ease.
Though his feet pleaded to rest, he became inquisitive as he continued to proceed through the pathless trees eyeing out in wonder. The cool breeze danced around his shoes, appreciating his existence. He sniffed the air, but was only greeted with a familiar smell. He wrinkled his nose. A burning cigarette butt thrown carelessly on the bush of wild lupins. Its suffocating scent chokes the crisp, light airiness of the blossoms. The tranquillity and ease he felt moments ago had faded, replaced by a sense of betrayal.
And that wasn’t it.
‘Ok everyone, we have arrived at the peak…’
Curious, he hiked up the coarse path to see who it was. There was a yellow flag waving in the air and so many ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’. He looked up to see twenty or so people. Some were taking photos. Others walked explored the place themselves. As they left, plastic food packaging and travel pamphlets trailed their imprinted footsteps.
The colours of his perfect paradise drained away. He was left back to square one; the litter and physical imprints they made to such a foreign environment. How could they?
But who was he to make such an insensitive judgement?
He too was touring this foreign paradise.
* * *
He peered out his window to the new construction site across his very own.
Destruction was inevitable.
But at least he escaped.
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 07, 2017, 02:58:01 pm
Hey! Can you please mark my creative? I'm not sure how to engage in character development.
Hey there! :)
Spoiler
Escape
The ground below him fluttered with lights. Packed with pedestrians, the streets exhaled car fumes and smoke littered from cigarette butts. A thin layer of smoke masked the sky. Across, a series of cranes and bulldozers invaded the construction site that was building the new apartments. The construction site wasn't doing the building. Just need to rephrase this for it to make perfect sense. Xavier closed the window; the smoke that unapologetically wafted up his nostrils and tightened his weak lungs. He sat on his couch and switched on his 32-inch flat screen TV that hung below the air conditioner. He had to escape; the noise, the pollution. And explore the tranquillity that nature offered. Technically this last sentence isn't correct in a grammatical way because it opens with "and" - sometimes this is fine if the benefit is a creative outcome, but in this situation it doesn't seem to leave me with an impact other than noticing that a sentenced opened with "and" - there's no dramatic narration I can sense yet for this to work well. Let us show you this place where wonder grows and lead you to secrets hidden beneath green hills…to somewhere like nowhere you’ve ever seen. Images of blue skies and breezy seas flashed past the screen. It reminded him of the time he went hiking.
* * *
He walked as the stones crunched beneath his shoes. He found it. The breath-taking scenery was so foreign to him. The sky was dyed azure blue and it casted rays of gold onto the feathers of the kea which glided swiftly through the borderless skies. A dome of warmth from the sun enclosed him offering him comfort. There was a delicate, earthy scent that filled the air; the dirt, the crushed leaves of the trees. It was breezy, but he liked it. His cheeks dimpled as his lungs inflated with a dose of fresh, light air. It was cool but his lungs were relieved with ease.
Though his feet pleaded to rest, he became inquisitive as he continued to proceed through the pathless trees eyeing out in wonder. The cool breeze danced around his shoes, appreciating his existence. He sniffed the air, but was only greeted with a familiar smell. He wrinkled his nose. A burning cigarette butt thrown carelessly on the bush of wild lupins. Its suffocating scent chokes the crisp, light airiness of the blossoms. The tranquillity and ease he felt moments ago had faded, replaced by a sense of betrayal.
And that wasn’t it.
‘Ok everyone, we have arrived at the peak…’
Curious, he hiked up the coarse path to see who it was. There was a yellow flag waving in the air and so many ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’. He looked up to see twenty or so people. Some were taking photos. Others walked explored the place themselves. As they left, plastic food packaging and travel pamphlets trailed their imprinted footsteps.
The colours of his perfect paradise drained away. He was left back to square one; the litter and physical imprints they made to such a foreign environment. How could they?
But who was he to make such an insensitive judgement?
He too was touring this foreign paradise.
* * *
He peered out his window to the new construction site across his very own.
Destruction was inevitable.
But at least he escaped.
The ground below him fluttered with lights. Packed with pedestrians, the streets exhaled car fumes and smoke littered from cigarette butts. A thin layer of smoke masked the sky. Across, a series of cranes and bulldozers invaded the construction site that was building the new apartments. The construction site wasn't doing the building. Just need to rephrase this for it to make perfect sense. Xavier closed the window; the smoke that unapologetically wafted up his nostrils and tightened his weak lungs. He sat on his couch and switched on his 32-inch flat screen TV that hung below the air conditioner. He had to escape; the noise, the pollution. And explore the tranquillity that nature offered. Technically this last sentence isn't correct in a grammatical way because it opens with "and" - sometimes this is fine if the benefit is a creative outcome, but in this situation it doesn't seem to leave me with an impact other than noticing that a sentenced opened with "and" - there's no dramatic narration I can sense yet for this to work well. Let us show you this place where wonder grows and lead you to secrets hidden beneath green hills…to somewhere like nowhere you’ve ever seen. Images of blue skies and breezy seas flashed past the screen. It reminded him of the time he went hiking.
* * *
He walked as the stones crunched beneath his shoes. He found it. The breath-taking scenery was so foreign to him. The sky was dyed azure blue and it casted rays of gold onto the feathers of the kea which glided swiftly through the borderless skies. A dome of warmth from the sun enclosed him offering him comfort. There was a delicate, earthy scent that filled the air; the dirt, the crushed leaves of the trees. It was breezy, but he liked it. His cheeks dimpled as his lungs inflated with a dose of fresh, light air. It was cool but his lungs were relieved with ease.
Though his feet pleaded to rest, he became inquisitive as he continued to proceed through the pathless trees eyeing out in wonder. The cool breeze danced around his shoes, appreciating his existence. He sniffed the air, but was only greeted with a familiar smell. He wrinkled his nose. A burning cigarette butt thrown carelessly on the bush of wild lupins. Its suffocating scent chokes the crisp, light airiness of the blossoms. The tranquillity and ease he felt moments ago had faded, replaced by a sense of betrayal.
And that wasn’t it.
‘Ok everyone, we have arrived at the peak…’
Curious, he hiked up the coarse path to see who it was. There was a yellow flag waving in the air and so many ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’. He looked up to see twenty or so people. Some were taking photos. Others walked explored the place themselves. As they left, plastic food packaging and travel pamphlets trailed their imprinted footsteps.
The colours of his perfect paradise drained away. He was left back to square one; the litter and physical imprints they made to such a foreign environment. How could they?
But who was he to make such an insensitive judgement?
He too was touring this foreign paradise.
* * *
He peered out his window to the new construction site across his very own.
Destruction was inevitable.
But at least he escaped.
Curious, he hiked up the coarse path to see who it was. There was a yellow flag waving in the air and so many ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’. He looked up to see twenty or so people. Some were taking photos. Others walked explored the place themselves. As they left, plastic food packaging and travel pamphlets trailed their imprinted footsteps.
Now, there's imagery, I can see it. But not a lot about it is creative, it's all very direct in giving me the images that I'm supposed to have, instead of giving me the opportunity to explore the scenery myself. I'd love to know the smells, the textures, but instead I'm giving the sights. Your writing is declarative for the most part as it directly states what is happening in the scene. There are times when declarative writing works marvellously! But, in this instance, I don't think it serves the purpose of the story. What was quite an organic scene has been turned to a very rigid scene, even amongst nature. To give another piece of feedback, I want to talk about the lack of empathy I have for the characters. There's nothing about the voices are personas that make me feel something, and invite me on the journey with the characters. The opening paragraph could be an opportunity for me to have sympathy, or admiration, or intrigue, for the main character. But instead I'm left feeling a bit more confused about why this very ordinary character would have an extraordinary discovery, in a setting that isn't flourishing. Basically for character development: there's got to be some kind of quirk that allows me to connect with them.
This is not to say you have a bad piece here at all. I've read stories that are immaculate in their creation, but the discovery fails to exist. This is not your problem - I can see the discovery quite clearly. So we need to build it up from the opposite direction this time. Start to colour in the characters, and consider the techniques you will use to create imagery instead of relying on stating. Similes, metaphors, olfactory imagery... I can't wait to see this story bulk up in order to deliver a really intriguing piece!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 07, 2017, 03:11:36 pm
This is my fifteenth post, which means that I qualify for a check up on my creative.
My creative has always been my weakest point in the English course, so any sort of feedback is appreciated. I've tried to incorporate a lot of imagery, and I feel like I've done enough to enthral the reader. I knew that the premise of my story line was fairly 'cliche' or overdone, but I think I've differentiated it enough?? Again, my biggest concern is the overall notion of discovery within this creative.
Thanks!
Hey there! Thanks for posting :) I'll put the feedback in the bold font in the spoiler below, and then some feedback at the end as well :)
Spoiler
A sigh
Lola sighed. Her sigh was of a winter’s breeze, chilling and gentle, adorned by the bleak, thin wind. Beautiful!
One memory. That was all it took for Lola to burst like water from a dam. I love this imagery. She clutched the wooden frame, her mind fixated to the painful reflections of his face. However, it was more than that; it was the kind of desolation that came from a person who’s lost all hope. Her tears combined with the cold and damp aura that permeated the room. The wailing echoed around the dull room. It wasn’t just the memory; it was the pain that her late father instilled in her during his last few days.
She focused on his eyes, which glistened with laughter that she once adored. But this time, the same eyes laughed back at her. The same eyes reminded her of what she lost. The same eyes reminded her of these painful memories. She clutched it tighter in her hand and pressed it harder towards her chest, his head leaning towards her heart. It was at this moment that she could feel his heartbeat. Just one more time.
No matter how hard Lola tried to hold in these tears, anyone could sense she was pained. She would cry out to anyone in sight, whispering: “Dad, come sit with me. Hold me close. Hug me one more time”. Nothing.
Lola sighed. Her sigh was of a winter’s breeze, chilling and gentle, adorned by the bleak, thin wind. She knew that he was safe up there, but refused to believe it. To believe it meant that she was bereft of his kisses and cuddles.
She approached the drawer that her father gave to her when she was eight. Behind the broken eyes and washed out foundation, Lola gave a gentle smile. Silence evaporated into the air, as the desolate breeze played her childhood music. Touching the cold and dark handle, Lola revealed the contents of the drawer. Photographs of her family filled the drawer, with each photograph rekindling memories of days gone by.
It was never in her best interest to look at the best photographs, for she was afraid of damaging them. But these were merely snapshots of the best memories; memories that didn’t result in Lola bursting or traumatised Just not a fan of the wording here purely because of the flow between "bursting" and "traumatised" which use two different tenses. It just jars a little bit for me. . It was in these moments that the very people that she cared about the most will vanish from her mind -- almost as if they weren’t ever there. But it’s these memories that Lola knew to keep, to soothe her when bad memories attempted to erase these moments from her.
Night had fallen fast; no more than an hour ago was the sky painted with hues of orange and red. The dark was illuminated by the glimmering of stars. As each star glinted in the sky, Lola could hear the soft breaths of her father. She looked up towards the stars, which laid like blankets overhead, feeling secure. Her fears. Her sorrows. Her lies -- they all lingered at a distance. No longer did she have to feel afraid. No longer did she have to stand behind shadows.
As she looked up, her fears crumbled beneath her feet. She could now believe it -- she could now believe her dad was safe. All she needed was reassurance. Finally, her mind was at ease. Lola laid, sank in her bed. Every muscle was slouched, and even her heart beated slowly. She stared blankly at the constellations of the stars, mesmerised by the different shapes and complexities of each constellation.
Midnight fell as the susurration of leaves, that had once lulled Lola to sleep, became a soothing lullaby to Lola. The luminous stars scattered across the heavens. Lola strolled out towards the park where she and her dad used to spend the spring breaks together.
She strolled across the concrete, the same way her dad carried her almost twenty years ago. And as the spring breeze tousled her hair, her cheeks lit up all of the stars in the night sky. The brisk spring breeze whispered to Lola, the same way her dad used to whisper to her. The soft textures of the grass swayed in unison with the gusts of occasional gale.
As the sun rose, giving the warm tones back to the earth, Lola felt a sense of renewal -- almost as if these insecurities and tensions leached out during the night. Her steps felt lighter and muttered her final words: “Perhaps, this is what happiness feels like. Perhaps, this is what it feels like when the battle is over.”
Lola sighed. Her sigh was of a winter’s breeze, chilling and gentle, adorned by the bleak, thin wind. Beautiful!
One memory. That was all it took for Lola to burst like water from a dam. I love this imagery. She clutched the wooden frame, her mind fixated to the painful reflections of his face. However, it was more than that; it was the kind of desolation that came from a person who’s lost all hope. Her tears combined with the cold and damp aura that permeated the room. The wailing echoed around the dull room. It wasn’t just the memory; it was the pain that her late father instilled in her during his last few days.
She focused on his eyes, which glistened with laughter that she once adored. But this time, the same eyes laughed back at her. The same eyes reminded her of what she lost. The same eyes reminded her of these painful memories. She clutched it tighter in her hand and pressed it harder towards her chest, his head leaning towards her heart. It was at this moment that she could feel his heartbeat. Just one more time.
No matter how hard Lola tried to hold in these tears, anyone could sense she was pained. She would cry out to anyone in sight, whispering: “Dad, come sit with me. Hold me close. Hug me one more time”. Nothing.
Lola sighed. Her sigh was of a winter’s breeze, chilling and gentle, adorned by the bleak, thin wind. She knew that he was safe up there, but refused to believe it. To believe it meant that she was bereft of his kisses and cuddles.
She approached the drawer that her father gave to her when she was eight. Behind the broken eyes and washed out foundation, Lola gave a gentle smile. Silence evaporated into the air, as the desolate breeze played her childhood music. Touching the cold and dark handle, Lola revealed the contents of the drawer. Photographs of her family filled the drawer, with each photograph rekindling memories of days gone by.
It was never in her best interest to look at the best photographs, for she was afraid of damaging them. But these were merely snapshots of the best memories; memories that didn’t result in Lola bursting or traumatised Just not a fan of the wording here purely because of the flow between "bursting" and "traumatised" which use two different tenses. It just jars a little bit for me. . It was in these moments that the very people that she cared about the most will vanish from her mind -- almost as if they weren’t ever there. But it’s these memories that Lola knew to keep, to soothe her when bad memories attempted to erase these moments from her.
Night had fallen fast; no more than an hour ago was the sky painted with hues of orange and red. The dark was illuminated by the glimmering of stars. As each star glinted in the sky, Lola could hear the soft breaths of her father. She looked up towards the stars, which laid like blankets overhead, feeling secure. Her fears. Her sorrows. Her lies -- they all lingered at a distance. No longer did she have to feel afraid. No longer did she have to stand behind shadows.
As she looked up, her fears crumbled beneath her feet. She could now believe it -- she could now believe her dad was safe. All she needed was reassurance. Finally, her mind was at ease. Lola laid, sank in her bed. Every muscle was slouched, and even her heart beated slowly. She stared blankly at the constellations of the stars, mesmerised by the different shapes and complexities of each constellation.
Midnight fell as the susurration of leaves, that had once lulled Lola to sleep, became a soothing lullaby to Lola. The luminous stars scattered across the heavens. Lola strolled out towards the park where she and her dad used to spend the spring breaks together.
She strolled across the concrete, the same way her dad carried her almost twenty years ago. And as the spring breeze tousled her hair, her cheeks lit up all of the stars in the night sky. The brisk spring breeze whispered to Lola, the same way her dad used to whisper to her. The soft textures of the grass swayed in unison with the gusts of occasional gale.
As the sun rose, giving the warm tones back to the earth, Lola felt a sense of renewal -- almost as if these insecurities and tensions leached out during the night. Her steps felt lighter and muttered her final words: “Perhaps, this is what happiness feels like. Perhaps, this is what it feels like when the battle is over.”
I don't have a lot of criticism for this piece, but I do have a fair few suggestions. The reason being, the piece as is will do fine in the HSC, but I presume you want to do more than just fine! I'll give you some observations I made. Firstly, I just can't seem to place Lola's age. Lola, the name, makes me think of a young girl, and when she was wailing I figured she was a young girl with strong emotions, therefore capable of strong thoughts. But as it went on I began to think she was older. So I found that really difficult to place. I think the writing style is lovely - there's a nice mix of being declarative and being creative. I really thought it was easy enough to follow without ever thinking it was banal.
What I think about the discovery: I think it ticks boxes of being spiritual, emotional, physical. I think there's a level of both planned and unplanned, and I think there's a focus on the outcome, and the speculation of new perspectives. So in this regard, it ticks lots of boxes. BUT, you will not get to replicate this exact story in the exam, because you'll have a stimulus to work with. I think that the writing itself doesn't need much adjusting, but you need to be comfortable enough to adjust the story accordingly, whilst still ringing true to the wonderful wording you've used so far. So, I suggest you pull out the rubric and go through bit by bit to highlight the parts you think are covered well, the bits you can imagine yourself incorporating well in an exam, and the parts that leave you completely at a loss. I think this is important because your piece is so nicely knitted, I don't want a stimulus to come in here and destroy it. I think that when a new aspect of discovery is incorporated through a stimulus, your work will have greater strength than it does now. But, are you prepared for this, or are you betting on the stimulus sliding into your story without much adjustment?
I look forward to hearing what you think!
Post by: Opengangs on July 07, 2017, 03:52:33 pm
Hey there! Thanks for posting :) I'll put the feedback in the bold font in the spoiler below, and then some feedback at the end as well :)Haha, thank you for your feedback!SpoilerA sigh
Lola sighed. Her sigh was of a winter’s breeze, chilling and gentle, adorned by the bleak, thin wind. Beautiful!
One memory. That was all it took for Lola to burst like water from a dam. I love this imagery. She clutched the wooden frame, her mind fixated to the painful reflections of his face. However, it was more than that; it was the kind of desolation that came from a person who’s lost all hope. Her tears combined with the cold and damp aura that permeated the room. The wailing echoed around the dull room. It wasn’t just the memory; it was the pain that her late father instilled in her during his last few days.
She focused on his eyes, which glistened with laughter that she once adored. But this time, the same eyes laughed back at her. The same eyes reminded her of what she lost. The same eyes reminded her of these painful memories. She clutched it tighter in her hand and pressed it harder towards her chest, his head leaning towards her heart. It was at this moment that she could feel his heartbeat. Just one more time.
No matter how hard Lola tried to hold in these tears, anyone could sense she was pained. She would cry out to anyone in sight, whispering: “Dad, come sit with me. Hold me close. Hug me one more time”. Nothing.
Lola sighed. Her sigh was of a winter’s breeze, chilling and gentle, adorned by the bleak, thin wind. She knew that he was safe up there, but refused to believe it. To believe it meant that she was bereft of his kisses and cuddles.
She approached the drawer that her father gave to her when she was eight. Behind the broken eyes and washed out foundation, Lola gave a gentle smile. Silence evaporated into the air, as the desolate breeze played her childhood music. Touching the cold and dark handle, Lola revealed the contents of the drawer. Photographs of her family filled the drawer, with each photograph rekindling memories of days gone by.
It was never in her best interest to look at the best photographs, for she was afraid of damaging them. But these were merely snapshots of the best memories; memories that didn’t result in Lola bursting or traumatised Just not a fan of the wording here purely because of the flow between "bursting" and "traumatised" which use two different tenses. It just jars a little bit for me. . It was in these moments that the very people that she cared about the most will vanish from her mind -- almost as if they weren’t ever there. But it’s these memories that Lola knew to keep, to soothe her when bad memories attempted to erase these moments from her.
Night had fallen fast; no more than an hour ago was the sky painted with hues of orange and red. The dark was illuminated by the glimmering of stars. As each star glinted in the sky, Lola could hear the soft breaths of her father. She looked up towards the stars, which laid like blankets overhead, feeling secure. Her fears. Her sorrows. Her lies -- they all lingered at a distance. No longer did she have to feel afraid. No longer did she have to stand behind shadows.
As she looked up, her fears crumbled beneath her feet. She could now believe it -- she could now believe her dad was safe. All she needed was reassurance. Finally, her mind was at ease. Lola laid, sank in her bed. Every muscle was slouched, and even her heart beated slowly. She stared blankly at the constellations of the stars, mesmerised by the different shapes and complexities of each constellation.
Midnight fell as the susurration of leaves, that had once lulled Lola to sleep, became a soothing lullaby to Lola. The luminous stars scattered across the heavens. Lola strolled out towards the park where she and her dad used to spend the spring breaks together.
She strolled across the concrete, the same way her dad carried her almost twenty years ago. And as the spring breeze tousled her hair, her cheeks lit up all of the stars in the night sky. The brisk spring breeze whispered to Lola, the same way her dad used to whisper to her. The soft textures of the grass swayed in unison with the gusts of occasional gale.
As the sun rose, giving the warm tones back to the earth, Lola felt a sense of renewal -- almost as if these insecurities and tensions leached out during the night. Her steps felt lighter and muttered her final words: “Perhaps, this is what happiness feels like. Perhaps, this is what it feels like when the battle is over.”
I don't have a lot of criticism for this piece, but I do have a fair few suggestions. The reason being, the piece as is will do fine in the HSC, but I presume you want to do more than just fine! I'll give you some observations I made. Firstly, I just can't seem to place Lola's age. Lola, the name, makes me think of a young girl, and when she was wailing I figured she was a young girl with strong emotions, therefore capable of strong thoughts. But as it went on I began to think she was older. So I found that really difficult to place. I think the writing style is lovely - there's a nice mix of being declarative and being creative. I really thought it was easy enough to follow without ever thinking it was banal.
What I think about the discovery: I think it ticks boxes of being spiritual, emotional, physical. I think there's a level of both planned and unplanned, and I think there's a focus on the outcome, and the speculation of new perspectives. So in this regard, it ticks lots of boxes. BUT, you will not get to replicate this exact story in the exam, because you'll have a stimulus to work with. I think that the writing itself doesn't need much adjusting, but you need to be comfortable enough to adjust the story accordingly, whilst still ringing true to the wonderful wording you've used so far. So, I suggest you pull out the rubric and go through bit by bit to highlight the parts you think are covered well, the bits you can imagine yourself incorporating well in an exam, and the parts that leave you completely at a loss. I think this is important because your piece is so nicely knitted, I don't want a stimulus to come in here and destroy it. I think that when a new aspect of discovery is incorporated through a stimulus, your work will have greater strength than it does now. But, are you prepared for this, or are you betting on the stimulus sliding into your story without much adjustment?
I look forward to hearing what you think!
As for the specific phrasing of 'bursting and traumatised', I've been meaning to fix it up. A couple of people have also critiqued that point, so definitely something I'll have to rewrite.
I've been meaning to write to the stimulus. Can you please send me some discovery stimuli, both text and visual?
Once again, thank you for your feedback like always.
Also, do you think it will work better with the fourth last paragraph being pushed a little further back? Some of my markers have said the change in perspective was a bit sudden so as to leave the reader feeling confused.
I was thinking of rearranging it so it sits as the second last paragraph.
Thanks!
Mod edit: Double posts merged. Please modify your previous post instead of double posting. Thank you
Post by: _____ on July 09, 2017, 10:55:07 am
Anyway here's something I worked on. Issues I can see:
Ending/conclusion is abrupt
Poor choice of names - Stan is associated with goofiness/a carefree attitude I suppose (sorry Stans) but I couldn't think of anything better for the main character
Next to no time spent on characterisation or explaining the main character's context, not sure if this is an issue
Basic imagery
Motif is too obvious (colour blue or the weather)
What can I improve?
Spoiler
“To perceive is to suffer.”
― Aristotle
You wouldn’t have been able to tell Sydney was on the cusp of winter. A light breeze ruffled evergreen leaves, adding little chill to tepid air. The afternoon sun was smiling down, with little care for the fact that it was working unpaid overtime. Its breezy attitude was fabulous for the precise rows of flowerbeds, their occupants drunkenly swimming in the fuel of photosynthesis. On the roads sat the houses, waiting patiently for their owners to return for Christmas.
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode. He had lived in these parts for a year or so now, time that felt as if it were slipping through his fingers…
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning about the world. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand?
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball-on-a-chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Despite having walked this pavement for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly. Sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff…
Xavier breathed out slowly, furrowing his brow. The hound was inhaling gleefully, and his owner swore he could see his dog grinning like he was eating a humungous bone, not smelling the same blade of grass he’s smelled a thousand times before.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle looking up, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall. Behind it puffed an artificial cloud, the plane’s trail dissipating steadily like a retreating wave. Xavier could just about hear the aircraft’s low hum in the cyan infinity behind it, struggling to keep up with its master much like Stan was with Xavier.
Xavier watched the plane cross the Tasman. By now the smell of the lead, corrupted by years of storage in a damp cupboard, was invading his nostrils like a hoard of bees. He spat it out with distain, looking down upon it in the soft pillow of his pale palm.
Xavier turned around and saw the stub of a discarded lamb cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Ashamedly, the brown marbles looked up at him:
“I’m so sorry human please don’t be angry I’ve only been fed once today and I’m ever so hungry please please please forgive me…”
Xavier sighed for the umpteenth time that day. He was beyond caring about Stan’s behaviour at this point. Thoughts bounced around his head like a super ball, many of them hard to quantify in words or even begin to answer. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty thousand feet into the air in a thin metal tube? How did we make it onto the moon only half a century after inventing the aeroplane? What am I going to do with the rest of my life? Are the hermit crabs of these houses enjoying their frantic lives?
This continued for a while longer. Stan kept sniffing, Xavier kept contemplating. Rays of sunlight rained down as the afternoon wore on. Lorikeets laughed and chased each other playfully through the imported palm trees and the terraces littered with leaves.
Xavier gazed down at Stan, trying to swim in a thick soup of thoughts. What does the dog think of his world? Does he long for freedom from the leash?
Suddenly, Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, the sun beating down on the pink, leathery muscle. Whatever he feels, thought Xavier, it’s not discontent. The world is his oyster.
Unusually, Stan seemed uninterested in sniffing. He continued to angle his nose up right at his owner, revealing rows of ivory pegs.
Maybe… maybe ignorance is bliss? The dog doesn’t know, and he doesn’t give a damn. In fact, no one can really answer any of these questions. Understanding is just perception. Everything is speculation on this mortal coil…
Xavier looked up and recognised the friendly oak of his faded-cream front door.
― Aristotle
You wouldn’t have been able to tell Sydney was on the cusp of winter. A light breeze ruffled evergreen leaves, adding little chill to tepid air. The afternoon sun was smiling down, with little care for the fact that it was working unpaid overtime. Its breezy attitude was fabulous for the precise rows of flowerbeds, their occupants drunkenly swimming in the fuel of photosynthesis. On the roads sat the houses, waiting patiently for their owners to return for Christmas.
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode. He had lived in these parts for a year or so now, time that felt as if it were slipping through his fingers…
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning about the world. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand?
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball-on-a-chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Despite having walked this pavement for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly. Sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff…
Xavier breathed out slowly, furrowing his brow. The hound was inhaling gleefully, and his owner swore he could see his dog grinning like he was eating a humungous bone, not smelling the same blade of grass he’s smelled a thousand times before.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle looking up, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall. Behind it puffed an artificial cloud, the plane’s trail dissipating steadily like a retreating wave. Xavier could just about hear the aircraft’s low hum in the cyan infinity behind it, struggling to keep up with its master much like Stan was with Xavier.
Xavier watched the plane cross the Tasman. By now the smell of the lead, corrupted by years of storage in a damp cupboard, was invading his nostrils like a hoard of bees. He spat it out with distain, looking down upon it in the soft pillow of his pale palm.
Xavier turned around and saw the stub of a discarded lamb cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Ashamedly, the brown marbles looked up at him:
“I’m so sorry human please don’t be angry I’ve only been fed once today and I’m ever so hungry please please please forgive me…”
Xavier sighed for the umpteenth time that day. He was beyond caring about Stan’s behaviour at this point. Thoughts bounced around his head like a super ball, many of them hard to quantify in words or even begin to answer. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty thousand feet into the air in a thin metal tube? How did we make it onto the moon only half a century after inventing the aeroplane? What am I going to do with the rest of my life? Are the hermit crabs of these houses enjoying their frantic lives?
This continued for a while longer. Stan kept sniffing, Xavier kept contemplating. Rays of sunlight rained down as the afternoon wore on. Lorikeets laughed and chased each other playfully through the imported palm trees and the terraces littered with leaves.
Xavier gazed down at Stan, trying to swim in a thick soup of thoughts. What does the dog think of his world? Does he long for freedom from the leash?
Suddenly, Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, the sun beating down on the pink, leathery muscle. Whatever he feels, thought Xavier, it’s not discontent. The world is his oyster.
Unusually, Stan seemed uninterested in sniffing. He continued to angle his nose up right at his owner, revealing rows of ivory pegs.
Maybe… maybe ignorance is bliss? The dog doesn’t know, and he doesn’t give a damn. In fact, no one can really answer any of these questions. Understanding is just perception. Everything is speculation on this mortal coil…
Xavier looked up and recognised the friendly oak of his faded-cream front door.
Thanks!
Post by: seventeenboi on July 09, 2017, 09:07:03 pm
would you guys mind marking my creative??? It's super rushed and it an obvious first draft because if you read through there are heaps of inconsistencies that I'll probably fix later xDD. But more specifically, could you guys give me pointers on how to improve the portrayal concepts of discovery within my creative ??
CREATIVE DRAFT 1
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Each jagged limb clawed its way relentlessly to its next position. The confining room stood proud in its entirety. Heaving himself from his wooden chair, he glanced at the calendar. ’September 1st’ it unforgivingly announced.
The bedridden sun still buried in its cloak of anxiety cast a lone shadow on the floor, barely warming the faceless faces which were smothered to a blur from time. The empty frames attempted to comfort his bare walls and salvage whatever kindling flame that still flickered in the remnants of his worn being. Several black and white photographs hung frozen in the unfruitful attempted to entrap the absent. Instead, tired and muted frames of grey and insipidity that lined the walls did most of the preservation, trying to compensate for the lost vibrance that he once had.
He missed everything. When he still had it. When he could still embrace it. Now, life was like this. Life was just .. life. He exhaled loudly. “What will it be today?” he thought to himself.
As if telepathic in its nature, the tarnished floor boards groaned in reassurance as he sank into the stool in front of the easel. Despite the cheapness of the wood, it still stood brilliantly. But it was almost succumbing to ruin, about to collapse from the heavy burden of imperfect and unsatisfactory canvas after canvas that encumbered it everyday.
He lethargically lifted the cup to his mouth anticipating the fresh steam of morning coffee as it tried to frighten the haunt of winter. He savoured it slowly, sip by sip, in attempt to preserve the seeping warmth it generously shared.
He sat down, facing the glass frame which prevailed the landscape beyond. A gust of wind rattles the glass barrier, unable to penetrate its haughty austere. Outside a flock of birds crowds and nestles amongst the bare tree relinquishing the open air. How wondrous he pondered, captivated as each bird flitted about the boughs and tended to each other. Their powerful crimson headdress defied the ashen ambience of the chilly morning, riding the thermals above as if in a graceful dance. Inside their fragile bodies, their hearts were beating, lungs were expanding and contracting, muscles tightening.
They paid him no attention.
Enticed anyways, he began to etch tendrils for each branch, engraving the rare moment onto his canvas. But the pencil disobeyed his mind, his fingers clutching its weak wooden frame anxiously as it quivered in his grasp. The curvature of their wise beaks had become the squabble of pigeons whilst their powerful wings appeared meagre upon the linen somehow. He concentrated upon the affinity of the birds but could not rid the aggravating transparency of the glass which still managed to impede his view. Scrapes and scratches, scrapes and scratches, the usual disappointing rhythm.
A spray from the heavens suddenly came. Droplet by droplet grew into unrelenting pelts, dampening voluminous spreads of feathers. In a frenzied bid of farewell, the beating of wings disrupted the rhythmic tempo of the raindrops on his roof. Fallen leaves tumbled to defend its territory from the onslaught. Each droplet alighted the coolness of wild vortices, falling, emptying, as it washed away everything his eyes laid upon. The innumerable little cascades frightened each bird as they alighted to find a haven, leaving him behind staring at the skeleton of the tree. The curtain of water had begun to obscure his view of the outside.
But their departure didn’t sadden him, nor did his sadness cause their departure. He was used to things like this.
Rain enveloped, imprisoning the confines of his room. It was just him, and the rain on this melancholy morning.
He set down his pencil in the usual makeshift Heinz can which sat there pertinently, expectant. Instinctively, his body picked up the monotonous canvas as he had done day by day, contemplating whereabouts to lay it amongst the mass assemblage of many others. Now sinking into the leather sofa, he turned on the radio to fill the voids of silence, yet also to drown out the pelting rain as he tried to defiantly enlarge the asphyxiating walls, searching for accompaniment. (?) not sure haha….
*
*
*
*
The pummelling of tiny hands softened down in a final strum. He noticed because he could make out a slight muffled tingle. His ears perked in anticipation, his eyes darted towards the window, but a curtain of droplets still veiled. What was it?
The distant hum seduced his ear as he obliviously walked to the window. He laboriously pushed it open. Startled, a cascade of sunlight rushed inside and pulled him outside in liberation. The wooden photo frames had now become apparent in vibrant shine of mahogany.
The buzz modulated into a chorus of low chimes, his heart palpitated in unison.
Against the stern boulder-like clouds which threatened to swallow the sky, dainty wisps of periwinkle greeted him through rifts the fog could not reach. His mouth agape, the grandeur of everything around him
The sound grew louder now, changing from an indistinct warble to a light trill.
The briskness of the wind made the branches waver to its melody as if inhaling and exhaling the perfumes of the fresh damp soil. He himself, hypnotised by its crisp enchantment, taking another cautious step onto the greenery.
He bent down to caress the rich tones of the earth below, darkened yet enriched bathed in the thrill of the radiance of the sun.
He could hear it properly now! A grandiose angelic chorus heralded in crescendo as a cascade of brilliant red swooped in, encircling above and around the birch. Its silvery poplars rose spangled with dewy glittering of gold and green in welcome.
Smiling, he planted his easel onto the evergreen grass and gripped his brush. He visualising an intense spectrum of hues upon the frosted blank. Meticulously, he carved strokes onto the awaiting linen.
A stroke of vermillion, a stroke of scarlet.
A stroke for each bird that returned.
Concepts of discovery that I want to show:
rediscovering something that has been lost - passion, inspiration and beauty
type of discovery: creative(his passion and talent as well as inspiration), spiritual(enlightening) and emotional (isolation), physical (sublimity of nature)
catalyst for change
discoveries can be far-reaching and transformative for the individual
reflection and character growth
his literal discovery: his attempt to capture and create the landscape on his canvas will not be fruitful from the inside
THANK YOU <3
Post by: teapancakes08 on July 11, 2017, 11:31:58 pm
I have another creative ready and sent to my teacher, and the criticisms I got were to do with length-wise (it's around 1100 words), what to do about italics (seriously, how do you replicate that effect in handwriting?), and some clarity issues in languages (because I tend to be very flowery in my language. Pros: I get into it, so I don't make too many cliches...usually; Cons: It's waaayyy too figurative at times.) Any suggestions on how to combat this? It might be easier to see with this new creative, so I'll attach it to the post.
(This counts as a submission, right? If that's the case, I think I have 4 left? I can't count, help.)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 12, 2017, 01:05:00 am
This is kind of an embarrassing question, but would it be okay to post up a creative in the notes section? I haven't finished HSC yet (TT^TT), so I'm wondering if I should wait until afterwards to post it. It got 14/15 for mid course, though. (Literally the only criticism was too much dialogue...which wasn't much to go of off ;; )
We'd loooove that, please do it whenever you like! Legend! ;D
Quote
I have another creative ready and sent to my teacher, and the criticisms I got were to do with length-wise (it's around 1100 words), what to do about italics (seriously, how do you replicate that effect in handwriting?), and some clarity issues in languages (because I tend to be very flowery in my language. Pros: I get into it, so I don't make too many cliches...usually; Cons: It's waaayyy too figurative at times.) Any suggestions on how to combat this? It might be easier to see with this new creative, so I'll attach it to the post.
(This counts as a submission, right? If that's the case, I think I have 4 left? I can't count, help.)
We've upped our post requirement to 25 posts for the Trial period, which would leave you two more if you want some detailed feedback ;D we can just skim it and give you some quick advice on the language if you prefer? We'll need a bit of time either way with lectures happening ;D
Post by: teapancakes08 on July 12, 2017, 11:11:38 pm
We've upped our post requirement to 25 posts for the Trial period, which would leave you two more if you want some detailed feedback ;D we can just skim it and give you some quick advice on the language if you prefer? We'll need a bit of time either way with lectures happening ;D
I guess I might as well get some concise feedback on it – if the timing's okay at least. Haven't really optimised on exchanging my post for marking yet because I'm not really confident in my work ;;; I'd like to get some editing done before I get back to school next Tuesday, but I can wait until the lectures are wrapped up :) (Thanks for all the love and support! ;D)
Post by: claudiarosaliaa on July 13, 2017, 09:19:01 pm
---
I inhale. The bitter smell of coffee travels through my senses. The icy grey sky restlessly grumbles, trapping me within the muggy air. An unexpectedly soothing feeling, catapulting me into a nostalgic haze of past vignettes - all around one small table... family and laughter, joined solely by bread and wine. Images so vivid, like pictures in a storybook I adored as a child.
I glance at my father. He is distant, eyes focused on each droplet of rain as they trickle down the window, like salty tears. He has a drained expression on his handsome face, lifting the black cup towards his mouth, but refusing to take a sip. It appears he too is clouded by those same memories. He takes a long, deep breath. His gaze still remains, as though if he stares at the water droplets for long enough and longingly enough he will, by some sort of osmosis, be transported into vibrant memories of his past.
“I’m so glad I’m here,” he admits, his disjointed voice leaving his cracked lips in small increments. Words my father spoke so often. Words I’ve never understood, despite the deep yearning for knowledge that constantly tugs at my conscience. “I was building agricultural and industrial at the time,” he continues, “for a company called Olfa. I was a manager, working six days a week, sometimes for twelve hours”.
He pauses for a while. Long enough for one to notice. And with his cup to his nose, he breathes in. His mind elsewhere, hypnotised once again by the bittersweet smell of burnt coffee.
“I remember this one humid day, I was working near the furnace.” He pauses, his voice flat and absent. “The smell of burning metal and sweat filled the dry, unbearable air. As i pulled the lever down, the heat entering my lungs with every breath. The electric humming of the saw ringing in my ears. My heart racing, head pounding, as I struggled to concentrate.”
Thoughts of why I am here wash over me, like the incessantly pounding rain. Realisation that this place I was taught to call ‘home’ didn't feel like a home at all, but instead a foreign landscape, unfamiliar, yet recognisable.
“My boss had just broken the news earlier…” His aggravated voice began lifting in volume. “Olfa was in debt, with no money left for wages.” Snickering with disgust, he continues , “My boss didn't apologise or sympathise, but instead demanded we worked harder. He told me to be patient, promised time would pass. Said a solution was coming.”
A violent red fills his eyes. His hands, shaking. I can see the rage simmering to the surface. With his focus distant, he resumes, “we were already struggling. I was already struggling. I pulled the lever harder, the disk disintegrating into pieces beneath my hands, metal fragments springing up with rage, piercing into my naked eyes.”
“The ambulance arrived in a blur of red and blue light. The pain was-... Sacred. Useless. Anxiety engulfed me, trapped me. I craved a solution, yet nothing came to mind.”
“Three months later... Still, nothing. A job. But no income, no savings. ” His voice is caught in his throat as he struggles to form the words. “Nothing but struggle… and humiliation. I feared for il mio carissimi Bambi, you and your darling brother,” he chokes.
Quiet. A silence so deafening, as he draws his breath, and lets it back out with a sigh. I take a large gulp of coffee, no longer warm but slightly sweeter. I can see my reflection in his glassy green eyes. Salty tears slide down my rosy cheek, trickling slowly. I notice him following my tears with his eyes. His expression changes, as though he has been transported into the melancholy memories of his past.
“It was then that I made the crucial decision to migrate here. Leave my mother, father, my entire life behind, in search for a better life per la mia famiglia, il mio mondo. A better future for you.”
The restless sky grumbles again. My gaze shifts towards the unclear window. I stare at one particular droplet of rain. A looking glass into the once unrecognisable. Now clear, beautiful, simple. My home.
I inhale. The sweet smell of coffee travels through my senses.
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 13, 2017, 09:31:05 pm
Heyy, I was wondering if someone could read over my Discovery Creative. My biggest concern is that it is possibly to clique and maybe to dialogue based. I've written it off a personal experience and my teacher seems to think it is good but I am looking for a second opinion. Thank you :)
---
I inhale. The bitter smell of coffee travels through my senses. The icy grey sky restlessly grumbles, trapping me within the muggy air. An unexpectedly soothing feeling, catapulting me into a nostalgic haze of past vignettes - all around one small table... family and laughter, joined solely by bread and wine. Images so vivid, like pictures in a storybook I adored as a child.
I glance at my father. He is distant, eyes focused on each droplet of rain as they trickle down the window, like salty tears. He has a drained expression on his handsome face, lifting the black cup towards his mouth, but refusing to take a sip. It appears he too is clouded by those same memories. He takes a long, deep breath. His gaze still remains, as though if he stares at the water droplets for long enough and longingly enough he will, by some sort of osmosis, be transported into vibrant memories of his past.
“I’m so glad I’m here,” he admits, his disjointed voice leaving his cracked lips in small increments. Words my father spoke so often. Words I’ve never understood, despite the deep yearning for knowledge that constantly tugs at my conscience. “I was building agricultural and industrial at the time,” he continues, “for a company called Olfa. I was a manager, working six days a week, sometimes for twelve hours”.
He pauses for a while. Long enough for one to notice. And with his cup to his nose, he breathes in. His mind elsewhere, hypnotised once again by the bittersweet smell of burnt coffee.
“I remember this one humid day, I was working near the furnace.” He pauses, his voice flat and absent. “The smell of burning metal and sweat filled the dry, unbearable air. As i pulled the lever down, the heat entering my lungs with every breath. The electric humming of the saw ringing in my ears. My heart racing, head pounding, as I struggled to concentrate.”
Thoughts of why I am here wash over me, like the incessantly pounding rain. Realisation that this place I was taught to call ‘home’ didn't feel like a home at all, but instead a foreign landscape, unfamiliar, yet recognisable.
“My boss had just broken the news earlier…” His aggravated voice began lifting in volume. “Olfa was in debt, with no money left for wages.” Snickering with disgust, he continues , “My boss didn't apologise or sympathise, but instead demanded we worked harder. He told me to be patient, promised time would pass. Said a solution was coming.”
A violent red fills his eyes. His hands, shaking. I can see the rage simmering to the surface. With his focus distant, he resumes, “we were already struggling. I was already struggling. I pulled the lever harder, the disk disintegrating into pieces beneath my hands, metal fragments springing up with rage, piercing into my naked eyes.”
“The ambulance arrived in a blur of red and blue light. The pain was-... Sacred. Useless. Anxiety engulfed me, trapped me. I craved a solution, yet nothing came to mind.”
“Three months later... Still, nothing. A job. But no income, no savings. ” His voice is caught in his throat as he struggles to form the words. “Nothing but struggle… and humiliation. I feared for il mio carissimi Bambi, you and your darling brother,” he chokes.
Quiet. A silence so deafening, as he draws his breath, and lets it back out with a sigh. I take a large gulp of coffee, no longer warm but slightly sweeter. I can see my reflection in his glassy green eyes. Salty tears slide down my rosy cheek, trickling slowly. I notice him following my tears with his eyes. His expression changes, as though he has been transported into the melancholy memories of his past.
“It was then that I made the crucial decision to migrate here. Leave my mother, father, my entire life behind, in search for a better life per la mia famiglia, il mio mondo. A better future for you.”
The restless sky grumbles again. My gaze shifts towards the unclear window. I stare at one particular droplet of rain. A looking glass into the once unrecognisable. Now clear, beautiful, simple. My home.
I inhale. The sweet smell of coffee travels through my senses.
I understand your concerns about the amount of dialogue and it can maybe be paired down but I think that markers don't like dialogue when it is used for the sake of it, when it has no meaning to the actual story. In your case, I think it works brilliantly. I think that the way you have actually described the dialogue eg. “I remember this one humid day, I was working near the furnace.” He pauses, his voice flat and absent. is so successful in giving your story an authentic voice, which is one of the hardest things to achieve in a creative. I think the touches of Italian (I am guessing) culture with the use of snippets of language also build upon this so my only suggestion would be to perhaps add a couple more references to your past culture but other than that it is very powerful and although moving to another country is not a new idea, the way you have written it, with the emphasis on dialogue, is refreshing.
Post by: beau77bro on July 13, 2017, 11:38:31 pm
Thank you - ps. mostly a dramatised non-fiction. but I'm super open to changing any part of it.
IM ADDING A REVISED VERSION - I'VE ADDED A DECENT BIT, BUT I HAVENT GOTTEN THE CHANCE TO EDIT IT PROPERLY. IF YOU HAVE ALREADY MARKED IT THAT'S FINE, MOST OF THE ADVICE WILL STILL APPLY. I WOULD REALLY APPRECIATE A SKIM OF THIS AND SOME BASIC FEEDBACK - my teacher said to start it in action, i didnt really know how to do that. i hope this is alright. if you havent marked it yet then yay. (sorry for caps i just wanted to make sure you guys saw this)
so yea - does it have okay discovery concepts? is it entertaining/interesting? how should i start it better, or is that fine? ANY FEEDBACK APPRECIATED
so yea you guys have already seen it and started (downloaded 6 times). but the revised version is very similar. i know you guys are smashed because trials are coming up. but maybe if its no hassle you could give some feedback on the beginning/first para?
Post by: claudiarosaliaa on July 15, 2017, 10:05:09 am
I understand your concerns about the amount of dialogue and it can maybe be paired down but I think that markers don't like dialogue when it is used for the sake of it, when it has no meaning to the actual story. In your case, I think it works brilliantly. I think that the way you have actually described the dialogue eg. “I remember this one humid day, I was working near the furnace.” He pauses, his voice flat and absent. is so successful in giving your story an authentic voice, which is one of the hardest things to achieve in a creative. I think the touches of Italian (I am guessing) culture with the use of snippets of language also build upon this so my only suggestion would be to perhaps add a couple more references to your past culture but other than that it is very powerful and although moving to another country is not a new idea, the way you have written it, with the emphasis on dialogue, is refreshing.
Thank you! That really puts some of my stress at rest. Would you have any suggestions as to how to add more reference to culture?
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 15, 2017, 12:13:59 pm
Thank you! That really puts some of my stress at rest. Would you have any suggestions as to how to add more reference to culture?
Maybe, since you have already used the coffee as a sort of motif in your story, your father always looked forward to a comforting cup of coffee from some Italian brand made by your mother when he got home from work. I'm not sure just trying to think of something a bit different. Otherwise I always think just adding in somewhere, be it a flashback or even present day, a reference to the scent of Italian food or something like that can be so simple and yet add a distinct sense of place. Hope that helps!
Post by: shamus.clarke on July 16, 2017, 04:16:48 pm
I've been preparing for trials lately, but I'm feeling dubious about the quality of my writing piece. Would it be possible if you could take a look, please? I'm trying to get the highest mark I can, so any advice or constructive criticism at all would be really helpful. Thank you!
Post by: eliza.sargeant on July 17, 2017, 05:33:18 pm
I was wondering if you could help me with my creative...does it link to discovery enough??
Creative writing discovery
The loud ringing dragged him reluctantly from his deep sleep. Rolling over he silenced the annoying noise and headed towards the bathroom. As he flicked the light into the bathroom his blue almond shaped eyes were brighter than usual and they seemed to be speaking to him. “How fortunate you are! A wife. A house. A job. Gazing into them he thanked God for all that he had. Although each day brought its challenges, his life was full of happiness and satisfaction. Descending the stairs he straightened his navy suit jacket and headed towards the door. Tacking hold of his hat, he looked closely at the photograph on the mantelpiece. His wife holding a fishing rod and looking into his eyes. Her face full of life. Catching sight of the thick gold band on his left finger, the corners of his mouth formed a small smile making his eyes sparkle.
But now that happiness was over.
Losing his wife so suddenly, so unexpectedly had made him age. The reality had set in but the thought of never seeing her was too hard, too painful. The days had passed to weeks and months, with people forgetting his sorrow. His loss. His heartache. She was a piece of gold in a desert place. A shaft of light in every soul. And now her absence hurt like a bullet.
His worn out shoes mirrored his walk. A piece of now greying hair coiled around his ear and the little colour that he had left in his eyes was withdrawn. The light wind made his bones whine and ache as he quickened his pace in some attempt to keep warm. Gazing at his leather band watch he made a detour towards the bridge. Something about the serenity of the place made him feel content. Flowers blooming. Children playing. It was so picturesque. He moved closer to the railing, gazing further into the depths of the murky water. It was dark. Cold. And the longer he looked the more he could see of himself.
The silhouette of a stooped man. Little hair on his head. Wrinkles in his face. A face so unfamiliar.
From nowhere ripples began travelling to the edge of the pond in circular formations. What was it? What was watching him? Did he have company?
Strengthening his gaze into the water he saw a beautiful fish. Small. Alone. But happy. Its silvery, scaly body moved easily through the water hoping to find some satisfaction. But nothing. Then it was gone.
Time passed and the ringing of the church bell brought him back to his senses. With one last look he turned. Feeling a sense of strength and encouragement from the fish he decided to neglect his trip to the post office and instead head home. Home to a new start. His head held high, hands by his side.
Through the bedroom window he saw a star. A single star twinkling like diamonds. It casted shadows on his wall making him feel like she was there. The lamplights shone on the rain washed street and the pale winter-white moon was a sphere through the tall pines in his garden.
He felt warm tears rolling down his face. Tears for all he had lost. Tears for the pain, the struggle, the grief. But tears for the strength he had just found. The rain came harder; it came to wash away his sadness. To cleanse his mind, his soul. Looking down onto the street he saw a young woman carrying a balloon to his neighbour’s house. It floated in the air. The words “I love you” were bright like a beacon in the sky. The storm clouds behind moved away into a distant world as he heard her words “I’m ok…I’m in heaven…I’ll see you one day soon”
Under his breath he muttered “she’s gone…I must move on. I can move on. I will move on.”
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 18, 2017, 09:40:22 pm
Hi ATAR Notes,
I've been preparing for trials lately, but I'm feeling dubious about the quality of my writing piece. Would it be possible if you could take a look, please? I'm trying to get the highest mark I can, so any advice or constructive criticism at all would be really helpful. Thank you!
Hey Elyse :)
I was wondering if you could help me with my creative...does it link to discovery enough??
Hey the two of you! Usually our post requirement is 15 for full marking, but during trials it's up to 25. That's not to say other students won't give you a few pointers if you ask for it, but for now you can use the forums for all kinds of other help to increase your post count in time for your trial exam! Let me know if I can help in any other way :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 18, 2017, 09:53:53 pm
My most sincere apologies that you've all been waiting so long for feedback. It's been a really crazy time and staying on top of it clearly hasn't been achieved haha. AOS creatives are my priority at the moment and Jamon is taking some module essays. So powering through these as best as I can.
A reminder for anyone browsing this thread: the post requirement for a full piece is 25 during the trial period, up +10 from the usual. If you're looking for ways to increase your post count, we'd love for you to answer other student's questions or give feedback on sections of their essays or creatives to help each other out while we move through the marking.
A special shout out to Dancing Phalanges for assisting above.
And again, thank you again for your patience, everyone. I hope we haven't let you down here in the creatives!
Post by: TheFreeMarketeer on July 18, 2017, 10:09:43 pm
Hey Elyse :)
I was wondering if you could help me with my creative...does it link to discovery enough??
Creative writing discovery
The loud ringing dragged him reluctantly from his deep sleep. Rolling over he silenced the annoying noise and headed towards the bathroom. As he flicked the light into the bathroom his blue almond shaped eyes were brighter than usual and they seemed to be speaking to him. “How fortunate you are! A wife. A house. A job. Gazing into them he thanked God for all that he had. Although each day brought its challenges, his life was full of happiness and satisfaction. Descending the stairs he straightened his navy suit jacket and headed towards the door. Tacking hold of his hat, he looked closely at the photograph on the mantelpiece. His wife holding a fishing rod and looking into his eyes. Her face full of life. Catching sight of the thick gold band on his left finger, the corners of his mouth formed a small smile making his eyes sparkle.
But now that happiness was over.
Losing his wife so suddenly, so unexpectedly had made him age. The reality had set in but the thought of never seeing her was too hard, too painful. The days had passed to weeks and months, with people forgetting his sorrow. His loss. His heartache. She was a piece of gold in a desert place. A shaft of light in every soul. And now her absence hurt like a bullet.
His worn out shoes mirrored his walk. A piece of now greying hair coiled around his ear and the little colour that he had left in his eyes was withdrawn. The light wind made his bones whine and ache as he quickened his pace in some attempt to keep warm. Gazing at his leather band watch he made a detour towards the bridge. Something about the serenity of the place made him feel content. Flowers blooming. Children playing. It was so picturesque. He moved closer to the railing, gazing further into the depths of the murky water. It was dark. Cold. And the longer he looked the more he could see of himself.
The silhouette of a stooped man. Little hair on his head. Wrinkles in his face. A face so unfamiliar.
From nowhere ripples began travelling to the edge of the pond in circular formations. What was it? What was watching him? Did he have company?
Strengthening his gaze into the water he saw a beautiful fish. Small. Alone. But happy. Its silvery, scaly body moved easily through the water hoping to find some satisfaction. But nothing. Then it was gone.
Time passed and the ringing of the church bell brought him back to his senses. With one last look he turned. Feeling a sense of strength and encouragement from the fish he decided to neglect his trip to the post office and instead head home. Home to a new start. His head held high, hands by his side.
Through the bedroom window he saw a star. A single star twinkling like diamonds. It casted shadows on his wall making him feel like she was there. The lamplights shone on the rain washed street and the pale winter-white moon was a sphere through the tall pines in his garden.
He felt warm tears rolling down his face. Tears for all he had lost. Tears for the pain, the struggle, the grief. But tears for the strength he had just found. The rain came harder; it came to wash away his sadness. To cleanse his mind, his soul. Looking down onto the street he saw a young woman carrying a balloon to his neighbour’s house. It floated in the air. The words “I love you” were bright like a beacon in the sky. The storm clouds behind moved away into a distant world as he heard her words “I’m ok…I’m in heaven…I’ll see you one day soon”
Under his breath he muttered “she’s gone…I must move on. I can move on. I will move on.”
Hey Eliza,
I'd like to help you out but I probably don't have the expertise that Elyse might, so this is just my two cents based on feedback I've received and pieces I've composed.
One thing I notice about your work is how unfortunate it is you miss all these opportunities to flesh out what really pains this guy. I get a sense of discovery from the piece but it was more a discovery, or a re-discovery, if you will, of what he has lost and can never retrieve. The ending, to me, came as a surprise and not in an unexpected discovery sort of way but rather in that it was cliché in how it happened. I guess in your protagonist's mindset, in such an emotionally distraught situation, anything can lead to a rash decision but I'd advise in re-thinking this.
Possibly have your discovery be one of poignancy - this guy discovers his life has been irreversibly changed, and it's beautiful how you've incorporated imagery about children but possibly use that as a medium or driving force for this idea. 'He saw the children playing. He saw in them what she always wanted but he also saw in them what she could never have. The sleepless, excited, frantic nights spent mulling the decision over and only ever discovering that the only thing she nurtured was a pestiferous disease'. That's very rushed but I hope you get the idea.
Also, alluding back to my first point - flesh out those metaphors and smilies to really create impactful imagery. 'She was a shaft of light in every soul and yet he came to find someone found the light too blinding and decided to patch up the soul's walls to keep it in the dark'. Once again, rushed, but I hope you get the idea.
The only problem with this approach, is a discovery may be lost, if not portrayed well. So, it really is an approach dependent on discerning use of language. I can understand why this plot appeals to you and if you do decide to continue, try and make it a little less forced. Don't have the fish serve as a conclusive catalyst in his life and in all honesty, I'd use something other than a fish - possibly one of the children? Maybe something else? But I'd personally only have this element to serve as an instigator of the possibility that there is hope. Maybe have him question whether it's possible to move on.
I rushed this advice a little - sorry! Anything else, just feel free to reply and I'll hopefully get back to you.
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 18, 2017, 10:11:09 pm
HELLO :))
would you guys mind marking my creative??? It's super rushed and it an obvious first draft because if you read through there are heaps of inconsistencies that I'll probably fix later xDD. But more specifically, could you guys give me pointers on how to improve the portrayal concepts of discovery within my creative ??
Concepts of discovery that I want to show:
rediscovering something that has been lost - passion, inspiration and beauty
type of discovery: creative(his passion and talent as well as inspiration), spiritual(enlightening) and emotional (isolation), physical (sublimity of nature)
catalyst for change
discoveries can be far-reaching and transformative for the individual
reflection and character growth
his literal discovery: his attempt to capture and create the landscape on his canvas will not be fruitful from the inside
THANK YOU <3
I apologise four thousand times over for not getting this to you quicker. I'm so, so, sorry. Hopefully we haven't let you down too far in a time of need!! Onwards with the feedback:
Spoiler
CREATIVE DRAFT 1
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Each jagged limb clawed its way relentlessly to its next position. The confining room stood proud in its entirety. Heaving himself from his wooden chair, he glanced at the calendar. ’September 1st’ it unforgivingly announced.I will say, I think this works - I feel tension, intensity, pressure. But, I've read at least 5 other "tick. tock. tick. tock." openings in this last year. I think it works here, personally, but I think it's best I let you know in case you want to take a run for originality!
The bedridden sun still buried in its cloak of anxiety cast a lone shadow on the floor, barely warming the faceless faces I'm not sure about this - I don't know what image I have? I kind of have faceless heads - like heads with a lump for a nose but no other features? I don't know this is the image you want to convey?which were smothered to a blur from time. The empty frames attempted to comfort his bare walls and salvage whatever kindling flame that still flickered in the remnants of his worn being. Several black and white photographs hung frozen in the unfruitful attempted to entrap the absent. Instead, tired and muted frames of grey and insipidity that lined the walls did most of the preservation, trying to compensate for the lost vibrance that he once had.
So far, really enjoying your writing style.
He missed everything. When he still had it. When he could still embrace it. Now, life was like this. Life was just .. life. He exhaled loudly. “What will it be today?” he thought to himself.
As if telepathic in its nature, the tarnished floor boards groaned in reassurance as he sank into the stool in front of the easel. Despite the cheapness of the wood, it still stood brilliantly. But it was almost succumbing to ruin, about to collapse from the heavy burden of imperfect and unsatisfactory canvas after canvas that encumbered it everyday.
He lethargically lifted the cup to his mouth anticipating the fresh steam of morning coffee as it tried to frighten the haunt of winter. He savoured it slowly, sip by sip, in attempt to preserve the seeping warmth it generously shared.
He sat down, facing the glass frame which prevailed I don't think this is a good use of this word, perhaps you want: showcased? the landscape beyond. A gust of wind rattles the glass barrier, unable to penetrate its haughty austere. Austere is an adjective, austerity is a noun, which I think is what you need here :) Outside a flock of birds crowds and nestles amongst the bare tree relinquishing the open air. How wondrous he pondered, captivated as each bird flitted about the boughs and tended to each other. Their powerful crimson headdress defied the ashen ambience of the chilly morning, riding the thermals above as if in a graceful dance. Beautiful imagery. Inside their fragile bodies, their hearts were beating, lungs were expanding and contracting, muscles tightening.
They paid him no attention. Love the isolation here. It kind of echoed a bit in my head.
Enticed anyways, he began to etch tendrils for each branch, engraving the rare moment onto his canvas. But the pencil disobeyed his mind, his fingers clutching its weak wooden frame anxiously as it quivered in his grasp. The curvature of their wise beaks had become the squabble of pigeons whilst their powerful wings appeared meagre upon the linen somehow. He concentrated upon the affinity of the birds but could not rid the aggravating transparency of the glass which still managed to impede his view. Scrapes and scratches, scrapes and scratches, the usual disappointing rhythm.
A spray from the heavens suddenly came. Droplet by droplet grew into unrelenting pelts, dampening voluminous spreads of feathers. In a frenzied bid of farewell, the beating of wings disrupted the rhythmic tempo of the raindrops on his roof. Fallen leaves tumbled to defend its territory from the onslaught. Not quite sure what the imagery of this last sentence means? I can't really visualise what you want me to see. Each droplet alighted the coolness of wild vortices, falling, emptying, as it washed away everything his eyes laid upon. The innumerable little cascades frightened each bird as they alighted to find a haven, leaving him behind staring at the skeleton of the tree. The curtain of water had begun to obscure his view of the outside. I like "frightened"
for the birds - it shows their vulnerability. It's a simple word but it works well.
But their departure didn’t sadden him, nor did his sadness cause their departure. He was used to things like this.
Rain enveloped, imprisoning the confines of his room. It was just him, and the rain on this melancholy morning.
He set down his pencil in the usual makeshift Heinz can which sat there pertinently, expectant. Instinctively, his body picked up the monotonous canvas as he had done day by day, contemplating whereabouts to lay it amongst the mass assemblage of many others. Now sinking into the leather sofa, he turned on the radio to fill the voids of silence, yet but* also to drown out the pelting rain as he tried to defiantly enlarge the asphyxiating walls, searching for accompaniment. (?) not sure haha…. haha I loved, because I read "not sure haha" in the narration voice in my head so I was like :/ :/ Maybe...searching for feeling? Touch? company? responses? sensory exposure?
*
*
*
*
The pummelling of tiny hands softened down in a final strum. He noticed because he could make out a slight muffled tingle. His ears perked in anticipation, his eyes darted towards the window, but a curtain of droplets still veiled. What was it?
The distant hum seduced his ear as he obliviously walked to the window. He laboriously pushed it open. Again, just a word choice thing that isn't giving me the clearest image. Laboriously makes it sound like a continued, extensive, task. But opening a door with a push might need some muscle, but it's not quite extensive. Startled, a cascade of sunlight rushed inside and pulled him outside in liberation. The wooden photo frames had now become apparent in vibrant shine of mahogany.
The buzz modulated into a chorus of low chimes, his heart palpitated in unison.
Against the stern boulder-like clouds which threatened to swallow the sky, dainty wisps of periwinkle greeted him through rifts the fog could not reach. His mouth agape, the grandeur of everything around him
The sound grew louder now, changing from an indistinct warble to a light trill.
The briskness of the wind made the branches waver to its melody as if inhaling and exhaling the perfumes of the fresh damp soil. He himself, hypnotised by its crisp enchantment, taking another cautious step onto the greenery.
He bent down to caress the rich tones of the earth below, darkened yet enriched bathed in the thrill of the radiance of the sun.
He could hear it properly now! A grandiose angelic chorus heralded in crescendo as a cascade of brilliant red swooped in, encircling above and around the birch. Its silvery poplars rose spangled with dewy glittering of gold and green in welcome.
Smiling, he planted his easel onto the evergreen grass and gripped his brush. He visualising an intense spectrum of hues upon the frosted blank. Meticulously, he carved strokes onto the awaiting linen.
A stroke of vermillion, a stroke of scarlet.
A stroke for each bird that returned.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Each jagged limb clawed its way relentlessly to its next position. The confining room stood proud in its entirety. Heaving himself from his wooden chair, he glanced at the calendar. ’September 1st’ it unforgivingly announced.I will say, I think this works - I feel tension, intensity, pressure. But, I've read at least 5 other "tick. tock. tick. tock." openings in this last year. I think it works here, personally, but I think it's best I let you know in case you want to take a run for originality!
The bedridden sun still buried in its cloak of anxiety cast a lone shadow on the floor, barely warming the faceless faces I'm not sure about this - I don't know what image I have? I kind of have faceless heads - like heads with a lump for a nose but no other features? I don't know this is the image you want to convey?which were smothered to a blur from time. The empty frames attempted to comfort his bare walls and salvage whatever kindling flame that still flickered in the remnants of his worn being. Several black and white photographs hung frozen in the unfruitful attempted to entrap the absent. Instead, tired and muted frames of grey and insipidity that lined the walls did most of the preservation, trying to compensate for the lost vibrance that he once had.
So far, really enjoying your writing style.
He missed everything. When he still had it. When he could still embrace it. Now, life was like this. Life was just .. life. He exhaled loudly. “What will it be today?” he thought to himself.
As if telepathic in its nature, the tarnished floor boards groaned in reassurance as he sank into the stool in front of the easel. Despite the cheapness of the wood, it still stood brilliantly. But it was almost succumbing to ruin, about to collapse from the heavy burden of imperfect and unsatisfactory canvas after canvas that encumbered it everyday.
He lethargically lifted the cup to his mouth anticipating the fresh steam of morning coffee as it tried to frighten the haunt of winter. He savoured it slowly, sip by sip, in attempt to preserve the seeping warmth it generously shared.
He sat down, facing the glass frame which prevailed I don't think this is a good use of this word, perhaps you want: showcased? the landscape beyond. A gust of wind rattles the glass barrier, unable to penetrate its haughty austere. Austere is an adjective, austerity is a noun, which I think is what you need here :) Outside a flock of birds crowds and nestles amongst the bare tree relinquishing the open air. How wondrous he pondered, captivated as each bird flitted about the boughs and tended to each other. Their powerful crimson headdress defied the ashen ambience of the chilly morning, riding the thermals above as if in a graceful dance. Beautiful imagery. Inside their fragile bodies, their hearts were beating, lungs were expanding and contracting, muscles tightening.
They paid him no attention. Love the isolation here. It kind of echoed a bit in my head.
Enticed anyways, he began to etch tendrils for each branch, engraving the rare moment onto his canvas. But the pencil disobeyed his mind, his fingers clutching its weak wooden frame anxiously as it quivered in his grasp. The curvature of their wise beaks had become the squabble of pigeons whilst their powerful wings appeared meagre upon the linen somehow. He concentrated upon the affinity of the birds but could not rid the aggravating transparency of the glass which still managed to impede his view. Scrapes and scratches, scrapes and scratches, the usual disappointing rhythm.
A spray from the heavens suddenly came. Droplet by droplet grew into unrelenting pelts, dampening voluminous spreads of feathers. In a frenzied bid of farewell, the beating of wings disrupted the rhythmic tempo of the raindrops on his roof. Fallen leaves tumbled to defend its territory from the onslaught. Not quite sure what the imagery of this last sentence means? I can't really visualise what you want me to see. Each droplet alighted the coolness of wild vortices, falling, emptying, as it washed away everything his eyes laid upon. The innumerable little cascades frightened each bird as they alighted to find a haven, leaving him behind staring at the skeleton of the tree. The curtain of water had begun to obscure his view of the outside. I like "frightened"
for the birds - it shows their vulnerability. It's a simple word but it works well.
But their departure didn’t sadden him, nor did his sadness cause their departure. He was used to things like this.
Rain enveloped, imprisoning the confines of his room. It was just him, and the rain on this melancholy morning.
He set down his pencil in the usual makeshift Heinz can which sat there pertinently, expectant. Instinctively, his body picked up the monotonous canvas as he had done day by day, contemplating whereabouts to lay it amongst the mass assemblage of many others. Now sinking into the leather sofa, he turned on the radio to fill the voids of silence, yet but* also to drown out the pelting rain as he tried to defiantly enlarge the asphyxiating walls, searching for accompaniment. (?) not sure haha…. haha I loved, because I read "not sure haha" in the narration voice in my head so I was like :/ :/ Maybe...searching for feeling? Touch? company? responses? sensory exposure?
*
*
*
*
The pummelling of tiny hands softened down in a final strum. He noticed because he could make out a slight muffled tingle. His ears perked in anticipation, his eyes darted towards the window, but a curtain of droplets still veiled. What was it?
The distant hum seduced his ear as he obliviously walked to the window. He laboriously pushed it open. Again, just a word choice thing that isn't giving me the clearest image. Laboriously makes it sound like a continued, extensive, task. But opening a door with a push might need some muscle, but it's not quite extensive. Startled, a cascade of sunlight rushed inside and pulled him outside in liberation. The wooden photo frames had now become apparent in vibrant shine of mahogany.
The buzz modulated into a chorus of low chimes, his heart palpitated in unison.
Against the stern boulder-like clouds which threatened to swallow the sky, dainty wisps of periwinkle greeted him through rifts the fog could not reach. His mouth agape, the grandeur of everything around him
The sound grew louder now, changing from an indistinct warble to a light trill.
The briskness of the wind made the branches waver to its melody as if inhaling and exhaling the perfumes of the fresh damp soil. He himself, hypnotised by its crisp enchantment, taking another cautious step onto the greenery.
He bent down to caress the rich tones of the earth below, darkened yet enriched bathed in the thrill of the radiance of the sun.
He could hear it properly now! A grandiose angelic chorus heralded in crescendo as a cascade of brilliant red swooped in, encircling above and around the birch. Its silvery poplars rose spangled with dewy glittering of gold and green in welcome.
Smiling, he planted his easel onto the evergreen grass and gripped his brush. He visualising an intense spectrum of hues upon the frosted blank. Meticulously, he carved strokes onto the awaiting linen.
A stroke of vermillion, a stroke of scarlet.
A stroke for each bird that returned.
and the smells. I want to know when something smells fresh and something smells stale, because this is another way of reflecting the discovery. I want to know when there's an unfamiliar smell and the nose is wrinkled, and maybe I want to taste the dryness of the air despite all of the rain outside. This is just extending on the imagery you have, because as beautiful as it is, I want another dimension. As a reader I'm thirsty for more, your imagination is brilliant it appears so I know you can meet the demand. Also about the imagery, there are times where the wording is a bit clumsy. You mentioned this is a draft so obviously this will happen - but I've identified a few areas where the imagery wasn't clear just to highlight them to you so you can go back and re-assess the word choices.
Overall, what a lovely piece. It was so easy to read this, my eyes glided through and there was a cinema of imagery in my head. A credit to you as a writer!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 18, 2017, 10:13:33 pm
Hey Eliza,
I'd like to help you out but I probably don't have the expertise that Elyse might, so this is just my two cents based on feedback I've received and pieces I've composed.
One thing I notice about your work is how unfortunate it is you miss all these opportunities to flesh out what really pains this guy. I get a sense of discovery from the piece but it was more a discovery, or a re-discovery, if you will, of what he has lost and can never retrieve. The ending, to me, came as a surprise and not in an unexpected discovery sort of way but rather in that it was cliché in how it happened. I guess in your protagonist's mindset, in such an emotionally distraught situation, anything can lead to a rash decision but I'd advise in re-thinking this.
Possibly have your discovery be one of poignancy - this guy discovers his life has been irreversibly changed, and it's beautiful how you've incorporated imagery about children but possibly use that as a medium or driving force for this idea. 'He saw the children playing. He saw in them what she always wanted but he also saw in them what she could never have. The sleepless, excited, frantic nights spent mulling the decision over and only ever discovering that the only thing she nurtured was a pestiferous disease'. That's very rushed but I hope you get the idea.
Also, alluding back to my first point - flesh out those metaphors and smilies to really create impactful imagery. 'She was a shaft of light in every soul and yet he came to find someone found the light too blinding and decided to patch up the soul's walls to keep it in the dark'. Once again, rushed, but I hope you get the idea.
The only problem with this approach, is a discovery may be lost, if not portrayed well. So, it really is an approach dependent on discerning use of language. I can understand why this plot appeals to you and if you do decide to continue, try and make it a little less forced. Don't have the fish serve as a conclusive catalyst in his life and in all honesty, I'd use something other than a fish - possibly one of the children? Maybe something else? But I'd personally only have this element to serve as an instigator of the possibility that there is hope. Maybe have him question whether it's possible to move on.
I rushed this advice a little - sorry! Anything else, just feel free to reply and I'll hopefully get back to you.
You're incredible! Thank you for helping out a new user before she's gotten her post count up. You're a true gem of ATAR Notes - I'm so smiley seeing what you've just done for another student :)
Post by: TheFreeMarketeer on July 18, 2017, 10:23:25 pm
Hi ATAR Notes,
I've been preparing for trials lately, but I'm feeling dubious about the quality of my writing piece. Would it be possible if you could take a look, please? I'm trying to get the highest mark I can, so any advice or constructive criticism at all would be really helpful. Thank you!
Hey Shamus,
As I've stated above, I'm no expert but I'll try my best.
Your writing's really nice and I enjoyed reading it but I really think a piece like this could sound very beautiful in a first-person omniscient narrator voice but this isn't a major problem and as trials approach, I don't know how keen you are to change it.
The allusion to the violin is one that is very interesting and has potential to create a greater understanding of this character but I feel it's mentioned and brushed away too quickly and my suggestion would be to supplant the flashback to the beach with another one of the violin, maybe flesh out what he felt, what he could've been.
My final concern, possibly one that I only share, but the link to discovery is outlined but definitely isn't prominent. I suppose if someone asked me what the thematic explorations of this story are, discovery wouldn't be one that jumps to mind. I get it, he discovers a long lost passion through remembrance, and in a way that is a re-discovery but maybe there's a better way to proliferate it. I think maybe my second point, with the violin flashbacks, is a good medium to achieve this.
All in all, it's very good. It's a piece that could definitely stand on its own as is, but I just feel, if you were to take on some of the things I discussed, it could be a more coherent piece that really propagates this notion of 'discovery' in any of its forms. (As I said, not an expert :)). Good luck bud.
Post by: shamus.clarke on July 18, 2017, 10:27:02 pm
Thanks so much TheFreeMarketeer, this was a big help, I definitely trust your judgement.
Mod: Merged posts
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 18, 2017, 10:43:09 pm
This is kind of an embarrassing question, but would it be okay to post up a creative in the notes section? I haven't finished HSC yet (TT^TT), so I'm wondering if I should wait until afterwards to post it. It got 14/15 for mid course, though. (Literally the only criticism was too much dialogue...which wasn't much to go of off ;; )Hey there! I apologise for the delay...I'm so sorry! I love that you want to contribute to the notes section of the forum. That's so generous of you!
I have another creative ready and sent to my teacher, and the criticisms I got were to do with length-wise (it's around 1100 words), what to do about italics (seriously, how do you replicate that effect in handwriting?), and some clarity issues in languages (because I tend to be very flowery in my language. Pros: I get into it, so I don't make too many cliches...usually; Cons: It's waaayyy too figurative at times.) Any suggestions on how to combat this? It might be easier to see with this new creative, so I'll attach it to the post.
(This counts as a submission, right? If that's the case, I think I have 4 left? I can't count, help.)
Spoiler
I’m stupid – that’s a fact. Immediately I love this. My attention is grabbed. I'm so ready to see where this is going.
Every paper I hand in gets a 30% and a giant red “SEE ME” written at the very top. What makes it even better is when the person on my right accidently takes a peek and I can pretty much see the sneer behind that plastic smile, vomiting out phrases that’s supposed to make me feel better about myself.
Cut the crap, I want to scream, as if anyone in this hellhole believes in that. Your language is so raw, colloquial, I love it. So often students get caught up in being imaginative that the raw and real words we use each day get overlooked!
But I don’t. Because I’m already out the door and dragging myself to the confessional, ready to waste another hour doing nothing.
I’m enough of a hazard that the school counsellors are lucky if they don’t get to see my face every other weekday, when they could be sorting out other kids who actually want the help. It’s no secret that teachers have stopped trying all together; the only reason I’m still on their radar is because of my crappy schoolwork and even crappier attitude pretty much ticks off all the right boxes, and they’re obligated to search kids like me for buried trauma. The sarcastic tone is incredible.
Honestly, it’d be easier to explain if I did drugs or something. At least then I wouldn’t have to try to avoid the fact that even I don’t understand what’s going on. At least then I’d be written off as problem child instead of another child with problems. At least then they won’t try to hide their whispers when walking past poor Andrew Flynn, sending over the same looks of pity.
Seriously, why couldn’t they just kick me out like they did at my old school? It’ll be easier to list me off as another statistic and say–
“Andrew! Haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been?”
Christ.
On instinct I run – run away as far as I can before I manage to do a smart thing and bash into a wall.
Jesus, it’s like my head’s going to split open.
My hands are already wrapped around the sore point as I unleash a chain of curse words, half-conscious and curled up on the ground. The mishmash of voices tells me there’s a small crowd of passers-by, and I don’t even need to look up to see all the turned-up noses and strange glances.
It takes a while for me to register that it’s Mr “Year Advisor” S whose shout practically gives me a concussion, and even more time to notice him transporting me to the side of the corridor. The world’s still a blur when a noisy bunch of juniors flock the hallways, and my throbbing head has half a mind to tell them all to shut up.
One hand against the wall, I stand myself up...for a moment, and then I trip on a crevice and plummet back down.
Thump.
Oh.
That was softer than expected.
Twisting my neck, I can see Mr S’s got me steady, the fuzzy feeling I get from the soft you-can-tell-me-anything-kind-of-teacher-beam signalling for me to kick something. Hard. I contemplate dive kicking him when he doesn’t choose the easy exit like everyone else, and takes me for a stroll instead, storytelling his classroom disasters like I’m some kid that needs entertaining. What I love about this voice is although he's so sarcastic, he's incredibly smart. He's very perceptive to the kind of patterns teachers use to get students to engage
There’s a part of me that dies inside when I eventually find myself hanging onto every word, and I seriously wonder how Mr S feels about waking up in hospital.
Great. Now that’ll give this school an excuse to finally get rid of me.
Nearing a door, the room he chooses has dingy shades and smells of dust, and only gets worse when the sun blares in my eyes as Mr S opens the windows. I squint, hissing until I see the reflection from the glass plane – the image of a pale, skinny little boy with wide eyes. I make a fist.
Get out, I scream at him. Just get out, get OUT, GET–
Thud.
A force halts my projectile, a barricade wrapped around my wrists. Mr S doesn’t let go until the trembling dies down, and has me sit properly on a chair, leaving me to obliterate – poke – the desk out of spite. There’s a shuffling sound as the lights flicker on, and even with my eyes trying to burn holes to the ground I can tell that he’s pulled a chair up opposite me, just...waiting. Not leaving. Staying. Actually not–
I dare look up.
A steely gaze cuts right through my core.
Before I know it, the lodge in my throat comes loose.
I curse. Curse everything from the bullies way back when to the people now, still trying to crack me open even though I’m already broken several times over. Curse everything from school to the streets I live, and the only friend that’s managed to stick by long enough to say goodbye. Curse everything from my eyes that looks to destroy everything in my path, to not being able to open my mouth for even five seconds without preaching that the world doesn’t give a damn.
But most of all, curse the fact that after five years the professionals still have less than what Mr S manages to hack into in fifteen minutes, armed with only a smile and a few words.
Genuine, though, a quiet voice squeaks from the back of my mind, and even the hand-smack I deliver to the table doesn’t hurt as much as it should.
At this moment, I finally have a proper look at Mr S. He isn’t even pissed – just sitting there, nodding like he understands, taking it all in.
For the first time in my life I willingly take a crumpled paper from my bag and lay it out for a teacher, red-faced while I blurt question...after question...after question. We spend the rest of time gradually working through them...together, and anyone who bothers to take a peak just sees a normal student and teacher discussing normal school stuff.
When the end of happy hour chimes, I’m held back for a moment, and Mr S looks to me like he wants something.
“We’re not leaving here without a smile,” and flashes to me his, daring me to disagree.
I’m betrayed by the twitch of a lip. This says so much about this student's attitude, I love it.
Mr S keeps his promise, sending me off with a wave and the same goofy grin. I manage to return it, heading to class feeling lighter than I’ve ever felt after an interrogation session.
I’m still stupid and that’s still a fact. But I’ve got an even stupider grin telling me I’ve still got a prayer.
Every paper I hand in gets a 30% and a giant red “SEE ME” written at the very top. What makes it even better is when the person on my right accidently takes a peek and I can pretty much see the sneer behind that plastic smile, vomiting out phrases that’s supposed to make me feel better about myself.
Cut the crap, I want to scream, as if anyone in this hellhole believes in that. Your language is so raw, colloquial, I love it. So often students get caught up in being imaginative that the raw and real words we use each day get overlooked!
But I don’t. Because I’m already out the door and dragging myself to the confessional, ready to waste another hour doing nothing.
I’m enough of a hazard that the school counsellors are lucky if they don’t get to see my face every other weekday, when they could be sorting out other kids who actually want the help. It’s no secret that teachers have stopped trying all together; the only reason I’m still on their radar is because of my crappy schoolwork and even crappier attitude pretty much ticks off all the right boxes, and they’re obligated to search kids like me for buried trauma. The sarcastic tone is incredible.
Honestly, it’d be easier to explain if I did drugs or something. At least then I wouldn’t have to try to avoid the fact that even I don’t understand what’s going on. At least then I’d be written off as problem child instead of another child with problems. At least then they won’t try to hide their whispers when walking past poor Andrew Flynn, sending over the same looks of pity.
Seriously, why couldn’t they just kick me out like they did at my old school? It’ll be easier to list me off as another statistic and say–
“Andrew! Haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been?”
Christ.
On instinct I run – run away as far as I can before I manage to do a smart thing and bash into a wall.
Jesus, it’s like my head’s going to split open.
My hands are already wrapped around the sore point as I unleash a chain of curse words, half-conscious and curled up on the ground. The mishmash of voices tells me there’s a small crowd of passers-by, and I don’t even need to look up to see all the turned-up noses and strange glances.
It takes a while for me to register that it’s Mr “Year Advisor” S whose shout practically gives me a concussion, and even more time to notice him transporting me to the side of the corridor. The world’s still a blur when a noisy bunch of juniors flock the hallways, and my throbbing head has half a mind to tell them all to shut up.
One hand against the wall, I stand myself up...for a moment, and then I trip on a crevice and plummet back down.
Thump.
Oh.
That was softer than expected.
Twisting my neck, I can see Mr S’s got me steady, the fuzzy feeling I get from the soft you-can-tell-me-anything-kind-of-teacher-beam signalling for me to kick something. Hard. I contemplate dive kicking him when he doesn’t choose the easy exit like everyone else, and takes me for a stroll instead, storytelling his classroom disasters like I’m some kid that needs entertaining. What I love about this voice is although he's so sarcastic, he's incredibly smart. He's very perceptive to the kind of patterns teachers use to get students to engage
There’s a part of me that dies inside when I eventually find myself hanging onto every word, and I seriously wonder how Mr S feels about waking up in hospital.
Great. Now that’ll give this school an excuse to finally get rid of me.
Nearing a door, the room he chooses has dingy shades and smells of dust, and only gets worse when the sun blares in my eyes as Mr S opens the windows. I squint, hissing until I see the reflection from the glass plane – the image of a pale, skinny little boy with wide eyes. I make a fist.
Get out, I scream at him. Just get out, get OUT, GET–
Thud.
A force halts my projectile, a barricade wrapped around my wrists. Mr S doesn’t let go until the trembling dies down, and has me sit properly on a chair, leaving me to obliterate – poke – the desk out of spite. There’s a shuffling sound as the lights flicker on, and even with my eyes trying to burn holes to the ground I can tell that he’s pulled a chair up opposite me, just...waiting. Not leaving. Staying. Actually not–
I dare look up.
A steely gaze cuts right through my core.
Before I know it, the lodge in my throat comes loose.
I curse. Curse everything from the bullies way back when to the people now, still trying to crack me open even though I’m already broken several times over. Curse everything from school to the streets I live, and the only friend that’s managed to stick by long enough to say goodbye. Curse everything from my eyes that looks to destroy everything in my path, to not being able to open my mouth for even five seconds without preaching that the world doesn’t give a damn.
But most of all, curse the fact that after five years the professionals still have less than what Mr S manages to hack into in fifteen minutes, armed with only a smile and a few words.
Genuine, though, a quiet voice squeaks from the back of my mind, and even the hand-smack I deliver to the table doesn’t hurt as much as it should.
At this moment, I finally have a proper look at Mr S. He isn’t even pissed – just sitting there, nodding like he understands, taking it all in.
For the first time in my life I willingly take a crumpled paper from my bag and lay it out for a teacher, red-faced while I blurt question...after question...after question. We spend the rest of time gradually working through them...together, and anyone who bothers to take a peak just sees a normal student and teacher discussing normal school stuff.
When the end of happy hour chimes, I’m held back for a moment, and Mr S looks to me like he wants something.
“We’re not leaving here without a smile,” and flashes to me his, daring me to disagree.
I’m betrayed by the twitch of a lip. This says so much about this student's attitude, I love it.
Mr S keeps his promise, sending me off with a wave and the same goofy grin. I manage to return it, heading to class feeling lighter than I’ve ever felt after an interrogation session.
I’m still stupid and that’s still a fact. But I’ve got an even stupider grin telling me I’ve still got a prayer.
You are an extremely talented writer. It almost feels like this is just something you knocked up on the side, just spewed some words on a page that managed to create an impeccable character in a serious discovery circumstance! There's definitely lots of discovery at work here - intellectual, emotional, spiritual...perspectives are changed, relationships are changed...it's really nice. It works in a lot of areas. This is a small and somewhat silly thing - but Mr S just doesn't do it for me. He's giving a teacher such a cool nickname despite being ready to kick him flat? I think maybe Mr Stephens or something like that works, and you could progress to Mr S later to show the change in perspective, but it's up to you. It just surprised me he was ready to award a nickname to a teacher that he was also resenting!
Overall - so difficult to fault this. It looks like you whipped this up so effortlessly (a credit to you!) so I get the impression you'll not have any problems with stimulus incorporation. For your sake - I hope this is right! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 18, 2017, 10:44:38 pm
Hi Elyse, I have now updated my post count, I hope this helps. If not, please let me know if there's anything else I can do.
Thanks so much TheFreeMarketeer, this was a big help, I definitely trust your judgement.
Mod: Merged posts
Have added you to the list! Doing my best to move through these quickly with enough thought as well. So shouldn't be too long. Thanks for doing that Shamus! :)
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 18, 2017, 11:05:07 pm
Spoiler
The streets surrounding Darlinghurst Road, Kings Cross were encapsulated by the scent of thyme-filled turkey sizzling on aluminium foil and dazzling hues of green and red. Moderately sheltered, a mother laid motionless, in a silent embrace with her only daughter, Grace. A windswept sleeping bag, their only security from the sodden concrete beneath. In spite of the fear and squalor of her new life, Grace’s innocent exuberance shone brighter than any of the surrounding estates, splendidly adorned with ornamental lights. Samantha, however, was the image of a mother weathered by shame. Skin hidden behind layers of grime, and hair hung as a tangled mop over sunken eyes. Faded polaroid photos clutched between calloused fingers, her only remaining memory of Grace’s lost childhood, and of her father that Grace barely knew. Yet, Samantha had made a promise to her daughter – a promise to deliver her Christmas wish.
Samantha attempted not to dwell upon the past memories of a fulfilled Christmas. The precious nostalgias which to her, only seemed fair that all children would be able to experience. And now, Grace’s father was gone. Samantha used to love him. She used to cherish his company and speak of his name in softness. Yet, most nights she would fall asleep, clothed, on an unopened bed. Beaten and broken, she left. Grace still remained too young, too naïve to understand the piercing terror in her mother’s eyes. Her father still loved her, but, he had to let her go.
“Where’s daddy?” she would inquisitively probe, with an infectious glow.
Samantha hesitated.
He was once treasured. Now a memory. A shadow lingering in the depths of Samantha’s mind. It was not as if she could simply say that he was an alcoholic. His life was one of more significance than the fateful addiction that it was suffocated by. Her mother did used to love him. She did used to cherish his company and speak of his name in softness. For the first time in her short life, Grace would celebrate Christmas away from the now distant comfort of being home. For the first time, she would wake up on Christmas Day and her father - would not be there.
“Mummy, my toes hurt” a stricken Grace would complain.
Seeing your own daughter in pain, the kind of pain no six-year-old should have to endure at such a young age eroded at Samantha’s raw heart. Grace and Samantha shared their vulnerabilities, interlocking their hearts as much as their fingers.
“I know…” she would quite simply respond.
“It will be better soon.”
Yet as Samantha gazed into Grace’s pale blue eyes, she sensed a more profound desire. For this, she could not simply say those same five words she usually would. Grace needed more.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Samantha peered out to Keltie Bay, flickering with scattered lights as faint laughter echoed in the distance. Where she had come from - the place that Grace called ‘home’ was consumed by an unnerving silence. Cold sweat glistened down Samantha’s furrowed brow. With hands clasped tightly, only alert to the sound of her throbbing heart - she was waiting. She shadowed her target. One of Potts Point’s finest Victorian Italianate estates, a harmony of classical grandeur and contemporary finesse, nestled in the quiet, tree-lined Rockwall Crescent. Standing in the centre of the ornate porcelain courtyard – a freshly potted magnolia little gem. From her sleeping bag emerged a rusted axe. She knew what she had to do.
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Samantha lumbered up the footpath. The sleeping bag was no longer empty. Under the procession of yellow street lights her blood stained hands appeared almost a sickly blackish-gold. The sirens of police cars wailed in the distance. Yet, they were not for her. Still beaten, still broken, she fell. Without him, her strength had faded, slowly swept away by the wind. Grace was all she had.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Grace woke to an unfamiliar welcome. Blinking, blurriness faded to a distorted mirage of green. It wasn’t perfect, edges frayed, insignificantly sized in stature. To Grace, none of this mattered. To put it simply, it fulfilled a Christmas wish. Grace stood in awe, she could not divert her eyes from the tree. A magnolia little gem, fashioned with hanging photographs. In the corner, stood her mother. A blood-soaked tourniquet slapped to her wrist, her worn hands no longer a constant reminder of what she once perceived as weakness. She had conquered her fears.
“I love you, mum!” Grace chirped.
“Your father…” she paused –
“He loves you too.”
The two stood together, mesmerised, not by the tree but by memories of Grace’s father. As they would most nights, they took refuge in their still windswept sleeping bag, pale polaroid photographs now grasped between Grace’s hardened hands, the only remaining memory of her childhood, of her father that she misses so dearly. So, every Christmas, Grace would decorate her little gem of hope. A sign that her father had also found his way home.
Samantha attempted not to dwell upon the past memories of a fulfilled Christmas. The precious nostalgias which to her, only seemed fair that all children would be able to experience. And now, Grace’s father was gone. Samantha used to love him. She used to cherish his company and speak of his name in softness. Yet, most nights she would fall asleep, clothed, on an unopened bed. Beaten and broken, she left. Grace still remained too young, too naïve to understand the piercing terror in her mother’s eyes. Her father still loved her, but, he had to let her go.
“Where’s daddy?” she would inquisitively probe, with an infectious glow.
Samantha hesitated.
He was once treasured. Now a memory. A shadow lingering in the depths of Samantha’s mind. It was not as if she could simply say that he was an alcoholic. His life was one of more significance than the fateful addiction that it was suffocated by. Her mother did used to love him. She did used to cherish his company and speak of his name in softness. For the first time in her short life, Grace would celebrate Christmas away from the now distant comfort of being home. For the first time, she would wake up on Christmas Day and her father - would not be there.
“Mummy, my toes hurt” a stricken Grace would complain.
Seeing your own daughter in pain, the kind of pain no six-year-old should have to endure at such a young age eroded at Samantha’s raw heart. Grace and Samantha shared their vulnerabilities, interlocking their hearts as much as their fingers.
“I know…” she would quite simply respond.
“It will be better soon.”
Yet as Samantha gazed into Grace’s pale blue eyes, she sensed a more profound desire. For this, she could not simply say those same five words she usually would. Grace needed more.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Samantha peered out to Keltie Bay, flickering with scattered lights as faint laughter echoed in the distance. Where she had come from - the place that Grace called ‘home’ was consumed by an unnerving silence. Cold sweat glistened down Samantha’s furrowed brow. With hands clasped tightly, only alert to the sound of her throbbing heart - she was waiting. She shadowed her target. One of Potts Point’s finest Victorian Italianate estates, a harmony of classical grandeur and contemporary finesse, nestled in the quiet, tree-lined Rockwall Crescent. Standing in the centre of the ornate porcelain courtyard – a freshly potted magnolia little gem. From her sleeping bag emerged a rusted axe. She knew what she had to do.
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Samantha lumbered up the footpath. The sleeping bag was no longer empty. Under the procession of yellow street lights her blood stained hands appeared almost a sickly blackish-gold. The sirens of police cars wailed in the distance. Yet, they were not for her. Still beaten, still broken, she fell. Without him, her strength had faded, slowly swept away by the wind. Grace was all she had.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Grace woke to an unfamiliar welcome. Blinking, blurriness faded to a distorted mirage of green. It wasn’t perfect, edges frayed, insignificantly sized in stature. To Grace, none of this mattered. To put it simply, it fulfilled a Christmas wish. Grace stood in awe, she could not divert her eyes from the tree. A magnolia little gem, fashioned with hanging photographs. In the corner, stood her mother. A blood-soaked tourniquet slapped to her wrist, her worn hands no longer a constant reminder of what she once perceived as weakness. She had conquered her fears.
“I love you, mum!” Grace chirped.
“Your father…” she paused –
“He loves you too.”
The two stood together, mesmerised, not by the tree but by memories of Grace’s father. As they would most nights, they took refuge in their still windswept sleeping bag, pale polaroid photographs now grasped between Grace’s hardened hands, the only remaining memory of her childhood, of her father that she misses so dearly. So, every Christmas, Grace would decorate her little gem of hope. A sign that her father had also found his way home.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 19, 2017, 02:52:23 am
I have really neglected creative writing this year. What's the typical game plan heading into exams? Know (basically memorise) one really well and then mould it to the stimulus or know two or three and kind of vaguely recite them?
Hey! Sorry it has taken so long to get you feedback on this - Big backlog after the lectures. I personally had a character I always wrote "about" or from the perspective of, and had a few situations/issues I would raise with that character to cover different elements of the rubric. I came to know the character well enough to be able to make a natural story out of pretty much anything. Kind of like method acting, but method writing ;) so I suppose I did something similar to the former! Everyone is different though!
Your creative is attached with comments in bold:
Spoiler
“To perceive is to suffer.”
― Aristotle Interesting choice to open with the quote - I find this works best when it ties into the story, say, if your character studies Greek philosophy or something. Writing the quote out of nowhere sometimes seems a little cliche in terms of a way to start.
You wouldn’t have been able to tell Sydney was on the cusp of winter. A light breeze ruffled evergreen leaves, adding little chill to tepid air. The afternoon sun was smiling down, with little care for the fact that it was working unpaid overtime. Its breezy attitude was fabulous for the precise rows of flowerbeds, their occupants drunkenly swimming in the fuel of photosynthesis. The scientific jargon here feels a tad out of place, but I like the mood you are creating otherwise! The personification of natural elements is working well to set the tone. On the roads sat the houses, waiting patiently for their owners to return for Christmas.
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode. He had lived in these parts for a year or so now, time that felt as if it were slipping through his fingers… Ever so slightly cliche, not the phrasing but in terms of foreshadowing "lost time," - Just doesn't quite sit right to me.
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning about the world. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand? I think these questions are innocent enough, don't come across as out of place. I'd like for you to do a little more to characterise Xavier before the questions though, just to make them seem even more natural. Do something to establish his curiosity!
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball-on-a-chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Simile seems a tad forced? Despite having walked this pavement for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly. Sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff… This last line seems a little awkwardly placed, but I LOVE the way you bring in Stan, set up his character, without ever directly telling us anything. Very natural, good work.
Xavier breathed out slowly, furrowing his brow. The hound was inhaling gleefully, and his owner swore he could see his dog grinning like he was eating a humungous bone, not smelling the same blade of grass he’s smelled a thousand times before.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle looking up, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Again, simile seems a little forced. I think perhaps you are trying a little too hard to get techniques into your response? Use them when it feels right, too many takes away their power! Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall. Behind it puffed an artificial cloud, the plane’s trail dissipating steadily like a retreating wave. Xavier could just about hear the aircraft’s low hum in the cyan infinity behind it, struggling to keep up with its master much like Stan was with Xavier. Not quite sure about this last sentence, what is the aircraft trying to keep up with? Be careful, being overly elaborate can confuse the reader.
Xavier watched the plane cross the Tasman. By now the smell of the lead, corrupted by years of storage in a damp cupboard, was invading his nostrils like a hoard of bees. He spat it out with distain, looking down upon it in the soft pillow of his pale palm. Why did he put it in his mouth in the first place? Sorry, I might have missed what necessitated this.
Xavier turned around and saw the stub of a discarded lamb cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Ashamedly, the brown marbles looked up at him:
“I’m so sorry human please don’t be angry I’ve only been fed once today and I’m ever so hungry please please please forgive me…” I feel the dialogue reads a little 'off', although it is meant to be silly and that's the character, I'm not sure it works.
Xavier sighed for the umpteenth time that day. He was beyond caring about Stan’s behaviour at this point. Thoughts bounced around his head like a super ball, many of them hard to quantify in words or even begin to answer. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty thousand feet into the air in a thin metal tube? How did we make it onto the moon only half a century after inventing the aeroplane? What am I going to do with the rest of my life? Are the hermit crabs of these houses enjoying their frantic lives? The rapid barrage of questions is much more forced this time - It comes across as frantic. Like, before, the questions were curious but they seemed like a natural thing. Who hasn't thought something like that at some stage? These questions though, more varied and more rapid, it sets a tone of panic. Not sure if this is intended?
This continued for a while longer. Stan kept sniffing, Xavier kept contemplating. Rays of sunlight rained down as the afternoon wore on. Lorikeets laughed and chased each other playfully through the imported palm trees and the terraces littered with leaves.
Xavier gazed down at Stan, trying to swim in a thick soup of thoughts. What does the dog think of his world? Does he long for freedom from the leash? Much more natural again - I think perhaps it is because the question came from something tangible in front of him that Xavier would definitely notice and consider, not non-consequential things and tiny minute details?
Suddenly, Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, the sun beating down on the pink, leathery muscle. Whatever he feels, thought Xavier, it’s not discontent. The world is his oyster.
Unusually, Stan seemed uninterested in sniffing. He continued to angle his nose up right at his owner, revealing rows of ivory pegs.
Maybe… maybe ignorance is bliss? The dog doesn’t know, and he doesn’t give a damn. In fact, no one can really answer any of these questions. Understanding is just perception. Everything is speculation on this mortal coil…
Xavier looked up and recognised the friendly oak of his faded-cream front door.
― Aristotle Interesting choice to open with the quote - I find this works best when it ties into the story, say, if your character studies Greek philosophy or something. Writing the quote out of nowhere sometimes seems a little cliche in terms of a way to start.
You wouldn’t have been able to tell Sydney was on the cusp of winter. A light breeze ruffled evergreen leaves, adding little chill to tepid air. The afternoon sun was smiling down, with little care for the fact that it was working unpaid overtime. Its breezy attitude was fabulous for the precise rows of flowerbeds, their occupants drunkenly swimming in the fuel of photosynthesis. The scientific jargon here feels a tad out of place, but I like the mood you are creating otherwise! The personification of natural elements is working well to set the tone. On the roads sat the houses, waiting patiently for their owners to return for Christmas.
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode. He had lived in these parts for a year or so now, time that felt as if it were slipping through his fingers… Ever so slightly cliche, not the phrasing but in terms of foreshadowing "lost time," - Just doesn't quite sit right to me.
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning about the world. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand? I think these questions are innocent enough, don't come across as out of place. I'd like for you to do a little more to characterise Xavier before the questions though, just to make them seem even more natural. Do something to establish his curiosity!
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball-on-a-chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Simile seems a tad forced? Despite having walked this pavement for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly. Sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff… This last line seems a little awkwardly placed, but I LOVE the way you bring in Stan, set up his character, without ever directly telling us anything. Very natural, good work.
Xavier breathed out slowly, furrowing his brow. The hound was inhaling gleefully, and his owner swore he could see his dog grinning like he was eating a humungous bone, not smelling the same blade of grass he’s smelled a thousand times before.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle looking up, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Again, simile seems a little forced. I think perhaps you are trying a little too hard to get techniques into your response? Use them when it feels right, too many takes away their power! Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall. Behind it puffed an artificial cloud, the plane’s trail dissipating steadily like a retreating wave. Xavier could just about hear the aircraft’s low hum in the cyan infinity behind it, struggling to keep up with its master much like Stan was with Xavier. Not quite sure about this last sentence, what is the aircraft trying to keep up with? Be careful, being overly elaborate can confuse the reader.
Xavier watched the plane cross the Tasman. By now the smell of the lead, corrupted by years of storage in a damp cupboard, was invading his nostrils like a hoard of bees. He spat it out with distain, looking down upon it in the soft pillow of his pale palm. Why did he put it in his mouth in the first place? Sorry, I might have missed what necessitated this.
Xavier turned around and saw the stub of a discarded lamb cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Ashamedly, the brown marbles looked up at him:
“I’m so sorry human please don’t be angry I’ve only been fed once today and I’m ever so hungry please please please forgive me…” I feel the dialogue reads a little 'off', although it is meant to be silly and that's the character, I'm not sure it works.
Xavier sighed for the umpteenth time that day. He was beyond caring about Stan’s behaviour at this point. Thoughts bounced around his head like a super ball, many of them hard to quantify in words or even begin to answer. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty thousand feet into the air in a thin metal tube? How did we make it onto the moon only half a century after inventing the aeroplane? What am I going to do with the rest of my life? Are the hermit crabs of these houses enjoying their frantic lives? The rapid barrage of questions is much more forced this time - It comes across as frantic. Like, before, the questions were curious but they seemed like a natural thing. Who hasn't thought something like that at some stage? These questions though, more varied and more rapid, it sets a tone of panic. Not sure if this is intended?
This continued for a while longer. Stan kept sniffing, Xavier kept contemplating. Rays of sunlight rained down as the afternoon wore on. Lorikeets laughed and chased each other playfully through the imported palm trees and the terraces littered with leaves.
Xavier gazed down at Stan, trying to swim in a thick soup of thoughts. What does the dog think of his world? Does he long for freedom from the leash? Much more natural again - I think perhaps it is because the question came from something tangible in front of him that Xavier would definitely notice and consider, not non-consequential things and tiny minute details?
Suddenly, Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, the sun beating down on the pink, leathery muscle. Whatever he feels, thought Xavier, it’s not discontent. The world is his oyster.
Unusually, Stan seemed uninterested in sniffing. He continued to angle his nose up right at his owner, revealing rows of ivory pegs.
Maybe… maybe ignorance is bliss? The dog doesn’t know, and he doesn’t give a damn. In fact, no one can really answer any of these questions. Understanding is just perception. Everything is speculation on this mortal coil…
Xavier looked up and recognised the friendly oak of his faded-cream front door.
Comments:
- I love the IDEA of this story. Like, it is brilliant. Walk down the street, compare and contrast the perspectives of the two characters. Deceptively simple, brilliantly complex. I think this could be a killer creative. Right now, the execution is a bit off. Some of the questions presented are too forced, some of the techniques seem unnatural. I think you've got a beautiful piece of art hidden behind a few stray paint strokes right now :)
- I agree the ending is too quick - The discovery needs to be threaded through in a more meaningful way. Perhaps have Xavier interact with the world more meaningfully, and compare it with Stan's view? For example, pulling this from nowhere, Xavier sees a homeless person and this leads him to consider all the people who can't put a roof over their heads. While Xavier worries about this, Stan just sees another person to get affection from. Or something. Like, actively draw out the differences between the two and have Xavier start to clue in to the benefits of ignorance, build the Discovery gradually.
- Characterisation definitely an issue - I think the tone of your story would suit a bit of an intro at the start, just to setup his questioning nature. It might make the questions more believable.
I hope this helps! As I said, fantastic idea - Some parts just seem a little unnatural right now :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 19, 2017, 03:13:01 am
- beau77bro
- shamus.clarke
- dancing phalanges
Anyone else who has posted has not yet met post count requirements - Let me know if you need to know how many posts you need. Otherwise, we'll get feedback for ^ you three asap :)
Post by: Crabstickz on July 19, 2017, 10:45:23 am
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 19, 2017, 12:07:43 pm
Hi, sorry if this isnt the right place to post this but are we allowed to use this forum to ask about our creative ideas rather than actually getting something marked (like if i have a synopsis but I'm not sure how to make discovery prominent or idk how to use flashbacks effectively, etc) Or should i not be doing that/doing that somewhere else?
I'd probably do that in either the Standard or Advanced thread, keep this place for marking! Or you could shoot the question here actually! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 19, 2017, 08:45:08 pm
Hey so I've taken some advice from the atarnotes and i've tried to make this creative more abstract and a bit more intense. I feel like I've included a lot of points i could expand upon and include different motifs for different stimuli. I'm about to go through it with my teacher sister, so if you don't get to it soon that's ok i will post an improve (grammatically and making sense wise) version in a day or so.
Thank you - ps. mostly a dramatised non-fiction. but I'm super open to changing any part of it.
IM ADDING A REVISED VERSION - I'VE ADDED A DECENT BIT, BUT I HAVENT GOTTEN THE CHANCE TO EDIT IT PROPERLY. IF YOU HAVE ALREADY MARKED IT THAT'S FINE, MOST OF THE ADVICE WILL STILL APPLY. I WOULD REALLY APPRECIATE A SKIM OF THIS AND SOME BASIC FEEDBACK - my teacher said to start it in action, i didnt really know how to do that. i hope this is alright. if you havent marked it yet then yay. (sorry for caps i just wanted to make sure you guys saw this)
so yea - does it have okay discovery concepts? is it entertaining/interesting? how should i start it better, or is that fine? ANY FEEDBACK APPRECIATED
so yea you guys have already seen it and started (downloaded 6 times). but the revised version is very similar. i know you guys are smashed because trials are coming up. but maybe if its no hassle you could give some feedback on the beginning/first para?
HEY! I've got the second draft here below :)
Spoiler
As I sit in the corporate Box with my wife lying on my chest and my dad beside me cheering, I thought. I thought about how we measure success, how we define living. why we quantify the most abstract of things into something so transparent, so future orientated. I am what I am because of what’s happened to me and all the little moments that make up Right Now… Life isn’t easy or simple. I’m happy to say I’ve suffered a lot. Happiness is only relative to sadness and truly living is only ever preceded by hardship. You have to learn to live… many don’t, I learnt to on a cold hard floor with death in the air. Love the ending to this - it's so cold and makes me want to know more.
…
I do not remember much of the time I spent in hospital. A lot of it was an abject blur. I don’t remember all the surgeries (thank god). I don’t remember the nurses, the paper cards from friends and relatives, the absence of my brother, and the long nights my mother spent next to me. I don’t remember the sickly faces that evaporated from the beds around me, but I know that they are no longer with us. I know the feeling of rage and bewilderment that plagued me. WHY? What was the reason for any of this suffering? In that 2 years, I had lay in that bed and I couldn’t work it out. But in one night that hard, cold floor, which almost tore the flesh from my chest had knocked the answer within my sight… I just needed to reach it.
My endless tossing and turning had strangled me in my sheets, and my arm in the cords that maintained (sustained) my existence. It’s strange that there weren’t bed rails… or maybe I had knocked them loose… just another question…
Any dream or measure of sleep was broken by that barrelling feeling of falling. That feeling of inertia as your organs resist the motion of falling as the rest of your body barrels through the air. But I knew they were on the hard floor with me, the needles and tubes from my chest made it (the state of my insides) Not sure about these brackets?excruciatingly obvious. Many of the chords had become entangled, with the sheet or with one another, but the needle in my arm and the thumb clamp had disconnected. Blood streamed down my arm and the blips of light stopped, but the screen still glowed. My back ached, my arm stung and my chest throbbed and pulled… it felt like my flesh was being torn out… and my insides… something ached in my stomach…
I cried. Not for the pain, I had no more tears left for pain. I cried for fear and anger, I had used no tears for them, nor sadness.
My dad always says I never complained.
I cried… out of searching… out of uncertainty.
The screen on the heart monitor had gone dark. Being only six years old I didn’t know that it had simply disconnected... and that’s where the overwhelming theme of my sickness stuck, I didn’t know, I couldn’t understand anything that happened to me… or why it happened to me. I think by this stage the ellipsis breaks are too much. The plot is devastating and therefore moving me forward, pushing me through, but the ellipsis are slowly me down and I think it's creating an awkward flow for me to follow.
There was almost nothing in my life I had control of or really knew anymore. I had fallen out of my home and my world into a dark and cold bed, and I was no more - eaten up by anger and confusion. But really, I was scared. Being awake was agony right now, it had been for months now. So, I lay there and pondered the swarm of questions, and did not struggle when darkness seeped across my view.
…
Why? Why me… what had I done to deserve this… what was wrong with me… why couldn’t I see my family… why had I been so different… why was I so different now… why was every moment hard, talking to mum and my siblings, breathing, walking… all the operations… WHY? Would I d… would I… what would happen after tonight? What could my life have been without this? Would it end here…
When my eyes opened, I met the agony again. It was all through me. It was like my bones and blood burnt. I winced at every movement, every breath. I wanted the darkness again, any reprieve from this existence… I hated anyone who didn’t have to live like this, through this. It still stung at me, why me? I would not sleep, but as the world knocked me and the world shook around me, the energy sapped from my eyes… I couldn’t fight as the ceiling turned to blackness. As it receded I knew. I knew I didn’t have control over what happened. Things just happened.
I was free. The questions that pulled me towards the darkness inside me were gone… they did not need answers, I had done nothing wrong. Now I faced the darkness outside of me, and I embraced it.
“I can control myself. I can choose how I want to deal with what life throws at me…. that’s enough, maybe just enough to change what’s around me. But I can’t change this, so I’m not going to fight it.”
...
My eyelids were red, and I opened them to a blinding light. I closed them quickly again and heard the shuffling of chairs and a light pitter patter. When I opened, them squinting, I saw a wall of standing faces. I looked around there was dad, Gen, mum with Charlie in her arms, Alex, James and Jacq. I looked intently at Jacq, my doting sister who showed me nothing but love. Yet all I ever returned was hate. I looked at her, and I knew she was not to blame. I knew I had a life to live, not question.
‘Are you ok?’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Do you want me to get you a drink?’ said the nurse.
A barrage of questions I could answer. I sat for a second and thought of how I got here. i went to answer all questions. But that was not enough to express what i meant. I chose instead to say, ‘I love you guys.’
…
I do not remember much of the time I spent in hospital. A lot of it was an abject blur. I don’t remember all the surgeries (thank god). I don’t remember the nurses, the paper cards from friends and relatives, the absence of my brother, and the long nights my mother spent next to me. I don’t remember the sickly faces that evaporated from the beds around me, but I know that they are no longer with us. I know the feeling of rage and bewilderment that plagued me. WHY? What was the reason for any of this suffering? In that 2 years, I had lay in that bed and I couldn’t work it out. But in one night that hard, cold floor, which almost tore the flesh from my chest had knocked the answer within my sight… I just needed to reach it.
My endless tossing and turning had strangled me in my sheets, and my arm in the cords that maintained (sustained) my existence. It’s strange that there weren’t bed rails… or maybe I had knocked them loose… just another question…
Any dream or measure of sleep was broken by that barrelling feeling of falling. That feeling of inertia as your organs resist the motion of falling as the rest of your body barrels through the air. But I knew they were on the hard floor with me, the needles and tubes from my chest made it (the state of my insides) Not sure about these brackets?excruciatingly obvious. Many of the chords had become entangled, with the sheet or with one another, but the needle in my arm and the thumb clamp had disconnected. Blood streamed down my arm and the blips of light stopped, but the screen still glowed. My back ached, my arm stung and my chest throbbed and pulled… it felt like my flesh was being torn out… and my insides… something ached in my stomach…
I cried. Not for the pain, I had no more tears left for pain. I cried for fear and anger, I had used no tears for them, nor sadness.
My dad always says I never complained.
I cried… out of searching… out of uncertainty.
The screen on the heart monitor had gone dark. Being only six years old I didn’t know that it had simply disconnected... and that’s where the overwhelming theme of my sickness stuck, I didn’t know, I couldn’t understand anything that happened to me… or why it happened to me. I think by this stage the ellipsis breaks are too much. The plot is devastating and therefore moving me forward, pushing me through, but the ellipsis are slowly me down and I think it's creating an awkward flow for me to follow.
There was almost nothing in my life I had control of or really knew anymore. I had fallen out of my home and my world into a dark and cold bed, and I was no more - eaten up by anger and confusion. But really, I was scared. Being awake was agony right now, it had been for months now. So, I lay there and pondered the swarm of questions, and did not struggle when darkness seeped across my view.
…
Why? Why me… what had I done to deserve this… what was wrong with me… why couldn’t I see my family… why had I been so different… why was I so different now… why was every moment hard, talking to mum and my siblings, breathing, walking… all the operations… WHY? Would I d… would I… what would happen after tonight? What could my life have been without this? Would it end here…
When my eyes opened, I met the agony again. It was all through me. It was like my bones and blood burnt. I winced at every movement, every breath. I wanted the darkness again, any reprieve from this existence… I hated anyone who didn’t have to live like this, through this. It still stung at me, why me? I would not sleep, but as the world knocked me and the world shook around me, the energy sapped from my eyes… I couldn’t fight as the ceiling turned to blackness. As it receded I knew. I knew I didn’t have control over what happened. Things just happened.
I was free. The questions that pulled me towards the darkness inside me were gone… they did not need answers, I had done nothing wrong. Now I faced the darkness outside of me, and I embraced it.
“I can control myself. I can choose how I want to deal with what life throws at me…. that’s enough, maybe just enough to change what’s around me. But I can’t change this, so I’m not going to fight it.”
...
My eyelids were red, and I opened them to a blinding light. I closed them quickly again and heard the shuffling of chairs and a light pitter patter. When I opened, them squinting, I saw a wall of standing faces. I looked around there was dad, Gen, mum with Charlie in her arms, Alex, James and Jacq. I looked intently at Jacq, my doting sister who showed me nothing but love. Yet all I ever returned was hate. I looked at her, and I knew she was not to blame. I knew I had a life to live, not question.
‘Are you ok?’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Do you want me to get you a drink?’ said the nurse.
A barrage of questions I could answer. I sat for a second and thought of how I got here. i went to answer all questions. But that was not enough to express what i meant. I chose instead to say, ‘I love you guys.’
I haven't commented much throughout because there aren't many specifics incidences that I want to work on, but I just want to suggest some overall tweaks. Firstly, there are so many ellipsis breaks. There is a time when these can be used to create a pensive tone, but in this instance I think it's used as an easy way of creating pauses instead of getting creative with other punctuation or grammar techniques. There are times where it's just not necessary, and question marks would suffice, like where the protagonist is asking consecutive questions.
As for the way I feel about the character: I'm annoyed at the character! All they do is whinge the entire time and 'woe is me" and I really didn't see this coming from the person who opened the story at the beginning - it's like even with the ending, I can't make a connection between the opening character, the whiner throughout, and then the person saying they love their family. An extra personality trait might help - like blunt sarcasm, humour, an unwavering religious adherence, something unique and relatable so that we can connect with the character on a way that isn't them complaining. For the most part of the story there, we are revealed tiny little plot points but it's masked by "why me?" and "what is the meaning of life?" and "I don't deserve this" the entire way, which can retract from us being able to engage with the protagonist, and then feel a sense of connection, empathy, and appreciation for the ending.
Perhaps to enhance the ending, you could discuss the way the family hadn't believed the protagonist's symptoms at first, or the way they thought it was the boy who cried wolf, or so on. And so the protagonist sits festering in the bed wondering why the family couldn't take it all seriously, and now it's escalated to this level - and the protagonist wants to place blame. But then when the protagonist sees the family, it is discovered that none of it matters, the protagonist was sick whether people believed it or not. And then that could enhance the discovery.
I'm sorry to give you feedback that requires actually re-arranging significant things instead of just being able to point out different aspects of wording to adjust, but I think it's necessary you get my full thoughts and hopefully you can take it on board :)
Post by: beau77bro on July 19, 2017, 09:11:30 pm
As for the way I feel about the character: I'm annoyed at the character! All they do is whinge the entire time and 'woe is me" and I really didn't see this coming from the person who opened the story at the beginning - it's like even with the ending, I can't make a connection between the opening character, the whiner throughout, and then the person saying they love their family. An extra personality trait might help - like blunt sarcasm, humour, an unwavering religious adherence, something unique and relatable so that we can connect with the character on a way that isn't them complaining. For the most part of the story there, we are revealed tiny little plot points but it's masked by "why me?" and "what is the meaning of life?" and "I don't deserve this" the entire way, which can retract from us being able to engage with the protagonist, and then feel a sense of connection, empathy, and appreciation for the ending.
Perhaps to enhance the ending, you could discuss the way the family hadn't believed the protagonist's symptoms at first, or the way they thought it was the boy who cried wolf, or so on. And so the protagonist sits festering in the bed wondering why the family couldn't take it all seriously, and now it's escalated to this level - and the protagonist wants to place blame. But then when the protagonist sees the family, it is discovered that none of it matters, the protagonist was sick whether people believed it or not. And then that could enhance the discovery.
Ummm I do agree there is a significant amount of whinging. But it is actually about a 6 year old kid with leukemia (me - i tried to take something from my own experience-should i change it? i really feel i have a lot to say and expand upon though) would it be sufficient enough to expand upon (i actually forgot to even say that hahah) that as a cause for anguish? I do think less questions - and definitely less ellipses. My teacher really agreed there. And in terms of the family would it be more explanatory to explore how the character was angry and confused and took it out on the people around him? or would this be a better ending (from another draft):
Dad grabbed me, and that familiar feeling of a sudden jerk woke me once again. I opened my eyes to seeing my dad balling, then squeezing me, which was honestly agony with all the tubes. Then I giggled because I was alive, with an added bonus of scaring the crap out of my dad and finally answering the question of what dad looked like crying. The fact being he has to be one of the ugliest criers in the world. And with that final question answered I decided to take as much from life while I could.
I realise the brackets are terribly annoying in this post. i really appreciate the advice - i need to make the character more relatable. i did a more specific creative before that had more reference to the situation and the background, i tried to make it more abstract to allow for more variation but i think if i added some of that detail back it would substantiate the story better? would that be enough or how should i go ahead with changing it?
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 19, 2017, 10:37:37 pm
Ummm I do agree there is a significant amount of whinging. But it is actually about a 6 year old kid with leukemia (me - i tried to take something from my own experience-should i change it? i really feel i have a lot to say and expand upon though) would it be sufficient enough to expand upon (i actually forgot to even say that hahah) that as a cause for anguish? I do think less questions - and definitely less ellipses. My teacher really agreed there. And in terms of the family would it be more explanatory to explore how the character was angry and confused and took it out on the people around him? or would this be a better ending (from another draft):
Dad grabbed me, and that familiar feeling of a sudden jerk woke me once again. I opened my eyes to seeing my dad balling, then squeezing me, which was honestly agony with all the tubes. Then I giggled because I was alive, with an added bonus of scaring the crap out of my dad and finally answering the question of what dad looked like crying. The fact being he has to be one of the ugliest criers in the world. And with that final question answered I decided to take as much from life while I could.
I realise the brackets are terribly annoying in this post. i really appreciate the advice - i need to make the character more relatable. i did a more specific creative before that had more reference to the situation and the background, i tried to make it more abstract to allow for more variation but i think if i added some of that detail back it would substantiate the story better? would that be enough or how should i go ahead with changing it?
Hey! To be fair, I actually completely overlooked the part about this being a six year old, so things make more sense now. I've gone back and I can clearly see where you've identified the age, I think I overlooked it because I was committed to commenting on the ellipsis at the same time. This makes more sense in bridging the big personality difference between the first opening narration and the middle - so immediately this clears up that bit of criticism! It also contextualises the whinging a whole lot more - because I was reading this as an adult, I was thinking, "why are you being so self-pitying?" in the assumption that there was a wife there that was mentioned in the beginning, so it definitely all makes more sense now, I apologise for not soaking up that sentence, what a difference it makes.
As for the bit you've added: I love this. I love the "which was honestly agony with all the tubes" because that's the exact kind of relatable and almost funny experience that readers connect to. And then the, 'the question of what dad looked like crying" is also funny, I smiled when I read it. This is the exact kind of human quality that I'd love to see weaved throughout the middle part, especially because it's coming from the voice of a small child.
So in terms of my original feedback - obviously I overlooked the age thing because I commented on the ellipsis at the same time and therefore you'll need to disregard my feedback about not connecting the different voices, but the whinging becomes a whole lot more valid - it's a child's anguish! But this paragraph that you've just modelled above is the exact kind of accessibility a cancer story can benefit from! You're in the right direction.
I'm also really impressed you're writing from experience about what would have been an incredibly difficult time. I'm sorry you ever went through what you did, but being a dedicated student like you are on the forums gives me the impression that you're a real star :)
Post by: beau77bro on July 19, 2017, 10:53:21 pm
As for the bit you've added: I love this. I love the "which was honestly agony with all the tubes" because that's the exact kind of relatable and almost funny experience that readers connect to. And then the, 'the question of what dad looked like crying" is also funny, I smiled when I read it. This is the exact kind of human quality that I'd love to see weaved throughout the middle part, especially because it's coming from the voice of a small child.
So in terms of my original feedback - obviously I overlooked the age thing because I commented on the ellipsis at the same time and therefore you'll need to disregard my feedback about not connecting the different voices, but the whinging becomes a whole lot more valid - it's a child's anguish! But this paragraph that you've just modelled above is the exact kind of accessibility a cancer story can benefit from! You're in the right direction.
I'm also really impressed you're writing from experience about what would have been an incredibly difficult time. I'm sorry you ever went through what you did, but being a dedicated student like you are on the forums gives me the impression that you're a real star :)
I will try and weave in a bit of sass. and make the questions abit less repetitive (as well as contextualise it a tinsy bit more).
I honestly only chose this story because it scared the crap out of my dad at the time, and it's some of the only things I remember. but yea - I will be back with a refined creative. possibly applied to a stimulus. Thanks Elyse.
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 19, 2017, 10:55:38 pm
I will try and weave in a bit of sass. and make the questions abit less repetitive (as well as contextualise it a tinsy bit more).
I honestly only chose this story because it scared the crap out of my dad at the time, and it's some of the only things I remember. but yea - I will be back with a refined creative. possibly applied to a stimulus. Thanks Elyse.
Good luck Beau, thanks for sharing :)
Post by: _____ on July 20, 2017, 11:18:25 am
Hey! Sorry it has taken so long to get you feedback on this - Big backlog after the lectures. I personally had a character I always wrote "about" or from the perspective of, and had a few situations/issues I would raise with that character to cover different elements of the rubric. I came to know the character well enough to be able to make a natural story out of pretty much anything. Kind of like method acting, but method writing ;) so I suppose I did something similar to the former! Everyone is different though!
Your creative is attached with comments in bold:Spoiler“To perceive is to suffer.”
― Aristotle Interesting choice to open with the quote - I find this works best when it ties into the story, say, if your character studies Greek philosophy or something. Writing the quote out of nowhere sometimes seems a little cliche in terms of a way to start.
You wouldn’t have been able to tell Sydney was on the cusp of winter. A light breeze ruffled evergreen leaves, adding little chill to tepid air. The afternoon sun was smiling down, with little care for the fact that it was working unpaid overtime. Its breezy attitude was fabulous for the precise rows of flowerbeds, their occupants drunkenly swimming in the fuel of photosynthesis. The scientific jargon here feels a tad out of place, but I like the mood you are creating otherwise! The personification of natural elements is working well to set the tone. On the roads sat the houses, waiting patiently for their owners to return for Christmas.
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode. He had lived in these parts for a year or so now, time that felt as if it were slipping through his fingers… Ever so slightly cliche, not the phrasing but in terms of foreshadowing "lost time," - Just doesn't quite sit right to me.
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning about the world. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand? I think these questions are innocent enough, don't come across as out of place. I'd like for you to do a little more to characterise Xavier before the questions though, just to make them seem even more natural. Do something to establish his curiosity!
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball-on-a-chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Simile seems a tad forced? Despite having walked this pavement for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly. Sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff… This last line seems a little awkwardly placed, but I LOVE the way you bring in Stan, set up his character, without ever directly telling us anything. Very natural, good work.
Xavier breathed out slowly, furrowing his brow. The hound was inhaling gleefully, and his owner swore he could see his dog grinning like he was eating a humungous bone, not smelling the same blade of grass he’s smelled a thousand times before.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle looking up, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Again, simile seems a little forced. I think perhaps you are trying a little too hard to get techniques into your response? Use them when it feels right, too many takes away their power! Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall. Behind it puffed an artificial cloud, the plane’s trail dissipating steadily like a retreating wave. Xavier could just about hear the aircraft’s low hum in the cyan infinity behind it, struggling to keep up with its master much like Stan was with Xavier. Not quite sure about this last sentence, what is the aircraft trying to keep up with? Be careful, being overly elaborate can confuse the reader.
Xavier watched the plane cross the Tasman. By now the smell of the lead, corrupted by years of storage in a damp cupboard, was invading his nostrils like a hoard of bees. He spat it out with distain, looking down upon it in the soft pillow of his pale palm. Why did he put it in his mouth in the first place? Sorry, I might have missed what necessitated this.
Xavier turned around and saw the stub of a discarded lamb cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Ashamedly, the brown marbles looked up at him:
“I’m so sorry human please don’t be angry I’ve only been fed once today and I’m ever so hungry please please please forgive me…” I feel the dialogue reads a little 'off', although it is meant to be silly and that's the character, I'm not sure it works.
Xavier sighed for the umpteenth time that day. He was beyond caring about Stan’s behaviour at this point. Thoughts bounced around his head like a super ball, many of them hard to quantify in words or even begin to answer. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty thousand feet into the air in a thin metal tube? How did we make it onto the moon only half a century after inventing the aeroplane? What am I going to do with the rest of my life? Are the hermit crabs of these houses enjoying their frantic lives? The rapid barrage of questions is much more forced this time - It comes across as frantic. Like, before, the questions were curious but they seemed like a natural thing. Who hasn't thought something like that at some stage? These questions though, more varied and more rapid, it sets a tone of panic. Not sure if this is intended?
This continued for a while longer. Stan kept sniffing, Xavier kept contemplating. Rays of sunlight rained down as the afternoon wore on. Lorikeets laughed and chased each other playfully through the imported palm trees and the terraces littered with leaves.
Xavier gazed down at Stan, trying to swim in a thick soup of thoughts. What does the dog think of his world? Does he long for freedom from the leash? Much more natural again - I think perhaps it is because the question came from something tangible in front of him that Xavier would definitely notice and consider, not non-consequential things and tiny minute details?
Suddenly, Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, the sun beating down on the pink, leathery muscle. Whatever he feels, thought Xavier, it’s not discontent. The world is his oyster.
Unusually, Stan seemed uninterested in sniffing. He continued to angle his nose up right at his owner, revealing rows of ivory pegs.
Maybe… maybe ignorance is bliss? The dog doesn’t know, and he doesn’t give a damn. In fact, no one can really answer any of these questions. Understanding is just perception. Everything is speculation on this mortal coil…
Xavier looked up and recognised the friendly oak of his faded-cream front door.
Comments:
- I love the IDEA of this story. Like, it is brilliant. Walk down the street, compare and contrast the perspectives of the two characters. Deceptively simple, brilliantly complex. I think this could be a killer creative. Right now, the execution is a bit off. Some of the questions presented are too forced, some of the techniques seem unnatural. I think you've got a beautiful piece of art hidden behind a few stray paint strokes right now :)
- I agree the ending is too quick - The discovery needs to be threaded through in a more meaningful way. Perhaps have Xavier interact with the world more meaningfully, and compare it with Stan's view? For example, pulling this from nowhere, Xavier sees a homeless person and this leads him to consider all the people who can't put a roof over their heads. While Xavier worries about this, Stan just sees another person to get affection from. Or something. Like, actively draw out the differences between the two and have Xavier start to clue in to the benefits of ignorance, build the Discovery gradually.
- Characterisation definitely an issue - I think the tone of your story would suit a bit of an intro at the start, just to setup his questioning nature. It might make the questions more believable.
I hope this helps! As I said, fantastic idea - Some parts just seem a little unnatural right now :)
Thanks for that.
I just want to make sure that the story isn't confusing for readers other than myself if I may. The hum of the aircraft is trying to keep up with the plane rather than the plane trying to keep up with anything - I think I've experienced this before when they're quite far from the ground. Also, when he puts the lead in his mouth this is to ensure Stan doesn't run off. He's using his hands to block the sun so he can't keep hold of the lead. Do I need to change these to make them clearer? I was trying to "show, not tell" so there's not a whole lot of explanation from the narrator.
With your advice I added a paragraph kind of explaining Xavier's context and added a new discovery to make the final realisation more meaningful. They've really helped to make the story flow better I think. But despite trimming some stuff I'm at 1000 words now and there's no way I'm going to be able to write that in forty minutes. Do you have any recommendations for things to cut? I was thinking of the plane bit but it feels wrong to remove that. Editing is hard :-\
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 20, 2017, 11:30:49 am
Thanks for that.
I just want to make sure that the story isn't confusing for readers other than myself if I may. The hum of the aircraft is trying to keep up with the plane rather than the plane trying to keep up with anything - I think I've experienced this before when they're quite far from the ground. Also, when he puts the lead in his mouth this is to ensure Stan doesn't run off. He's using his hands to block the sun so he can't keep hold of the lead. Do I need to change these to make them clearer? I was trying to "show, not tell" so there's not a whole lot of explanation from the narrator.
Cool cool! So they didn't immediately click to me, that doesn't mean it won't click for everyone. And they are minor story details that aren't super important. Maybe run the paragraph past a friend or two and see what they think?
Quote
With your advice I added a paragraph kind of explaining Xavier's context and added a new discovery to make the final realisation more meaningful. They've really helped to make the story flow better I think. But despite trimming some stuff I'm at 1000 words now and there's no way I'm going to be able to write that in forty minutes. Do you have any recommendations for things to cut? I was thinking of the plane bit but it feels wrong to remove that. Editing is hard :-\
Great to hear!! ;D hmm, perhaps it isn't a "cut a section" thing, but rather trim a sentence here or there. There are definitely sentences in the middle with the plane you could trim. Maybe cut back a bit in the opening paragraphs, you don't need a HEAP on establishing the setting, for example. Just crack and chip away at it, always thinking, "Why is this sentence here?" If you don't have an answer, it might be worth trimming ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 20, 2017, 01:31:31 pm
Hi ATAR Notes,
I've been preparing for trials lately, but I'm feeling dubious about the quality of my writing piece. Would it be possible if you could take a look, please? I'm trying to get the highest mark I can, so any advice or constructive criticism at all would be really helpful. Thank you!
Hey Shamus :) Thanks for being around! I've put some feedback in the spoiler in bold font but you'll find the majority of my comments at the end :)
Spoiler
Awakenings
Dawn stealthily approached. It was one of those days where the misty clouds hang oppressively low, shrouding the obscure sanctuary from sight.
David trudged solemnly along the narrow path. The monotony of the autumn leaves piled on top of each other caused his shoulders to droop.
The dreariness of routine overwhelmed his stream of consciousness as he neared towards the familiar cage. Hues of red and green, blue and white protruded through the narrow vista between the bars, an invitation to come inside and look.
David took a few quick breaths. His head was throbbing with pain. With his eyes forced open and his forehead etched with wrinkles from years of the same worries and frustrations, he tried to work through the pain as he always did. Pausing for a second, he reluctantly transfixed his focus on the task at hand.
Digging furiously into the bag of feed, the familiar feel of grains rubbed against his hand and seeped through his fingers. Every attempt seemed futile, the longer he reached inside, the less he could draw out and the searing of red-hot lava rising in his chest became more and more pronounced.
The incessant chirps became no more as he managed to grasp the last handful from bag. An array of chains sealed the cage from the external world and the silence of the sanctuary was perturbed by the horrendous rattle of David’s keys, each rattle adding fury and tension.
Extending his hand outwards was a menial task. However, today, this daily offering seemed peculiar to the residents of the cage. It was like a familiar intruder had broken into their world. Lapsing back and forth, moving his hand in and out did nothing to stop them from aggregating in a remote corner, fluttering their spectacular wings with alarm. Their eyes became ripe with fear, their dusty plumage giving off the sensation of loss and confusion.
“Did I do something wrong?” he thought.
Walking further in, stepping amongst the cocktail of dirt and droppings, he surrendered himself to the bars. Blades of light penetrated the abyss while he tilted his head and fixated his fervent gaze towards the distance. Such daily toil had forged within him an elastic perception of time with the past, present and future intermingling in his mind. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift into the depths of the unconscious...
***
The violin was crafted from mahogany oak; its mellow and sonorous tune filled the sanctuary of David’s room with bliss. Lush plants were aligned at the windowsills and sunflowers bowed to the sun as it conducted its daily revolution about the Earth, illuminating David’s haven. The occasional moments of silence where punctuated by a harmony of notes, flowing off the bow with ease.
“David!” shouted his father...“Come check these out”.
“Pretty, ay?” he insisted. “They could sell for a few bucks”.
David hesitated to protest. “Perhaps after...Dad?” he replied “I’ve got to perfect my rehearsal for fete”.
“Come and I’ll show you how to feed them!” he fired back, almost oblivious to his son’s response.
“I’ll show you the tricks of my trade”
An uncanny silence consumed the room as the violin found its way back into its case. Unbeknownst to David, this would be his very last rehearsal...
The coming of age brought with it the knowledge of the family enterprise. Like a one-way street, David’s musical prowess seemed like a roadblock to his father’s entrepreneurial vision.
He felt caged. He wanted to escape but ever so slowly his passion eroded, wilted and withered, succumbing to the persuasion of his father the salesman.
*** Just stopping here to say I've not found a fault or a single jar yet, it's a pleasure to read this.
In his imagination, standing in his room again, he peered outside the window toward the edge of a foreign land. The turquoise water reflecting the patterns and stories of the clouds - shades of blue met with uncountable tones of green from the trees. The sand was soft between his toes as he steadily breathed in the salty air of the sea that was carried by the light breeze.
As he enjoyed this moment of solace, a mighty crash of the ocean shattered the stillness of his thoughts and then slowed down to greet him at the shore. He collected shells and held them against his ears – each shell harboured a different type of beach, and a different world of emotions. He closed his eyes and felt the adrenaline from the wind again as it surpassed the boundaries of his imagination.
He wondered how he let himself lose sight of the world by neglecting the most important feature of his happiness – the sounds of nature herself. Beautiful.
***
The merciless shower of solar rays warmed his already half-baked face. Staring blankly out through the aperture of the cage seemed like an overwhelming task. Pausing one last time to catch his breath, an invisible force compelled him to look toward the other direction.
They had left. What remained were the half-eaten remnants of seed and grain. There were no chirps, no colourful hues and no looking back. The primrose path to their escape was laced with the fresh odour of droppings, having relieved themselves of their burdens.
The ambient sense of fear seemed to evaporate as he ran toward the open cage door. Almost inviting him, it embraced his frustration.
David had always wondered why the birds stayed in the same place when in fact they could fly anywhere.
Then he asked himself the same question…
Dawn stealthily approached. It was one of those days where the misty clouds hang oppressively low, shrouding the obscure sanctuary from sight.
David trudged solemnly along the narrow path. The monotony of the autumn leaves piled on top of each other caused his shoulders to droop.
The dreariness of routine overwhelmed his stream of consciousness as he neared towards the familiar cage. Hues of red and green, blue and white protruded through the narrow vista between the bars, an invitation to come inside and look.
David took a few quick breaths. His head was throbbing with pain. With his eyes forced open and his forehead etched with wrinkles from years of the same worries and frustrations, he tried to work through the pain as he always did. Pausing for a second, he reluctantly transfixed his focus on the task at hand.
Digging furiously into the bag of feed, the familiar feel of grains rubbed against his hand and seeped through his fingers. Every attempt seemed futile, the longer he reached inside, the less he could draw out and the searing of red-hot lava rising in his chest became more and more pronounced.
The incessant chirps became no more as he managed to grasp the last handful from bag. An array of chains sealed the cage from the external world and the silence of the sanctuary was perturbed by the horrendous rattle of David’s keys, each rattle adding fury and tension.
Extending his hand outwards was a menial task. However, today, this daily offering seemed peculiar to the residents of the cage. It was like a familiar intruder had broken into their world. Lapsing back and forth, moving his hand in and out did nothing to stop them from aggregating in a remote corner, fluttering their spectacular wings with alarm. Their eyes became ripe with fear, their dusty plumage giving off the sensation of loss and confusion.
“Did I do something wrong?” he thought.
Walking further in, stepping amongst the cocktail of dirt and droppings, he surrendered himself to the bars. Blades of light penetrated the abyss while he tilted his head and fixated his fervent gaze towards the distance. Such daily toil had forged within him an elastic perception of time with the past, present and future intermingling in his mind. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift into the depths of the unconscious...
***
The violin was crafted from mahogany oak; its mellow and sonorous tune filled the sanctuary of David’s room with bliss. Lush plants were aligned at the windowsills and sunflowers bowed to the sun as it conducted its daily revolution about the Earth, illuminating David’s haven. The occasional moments of silence where punctuated by a harmony of notes, flowing off the bow with ease.
“David!” shouted his father...“Come check these out”.
“Pretty, ay?” he insisted. “They could sell for a few bucks”.
David hesitated to protest. “Perhaps after...Dad?” he replied “I’ve got to perfect my rehearsal for fete”.
“Come and I’ll show you how to feed them!” he fired back, almost oblivious to his son’s response.
“I’ll show you the tricks of my trade”
An uncanny silence consumed the room as the violin found its way back into its case. Unbeknownst to David, this would be his very last rehearsal...
The coming of age brought with it the knowledge of the family enterprise. Like a one-way street, David’s musical prowess seemed like a roadblock to his father’s entrepreneurial vision.
He felt caged. He wanted to escape but ever so slowly his passion eroded, wilted and withered, succumbing to the persuasion of his father the salesman.
*** Just stopping here to say I've not found a fault or a single jar yet, it's a pleasure to read this.
In his imagination, standing in his room again, he peered outside the window toward the edge of a foreign land. The turquoise water reflecting the patterns and stories of the clouds - shades of blue met with uncountable tones of green from the trees. The sand was soft between his toes as he steadily breathed in the salty air of the sea that was carried by the light breeze.
As he enjoyed this moment of solace, a mighty crash of the ocean shattered the stillness of his thoughts and then slowed down to greet him at the shore. He collected shells and held them against his ears – each shell harboured a different type of beach, and a different world of emotions. He closed his eyes and felt the adrenaline from the wind again as it surpassed the boundaries of his imagination.
He wondered how he let himself lose sight of the world by neglecting the most important feature of his happiness – the sounds of nature herself. Beautiful.
***
The merciless shower of solar rays warmed his already half-baked face. Staring blankly out through the aperture of the cage seemed like an overwhelming task. Pausing one last time to catch his breath, an invisible force compelled him to look toward the other direction.
They had left. What remained were the half-eaten remnants of seed and grain. There were no chirps, no colourful hues and no looking back. The primrose path to their escape was laced with the fresh odour of droppings, having relieved themselves of their burdens.
The ambient sense of fear seemed to evaporate as he ran toward the open cage door. Almost inviting him, it embraced his frustration.
David had always wondered why the birds stayed in the same place when in fact they could fly anywhere.
Then he asked himself the same question…
I'm really surprised that you're feeling dubious about your piece. I think this is wonderfully written. I was actively looking for stand-out grammatical or syntax errors but couldn't find anything that struck me as worthy of making you feel dubious! My favourite line of the piece is the last two sentences. I'm sure you can guess that I think this is great - the symbol is strong. I think a way of improving your piece, is by using the birds as a motif. The ending piece is so solemn it can stand on its own, but it could be worth some bonus points if the birds feature earlier in the piece, especially if they are noted for being clustered, or predictable in their location. This could really strengthen the ending couplet, despite how strong I think it is already. There's nothing in your piece I want to take away. I want everything to remain, because everything is great. I think it's just about enhancing the piece now, even in tiny ways. So embedding the birds earlier so they become a motif is one suggestion. I'd also like to see a tiny bit more reference to sound earlier in the piece - perhaps even just that the air was void of anything aurally inspiring? This will create a contrast to the violin, and then the sounds of nature, that are discussed later. This will mirror the discovery as it becomes revealed. What do you think?
This is not a piece you need to panic about, I think it's gentle but powerful. I think the imagery is clear, I always knew the kind of visual you wanted to present me with. From here I can only suggest extending your piece in small ways, by focusing on the metaphors, the symbols, and how the language mirrors the discovery :)
Post by: shamus.clarke on July 20, 2017, 02:33:24 pm
thank you so much for your comments, it's a real relief to know that you like it. I will definitely make those changes ASAP.
Post by: eliza.sargeant on July 20, 2017, 02:36:56 pm
i will take on board your feedback :) much appreciated!!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 20, 2017, 04:11:07 pm
Hey Elyse, if you could look over my creative that would be great! Used it for Belonging last year and got 15/15 and then this year for Discovery and got 11/15. The teacher marked everyone harshly, the whole english department basically hated him but anyway his only feedback and therefore it seemed only reason for taking 4 marks off was that it was "melodramatic." I would have disputed it but luckily since everyone else got marked badly I kept my 1 ranking. But, still if you could look and give your thoughts that would be great :)
Hey there! I'll have a look at this for you :)
Spoiler
The streets surrounding Darlinghurst Road, Kings Cross, comma were encapsulated by the scent of thyme-filled turkey sizzling on aluminium foil and dazzling hues of green and red. Moderately sheltered, a mother laid motionless, in a silent embrace with her only daughter, Grace. A windswept sleeping bag, their only security from the sodden concrete beneath. This sentence isn't formed properly - you can put a "was" in place of the comma for it to make sense, but otherwise it's two dependent clauses pushed together so it doesn't make perfect grammatical sense, although I understand your intentions with the sentence :) In spite of the fear and squalor of her new life, Grace’s innocent exuberance shone brighter than any of the surrounding estates, splendidly adorned with ornamental lights. Samantha, however, was the image of a mother weathered by shame. Skin hidden behind layers of grime, and hair hung as a tangled mop over sunken eyes. Faded polaroid photos clutched between calloused fingers, her only remaining memory of Grace’s lost childhood, and of her father that Grace barely knew. Yet, Samantha had made a promise to her daughter – a promise to deliver her Christmas wish. I like the imagery here so far - it's positive yet sad. It's vibrant, but with a tone of sadness.
Samantha attempted not to dwell upon the past memories of a fulfilled Christmas. The precious nostalgias which to her, only seemed fair that all children would be able to experience. And now, Grace’s father was gone. Samantha used to love him. Maybe, "Samantha loved him" without the "used to" to create the sense that she loved him when he was alive, but also now. Sheused to cherished his company and speak of his name in softness. Yet, most nights she would fall asleep, clothed, on an unopened bed. Beaten and broken, she left. Grace still remained too young, too naïve to understand the piercing terror in her mother’s eyes. Her father still loved her, but, he had to let her go.
“Where’s daddy?” she would inquisitively probe, with an infectious glow.
Samantha hesitated.
He was once treasured. Now a memory. A shadow lingering in the depths of Samantha’s mind. It was not as if she could simply say that he was an alcoholic. His life was one of more significance than the fateful addiction that it was suffocated by. Her mother did used to love him. She did used to cherish his company and speak of his name in softness. For the first time in her short life, Grace would celebrate Christmas away from the now distant comfort of being home. For the first time, she would wake up on Christmas Day and her father - would not be there.
“Mummy, my toes hurt” a stricken Grace would complain.
Seeing your own daughter in pain, the kind of pain no six-year-old should have to endure at such a young age eroded at Samantha’s raw heart. I think there should be another part to this sentence, it's like you went to create a comma splice but didn't put anything after the "raw heart." At the moment, "seeing your own daughter in pain" doesn't make sense on its own, and then pairing it with the type of pain doesn't make sense either. "Seeing your own daughter in pain is excruciating, for example. Also think carefully about using the "your" because this is the first time you've addressed the reader, and if you don't do it again, then it shows an inconsistency. Perhaps, "Samantha's heavy breath carried the weight of seeing her six year old daughter in pain no child should endure." Grace and Samantha shared their vulnerabilities, interlocking their hearts as much as their fingers.
“I know…” she would quite simply respond.
“It will be better soon.”
Yet as Samantha gazed into Grace’s pale blue eyes, she sensed a more profound desire. For this, she could not simply say those same five words she usually would. Grace needed more.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Samantha peered out to Keltie Bay, flickering with scattered lights as faint laughter echoed in the distance. Where she had come from - the place that Grace called ‘home’ was consumed by an unnerving silence. Cold sweat glistened down Samantha’s furrowed brow. With hands clasped tightly, only alert to the sound of her throbbing heart - she was waiting. She shadowed her target. One of Potts Point’s finest Victorian Italianate estates, a harmony of classical grandeur and contemporary finesse, nestled in the quiet, tree-lined Rockwall Crescent. Standing in the centre of the ornate porcelain courtyard – a freshly potted magnolia little gem. From her sleeping bag emerged a rusted axe. She knew what she had to do.
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Samantha lumbered up the footpath. The sleeping bag was no longer empty. Under the procession of yellow street lights her blood stained hands appeared almost a sickly blackish-gold. The sirens of police cars wailed in the distance. Yet, they were not for her. Still beaten, still broken, she fell. Without him, her strength had faded, slowly swept away by the wind. Grace was all she had.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Grace woke to an unfamiliar welcome. Blinking, blurriness faded to a distorted mirage of green. It wasn’t perfect, edges frayed, insignificantly sized in stature. To Grace, none of this mattered. To put it simply, it fulfilled a Christmas wish. Grace stood in awe, she could not divert her eyes from the tree. A magnolia little gem, fashioned with hanging photographs. In the corner, stood her mother. A blood-soaked tourniquet slapped to her wrist, her worn hands no longer a constant reminder of what she once perceived as weakness. She had conquered her fears.
“I love you, mum!” Grace chirped.
“Your father…” she paused –
“He loves you too.”
The two stood together, mesmerised, not by the tree but by memories of Grace’s father. As they would most nights, they took refuge in their still windswept sleeping bag, pale polaroid photographs now grasped between Grace’s hardened hands, the only remaining memory of her childhood, of her father that she misses so dearly. So, every Christmas, Grace would decorate her little gem of hope. A sign that her father had also found his way home.
Samantha attempted not to dwell upon the past memories of a fulfilled Christmas. The precious nostalgias which to her, only seemed fair that all children would be able to experience. And now, Grace’s father was gone. Samantha used to love him. Maybe, "Samantha loved him" without the "used to" to create the sense that she loved him when he was alive, but also now. She
“Where’s daddy?” she would inquisitively probe, with an infectious glow.
Samantha hesitated.
He was once treasured. Now a memory. A shadow lingering in the depths of Samantha’s mind. It was not as if she could simply say that he was an alcoholic. His life was one of more significance than the fateful addiction that it was suffocated by. Her mother did used to love him. She did used to cherish his company and speak of his name in softness. For the first time in her short life, Grace would celebrate Christmas away from the now distant comfort of being home. For the first time, she would wake up on Christmas Day and her father - would not be there.
“Mummy, my toes hurt” a stricken Grace would complain.
Seeing your own daughter in pain, the kind of pain no six-year-old should have to endure at such a young age eroded at Samantha’s raw heart. I think there should be another part to this sentence, it's like you went to create a comma splice but didn't put anything after the "raw heart." At the moment, "seeing your own daughter in pain" doesn't make sense on its own, and then pairing it with the type of pain doesn't make sense either. "Seeing your own daughter in pain is excruciating, for example. Also think carefully about using the "your" because this is the first time you've addressed the reader, and if you don't do it again, then it shows an inconsistency. Perhaps, "Samantha's heavy breath carried the weight of seeing her six year old daughter in pain no child should endure." Grace and Samantha shared their vulnerabilities, interlocking their hearts as much as their fingers.
“I know…” she would quite simply respond.
“It will be better soon.”
Yet as Samantha gazed into Grace’s pale blue eyes, she sensed a more profound desire. For this, she could not simply say those same five words she usually would. Grace needed more.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Samantha peered out to Keltie Bay, flickering with scattered lights as faint laughter echoed in the distance. Where she had come from - the place that Grace called ‘home’ was consumed by an unnerving silence. Cold sweat glistened down Samantha’s furrowed brow. With hands clasped tightly, only alert to the sound of her throbbing heart - she was waiting. She shadowed her target. One of Potts Point’s finest Victorian Italianate estates, a harmony of classical grandeur and contemporary finesse, nestled in the quiet, tree-lined Rockwall Crescent. Standing in the centre of the ornate porcelain courtyard – a freshly potted magnolia little gem. From her sleeping bag emerged a rusted axe. She knew what she had to do.
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Samantha lumbered up the footpath. The sleeping bag was no longer empty. Under the procession of yellow street lights her blood stained hands appeared almost a sickly blackish-gold. The sirens of police cars wailed in the distance. Yet, they were not for her. Still beaten, still broken, she fell. Without him, her strength had faded, slowly swept away by the wind. Grace was all she had.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Grace woke to an unfamiliar welcome. Blinking, blurriness faded to a distorted mirage of green. It wasn’t perfect, edges frayed, insignificantly sized in stature. To Grace, none of this mattered. To put it simply, it fulfilled a Christmas wish. Grace stood in awe, she could not divert her eyes from the tree. A magnolia little gem, fashioned with hanging photographs. In the corner, stood her mother. A blood-soaked tourniquet slapped to her wrist, her worn hands no longer a constant reminder of what she once perceived as weakness. She had conquered her fears.
“I love you, mum!” Grace chirped.
“Your father…” she paused –
“He loves you too.”
The two stood together, mesmerised, not by the tree but by memories of Grace’s father. As they would most nights, they took refuge in their still windswept sleeping bag, pale polaroid photographs now grasped between Grace’s hardened hands, the only remaining memory of her childhood, of her father that she misses so dearly. So, every Christmas, Grace would decorate her little gem of hope. A sign that her father had also found his way home.
The bulk of my comments are about the end part there. The reason being, I want to know more about her cutting the tree. It seemed menacing at first, she pulled out the axe, her hands were covered in blood... but then suddenly there's a tree fully erected and Christmassy. So, I'm thinking you have two options here: you could continue to play off the sinister thing, making us think "oh god did she cut someone's head offf??????" Or, we can do it the way I personally would prefer to write it, which is to describe her hacking at it with a blunt axe, and quietly dragging it down the street, leaving branches to the side of the street. Then we can flash forward a few hours to the daughter waking up, and go from there. I'd also like an imagine of how the tree stood - leaning against the underside of a bridge? against an alley? and so on. Show the reader the imperfections of the situation, despite Grace seeing it as so perfect.
I also think there could be further development in the way the dad's alcoholism relates to the Christmas tree in the end. I think if you didn't have the alcoholism there, I'd be asking you to put something there to make it more interesting - so don't take it out. But I think it needs to be developed more. These beautiful houses are described, and then we have a sleeping bag with some kind of tree erected in front of it. Perhaps the link we need is a description of the tree being the dad's thing, that they used to have an artificial tree but it would be decorated with daddy and daughter each year. Something like this adds a connection between the significance of the absence of dad with the significance of the tree and the way the mother has bridged the gap.
As for the discovery, I think that this isn't as strong as other stories I've read in terms of discovery. It's not to say discovery doesn't exist, but I'm worried about the way you'll be able to relate it to the rubric in questions later. Spiritual discovery is the one that comes to mind most, but I don't really recognise another really prominent discovery. I'm happy to be proven wrong of course, seeing as I was focused on improving the structure towards the end I wasn't actively seeking discovery.
So in conclusion, there are a few grammatical things to fix up - usually about creating complete sentences. I'd love something more from the ending area of the story, and a greater connection between the dad, alcoholism, and the Christmas tree. At the moment, the dad's absence and alcoholism seems like a bit of context that doesn't really directly contribute to the storyline. Hopefully you can take some of this on board, and hopefully you won't think I'm being too harsh! Let me know if I can help more :)
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 20, 2017, 06:42:54 pm
Hey there! I'll have a look at this for you :)SpoilerThe streets surrounding Darlinghurst Road, Kings Cross, comma were encapsulated by the scent of thyme-filled turkey sizzling on aluminium foil and dazzling hues of green and red. Moderately sheltered, a mother laid motionless, in a silent embrace with her only daughter, Grace. A windswept sleeping bag, their only security from the sodden concrete beneath. This sentence isn't formed properly - you can put a "was" in place of the comma for it to make sense, but otherwise it's two dependent clauses pushed together so it doesn't make perfect grammatical sense, although I understand your intentions with the sentence :) In spite of the fear and squalor of her new life, Grace’s innocent exuberance shone brighter than any of the surrounding estates, splendidly adorned with ornamental lights. Samantha, however, was the image of a mother weathered by shame. Skin hidden behind layers of grime, and hair hung as a tangled mop over sunken eyes. Faded polaroid photos clutched between calloused fingers, her only remaining memory of Grace’s lost childhood, and of her father that Grace barely knew. Yet, Samantha had made a promise to her daughter – a promise to deliver her Christmas wish. I like the imagery here so far - it's positive yet sad. It's vibrant, but with a tone of sadness.
Samantha attempted not to dwell upon the past memories of a fulfilled Christmas. The precious nostalgias which to her, only seemed fair that all children would be able to experience. And now, Grace’s father was gone. Samantha used to love him. Maybe, "Samantha loved him" without the "used to" to create the sense that she loved him when he was alive, but also now. Sheused tocherished his company and speak of his name in softness. Yet, most nights she would fall asleep, clothed, on an unopened bed. Beaten and broken, she left. Grace still remained too young, too naïve to understand the piercing terror in her mother’s eyes. Her father still loved her, but, he had to let her go.
“Where’s daddy?” she would inquisitively probe, with an infectious glow.
Samantha hesitated.
He was once treasured. Now a memory. A shadow lingering in the depths of Samantha’s mind. It was not as if she could simply say that he was an alcoholic. His life was one of more significance than the fateful addiction that it was suffocated by. Her mother did used to love him. She did used to cherish his company and speak of his name in softness. For the first time in her short life, Grace would celebrate Christmas away from the now distant comfort of being home. For the first time, she would wake up on Christmas Day and her father - would not be there.
“Mummy, my toes hurt” a stricken Grace would complain.
Seeing your own daughter in pain, the kind of pain no six-year-old should have to endure at such a young age eroded at Samantha’s raw heart. I think there should be another part to this sentence, it's like you went to create a comma splice but didn't put anything after the "raw heart." At the moment, "seeing your own daughter in pain" doesn't make sense on its own, and then pairing it with the type of pain doesn't make sense either. "Seeing your own daughter in pain is excruciating, for example. Also think carefully about using the "your" because this is the first time you've addressed the reader, and if you don't do it again, then it shows an inconsistency. Perhaps, "Samantha's heavy breath carried the weight of seeing her six year old daughter in pain no child should endure." Grace and Samantha shared their vulnerabilities, interlocking their hearts as much as their fingers.
“I know…” she would quite simply respond.
“It will be better soon.”
Yet as Samantha gazed into Grace’s pale blue eyes, she sensed a more profound desire. For this, she could not simply say those same five words she usually would. Grace needed more.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Samantha peered out to Keltie Bay, flickering with scattered lights as faint laughter echoed in the distance. Where she had come from - the place that Grace called ‘home’ was consumed by an unnerving silence. Cold sweat glistened down Samantha’s furrowed brow. With hands clasped tightly, only alert to the sound of her throbbing heart - she was waiting. She shadowed her target. One of Potts Point’s finest Victorian Italianate estates, a harmony of classical grandeur and contemporary finesse, nestled in the quiet, tree-lined Rockwall Crescent. Standing in the centre of the ornate porcelain courtyard – a freshly potted magnolia little gem. From her sleeping bag emerged a rusted axe. She knew what she had to do.
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Samantha lumbered up the footpath. The sleeping bag was no longer empty. Under the procession of yellow street lights her blood stained hands appeared almost a sickly blackish-gold. The sirens of police cars wailed in the distance. Yet, they were not for her. Still beaten, still broken, she fell. Without him, her strength had faded, slowly swept away by the wind. Grace was all she had.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Grace woke to an unfamiliar welcome. Blinking, blurriness faded to a distorted mirage of green. It wasn’t perfect, edges frayed, insignificantly sized in stature. To Grace, none of this mattered. To put it simply, it fulfilled a Christmas wish. Grace stood in awe, she could not divert her eyes from the tree. A magnolia little gem, fashioned with hanging photographs. In the corner, stood her mother. A blood-soaked tourniquet slapped to her wrist, her worn hands no longer a constant reminder of what she once perceived as weakness. She had conquered her fears.
“I love you, mum!” Grace chirped.
“Your father…” she paused –
“He loves you too.”
The two stood together, mesmerised, not by the tree but by memories of Grace’s father. As they would most nights, they took refuge in their still windswept sleeping bag, pale polaroid photographs now grasped between Grace’s hardened hands, the only remaining memory of her childhood, of her father that she misses so dearly. So, every Christmas, Grace would decorate her little gem of hope. A sign that her father had also found his way home.SpoilerThe bulk of my comments are about the end part there. The reason being, I want to know more about her cutting the tree. It seemed menacing at first, she pulled out the axe, her hands were covered in blood... but then suddenly there's a tree fully erected and Christmassy. So, I'm thinking you have two options here: you could continue to play off the sinister thing, making us think "oh god did she cut someone's head offf??????" Or, we can do it the way I personally would prefer to write it, which is to describe her hacking at it with a blunt axe, and quietly dragging it down the street, leaving branches to the side of the street. Then we can flash forward a few hours to the daughter waking up, and go from there. I'd also like an imagine of how the tree stood - leaning against the underside of a bridge? against an alley? and so on. Show the reader the imperfections of the situation, despite Grace seeing it as so perfect.
I also think there could be further development in the way the dad's alcoholism relates to the Christmas tree in the end. I think if you didn't have the alcoholism there, I'd be asking you to put something there to make it more interesting - so don't take it out. But I think it needs to be developed more. These beautiful houses are described, and then we have a sleeping bag with some kind of tree erected in front of it. Perhaps the link we need is a description of the tree being the dad's thing, that they used to have an artificial tree but it would be decorated with daddy and daughter each year. Something like this adds a connection between the significance of the absence of dad with the significance of the tree and the way the mother has bridged the gap.
As for the discovery, I think that this isn't as strong as other stories I've read in terms of discovery. It's not to say discovery doesn't exist, but I'm worried about the way you'll be able to relate it to the rubric in questions later. Spiritual discovery is the one that comes to mind most, but I don't really recognise another really prominent discovery. I'm happy to be proven wrong of course, seeing as I was focused on improving the structure towards the end I wasn't actively seeking discovery.
So in conclusion, there are a few grammatical things to fix up - usually about creating complete sentences. I'd love something more from the ending area of the story, and a greater connection between the dad, alcoholism, and the Christmas tree. At the moment, the dad's absence and alcoholism seems like a bit of context that doesn't really directly contribute to the storyline. Hopefully you can take some of this on board, and hopefully you won't think I'm being too harsh! Let me know if I can help more :)
Thanks heaps Elyse, that's definitely a good idea re linking the tree to the dad more to make it more meaningful. I think in terms of the discoveries, I was trying to 1) The mother discovers her inner-strength without her husband, in terms of: "Still beaten, still broken, she fell. Without him, her strength had faded, slowly swept away by the wind. Grace was all she had" to then later in the story after seeing the happiness she brings grace - "In the corner, stood her mother. A blood-soaked tourniquet slapped to her wrist, her worn hands no longer a constant reminder of what she once perceived as weakness. She had conquered her fears." If you have any suggestions on how to make this more clear :) Secondly, the ending: "“I love you, mum!” Grace chirped.
“Your father…” she paused –
“He loves you too.”
The two stood together, mesmerised, not by the tree but by memories of Grace’s father. As they would most nights, they took refuge in their still windswept sleeping bag, pale polaroid photographs now grasped between Grace’s hardened hands, the only remaining memory of her childhood, of her father that she misses so dearly. So, every Christmas, Grace would decorate her little gem of hope. A sign that her father had also found his way home." that part of the story, particularly the last line, is supposed to represent the discovery Grace makes about her father, in terms of his death as throughout the story she never really understood what happened to him (for example when im talking about " It was not as if she could simply say that he was an alcoholic. His life was one of more significance than the fateful addiction that it was suffocated by. " refers to how grace's mother never truly knew how to explain to grace the story of her father. again i completely understand this might not be clear enough, if you have any suggestions again that would be great :) i was trying to make it not too obvious and make it more sophisticated if you get my drift but no i completely get it if i have to make these discoveries more clear to the reader but if you had ideas on how to do this without saying it almost directly i would appreciate it :)
Post by: Daniyahasan on July 20, 2017, 09:55:52 pm
What symbolises discovery?
like an object that symbolises discovery
for example : a heart symbolises love
any ideas???
Post by: peachxmh on July 20, 2017, 10:06:45 pm
GUYS
What symbolises discovery?
like an object that symbolises discovery
for example : a heart symbolises love
any ideas???
maybe a light bulb?
Post by: vanessa mbogo on July 21, 2017, 12:09:22 am
As a child , my late father and I would spend every second of the summer holidays on the sparkling white sand of the beach near our home . We would build sand castles beside the shore and watch as it get swept by the water after few hours during hide tide, we would dance knee-deep in the icy surf ,kicking up the surface so that droplets shimmered as diamonds in the sunlight, We would lie back and watch as the sun sets my father gazes into the blue sea and seems to be in deep thoughts it always had me wondering what was he thinking about , is it what is beyond the buoy because that always crossed my mind on what lies on that side of the ocean. Sometimes we will fantasize ourselves as pirates and grip imaginary weapons and thrusting swords, these blissful days went on for as long as I can remember. My earliest memories are filled with images of my father in these moments ,laughing as he kicked up the warm sand with a cold coke in his hand which according to him is the only thing that quench his thirst during hot summer. Sixteen years later I stand in the same beach feeling the same heat scattered under my feet yet all I could think of was him, and all the pain he induced upon himself and everyone around him during the final years of life.
Looking back, I knew now that the reality behind my father's stories were never quite interesting . In each trip he made , he was always searching for the same thing ; remains which he believed was buried somewhere beneath the sea. His passion for wreckage grew into an obsession, He spent his life's work attempting to find it . His dark gloomy study overflowed with dust ,cobwebs and hastily-bound books on the subject, Enormous maps were spread across the wooden floor . Whenever he was home I would sit outside the bench right across his window with my knees pulled up to my chest and watch him. His heavy sighs as he struggles to sprawl the big maps across the floor and listen to the sound of crumbling paper seeped through the window walls. He never allowed me inside the room regardless my mind flooded with ideas and images of my father's work .Once in a while he would shout joyfully out the door, and happily pick me up and spin me around with him in joy we would dance around the living room with his swinging golden compass hanging from his neck ,he would also take us for dinner at a sparkling beach house near our home and order mouth watering dishes prawns and chips was my favourite ,he would always order octopus and pretends to be the sea monster as he flings it at me I would get scared and mum and him would laugh at me that is one among many reasons why I hate octopus.
Most of the people saw my dad as historian ,but to me he was an explorer. he would venture to unknown lands for months come back filled with great tales of treasures and lands beyond the buoy each time I would listen attentively and built an imagination inside my mind to picture the situation .I remember never approving of my father's departures "why do you have to leave again?" I would always ask I recall once I held on to his trouser with my tiny hands begging him not to go but he would always say "who would tell you wonderful stories if I don't go ?, son the last thing you want is your father to be boring . He smiled kissed my forehead I stood there still as I watched head out to the unknown.
I remember the first time I truly realised what had occurred. As I grew up I saw things better I found out about my father's sickness that he contracted during his voyages thus was unable to attend anymore .He spend his days locked in his study consumed by his work . His disease rooted itself deep within his mind and grew branching out and puncturing every memory with its thorns he was so determined to finish his work before it's too late .'Go away he would shout at me from the window as I watched him "he is just stressed everything will be fine once his work is done my mother assured but deep down I knew that he wasn't the father I once idolised. As I watched his casket I pulled myself out of the past and cemented my conscience into reality and came to the realisation that life beyond the buoy is not interesting after all I should stick to the shores
Post by: limtou on July 21, 2017, 05:08:12 pm
My concern is mainly the following (This makes more sense after reading the story)
I wrote this creative for an earlier assessment, and the discovery of the story at the time was the main character discovering the deteriorating relationship between her and her rural home/her sister. However the feedback I received states that this discovery occurs too late in the story, which I agree.
I fixed the story since then and focused more on her discovery of the urban city lifestyle, consequently making her degrading relationship the ramification of her transformative discovery. I'm just wondering if this is clear? I'm also wondering if her transformation is obvious enough?
Thank you :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 21, 2017, 05:40:49 pm
can you please check my creative writing to see if its good
Hey Vanessa! Thanks for posting, as per our essay marking rules you'll need 25 posts on ATAR Notes to receive feedback on this piece. The marking threads are very busy at the moment and this is our way of prioritising ;D
Hey Elyse! I have my trials in a week :( Could you please take a look at my creative?
My concern is mainly the following (This makes more sense after reading the story)
I wrote this creative for an earlier assessment, and the discovery of the story at the time was the main character discovering the deteriorating relationship between her and her rural home/her sister. However the feedback I received states that this discovery occurs too late in the story, which I agree.
I fixed the story since then and focused more on her discovery of the urban city lifestyle, consequently making her degrading relationship the ramification of her transformative discovery. I'm just wondering if this is clear? I'm also wondering if her transformation is obvious enough?
Thank you :)
We'll get you feedback asap limtou :)
Post by: pikachu975 on July 21, 2017, 06:07:24 pm
Spoiler
Cataracts[/U]
The room was clenched in a grasp of quietness that was so firm, so stifling, that a drop of a pin would have been heard.
Literally.
Akins could feel his heart thudding violently in protest as a steady hand, encased in a sterilised glove, was poised ever so carefully over the operating table, casting a shadow on the left side of his chest.
“You’re being very brave, Akins. Now, this is going to sting a bit...shall we count down to one?”
All he could imagine was the daunting tip of the anaesthetic under the harsh glare of the surgical lighting. It was coming closer and closer by the second…
“Three.”
A hand grasped his own as he curled his fingers involuntarily around them. Like his own, they were clammy, but they felt cold, almost foreign to his palm.
“Two.”
The needle jerked forward, too fast for him to react.
The surgeon hadn’t even reached one. He had been betrayed.
Now, he was left to the mercy of the surgeon.
***
One week before the surgery
“Ah!”
Even before the surgery, he was prone to the agony accompanying the hope stripped away from him.
Aimlessly, he reached for his foot, rubbing his fingers against his toes to soothe their silent screams of anguish. He was used to breaking everything. He was used to stumbling over stray objects, or the corners of furniture. He was used to it all - but yet, he still wished to see a world where the sun’s rays of hope would penetrate the clouded depths of obscured nothingness.
As the pain gradually ebbed away, his hands fumbled for the comforting haven of the sofa before the pulsating pain could flow back in again. Once the familiar grooves of the fabric greeted his fingertips, he collapsed into the comfort of its embrace.
He had worked so hard on assembling his confidence, only to feel it crumbling as it slipped through his fingers. He had been tormented by his peers, shunned by the public - yet here he was, almost defeated by a table he had walked into.
When the front door opened an hour later, his mother had bustled in, armed with the clashing sounds of flimsy overflowing plastic bags as she saw him.
Akins was curled into a ball on the couch, his face buried between his knees. She assumed he had fallen asleep, his neglected mop of hair hiding his face - but it was the dramatic rise and fall of his figure that exposed the tears staining his face.
His mother was never home while he was awake, so why today?
“I wanted to come home before you went to sleep today.”
Why today, when he was in such a pitiful state?
“Why didn’t you tell me? You used to tell me everything...”
He didn’t want her to find out. No, that had all ended when he overheard her on the phone after coming home one night, whispering in between weak sobs about how much of a burden he became. How hard it was to watch him struggle, let alone be at home with him.
He shuffled instinctively towards the edge as the couch groaned from the foreign intrusion of his mother’s weight. Even with his cataracts, he could tell that she was biting her lip, filtering her thoughts before breaching the awkward silence he had created.
“Well… your doctor is letting you have your cataracts removed next week. I’m sure it’ll go well. Right? You’ll be able to see clearly. Don’t cry!”
It was almost as if she was trying to convince herself.
“Akins. Say something. You know I never get to see you much and-”
It almost seemed rehearsed when he stood up and fumbled to his room, ignoring the numbness of his legs that came after sitting for such a long time.
His closed door was a shield that protected him from the pitiful stares of his mother. At the same time, it shut him off from the rest of the world, leaving him to simmer with a strange vehemence as he stared out his bedroom window. Even the blurry cage of his eyes could not hold back his imagination as he dreamed.
He could see the trees outside waving their branches against the blue gradient of the skies, beckoning for him in the breeze. He could see the birds swooping down towards children, distracting them from their young with their raucous caws. He could see strangers passing by, all walking with purpose as they glued their eyes to their phones.
He could picture it all, carefully stored away in the darkened crevices of his mind, waiting to be unleashed behind the blurry lens of his eyes. If he hadn’t been deterred by his mother’s unexpected presence, he might have smiled at the hope of seeing, for real.
***
When the tip of the anaesthetic intruded past his eyelids, he wasn’t sure if he was feeling more disconcerted by the sudden sting, or the hand that had reached for his own. As the doctor probed his eyes, Akins began to focus on his mother’s hand as she held his for the first time in months. He almost pulled his hand away - why was she not here for him until now, when he was finally being thrust into the world, void of clouded lens.
But he didn’t.
Calluses on his mother’s hand scratched against his clammy palms as he brushed against wrinkles deeply engraved on her skin.
Now, he could see. Even though he was still being operated on, he could envision his mother, coming home late from long days of manual labour. She would have been exhausted, plagued by the dark circles under her eyes, but it was all so that she would be able to be next to him, supporting him like she was now with her firm grasp on his hands.
With his cataracts being removed, he had finally broken free from the cloudy filter and leapt towards the light.
Every cloud has a silver lining, after all.
The room was clenched in a grasp of quietness that was so firm, so stifling, that a drop of a pin would have been heard.
Literally.
Akins could feel his heart thudding violently in protest as a steady hand, encased in a sterilised glove, was poised ever so carefully over the operating table, casting a shadow on the left side of his chest.
“You’re being very brave, Akins. Now, this is going to sting a bit...shall we count down to one?”
All he could imagine was the daunting tip of the anaesthetic under the harsh glare of the surgical lighting. It was coming closer and closer by the second…
“Three.”
A hand grasped his own as he curled his fingers involuntarily around them. Like his own, they were clammy, but they felt cold, almost foreign to his palm.
“Two.”
The needle jerked forward, too fast for him to react.
The surgeon hadn’t even reached one. He had been betrayed.
Now, he was left to the mercy of the surgeon.
***
One week before the surgery
“Ah!”
Even before the surgery, he was prone to the agony accompanying the hope stripped away from him.
Aimlessly, he reached for his foot, rubbing his fingers against his toes to soothe their silent screams of anguish. He was used to breaking everything. He was used to stumbling over stray objects, or the corners of furniture. He was used to it all - but yet, he still wished to see a world where the sun’s rays of hope would penetrate the clouded depths of obscured nothingness.
As the pain gradually ebbed away, his hands fumbled for the comforting haven of the sofa before the pulsating pain could flow back in again. Once the familiar grooves of the fabric greeted his fingertips, he collapsed into the comfort of its embrace.
He had worked so hard on assembling his confidence, only to feel it crumbling as it slipped through his fingers. He had been tormented by his peers, shunned by the public - yet here he was, almost defeated by a table he had walked into.
When the front door opened an hour later, his mother had bustled in, armed with the clashing sounds of flimsy overflowing plastic bags as she saw him.
Akins was curled into a ball on the couch, his face buried between his knees. She assumed he had fallen asleep, his neglected mop of hair hiding his face - but it was the dramatic rise and fall of his figure that exposed the tears staining his face.
His mother was never home while he was awake, so why today?
“I wanted to come home before you went to sleep today.”
Why today, when he was in such a pitiful state?
“Why didn’t you tell me? You used to tell me everything...”
He didn’t want her to find out. No, that had all ended when he overheard her on the phone after coming home one night, whispering in between weak sobs about how much of a burden he became. How hard it was to watch him struggle, let alone be at home with him.
He shuffled instinctively towards the edge as the couch groaned from the foreign intrusion of his mother’s weight. Even with his cataracts, he could tell that she was biting her lip, filtering her thoughts before breaching the awkward silence he had created.
“Well… your doctor is letting you have your cataracts removed next week. I’m sure it’ll go well. Right? You’ll be able to see clearly. Don’t cry!”
It was almost as if she was trying to convince herself.
“Akins. Say something. You know I never get to see you much and-”
It almost seemed rehearsed when he stood up and fumbled to his room, ignoring the numbness of his legs that came after sitting for such a long time.
His closed door was a shield that protected him from the pitiful stares of his mother. At the same time, it shut him off from the rest of the world, leaving him to simmer with a strange vehemence as he stared out his bedroom window. Even the blurry cage of his eyes could not hold back his imagination as he dreamed.
He could see the trees outside waving their branches against the blue gradient of the skies, beckoning for him in the breeze. He could see the birds swooping down towards children, distracting them from their young with their raucous caws. He could see strangers passing by, all walking with purpose as they glued their eyes to their phones.
He could picture it all, carefully stored away in the darkened crevices of his mind, waiting to be unleashed behind the blurry lens of his eyes. If he hadn’t been deterred by his mother’s unexpected presence, he might have smiled at the hope of seeing, for real.
***
When the tip of the anaesthetic intruded past his eyelids, he wasn’t sure if he was feeling more disconcerted by the sudden sting, or the hand that had reached for his own. As the doctor probed his eyes, Akins began to focus on his mother’s hand as she held his for the first time in months. He almost pulled his hand away - why was she not here for him until now, when he was finally being thrust into the world, void of clouded lens.
But he didn’t.
Calluses on his mother’s hand scratched against his clammy palms as he brushed against wrinkles deeply engraved on her skin.
Now, he could see. Even though he was still being operated on, he could envision his mother, coming home late from long days of manual labour. She would have been exhausted, plagued by the dark circles under her eyes, but it was all so that she would be able to be next to him, supporting him like she was now with her firm grasp on his hands.
With his cataracts being removed, he had finally broken free from the cloudy filter and leapt towards the light.
Every cloud has a silver lining, after all.
Hi! I got 11/15 for this creative and the feedback was: "This is a sustained and interesting narrative. Work on setting, as the emotional plot of the surgery sometimes overtakes the response. Further descriptive passages would help you to show your vocabulary and skill in writing."
Thanks guys!
Post by: aneitarebecca on July 21, 2017, 06:43:56 pm
Please just read over it, and make sure it makes sense! Any other corrections you have, i'll be happy to take on board!
- Thanks so much! Aneita :)
Spoiler
As my mind drifts, a sudden tug at my foot triggers a heaviness on my chest and an inability to produce sound. It brought on a feeling as if I was chained down and my vocal cords were ripped out of my throat. Movements from my mouth mimic screams for help, but silence slams my need to be saved.
My eyes twitch. I feel it. I fear the control it has over me, as the sensation of pins and needles grows stronger and consumes my muscular ability to react.
“HELP! Mum? Dad?” I could think it and feel the sensation of my mouth moving… but no sound.
Temazepam. I relied on it to take away the darkness that cast a shadow over my head. But all it did, was cause trips to the hospital, and a slur in my words. The cold fingers that pressed on my wrist to check there was a pulse, would draw blood to understand my vital levels. Each time, I felt paralysed.
“HELP!”
*******
Professor Ludwig Bormoss from the University of Colorado Thesis expo on Sleep Paralysis, featuring sleep paralysis sufferer Angie Sharp.
“Nights upon nights, I would stay, lying awake, cold, helpless and movement less. By blood would start to boil, as a sense of mix emotions washed over me. I would get angry at myself for not being able to move an inch, but yet, terrified for my own life.”
“Clients often describe the sensation of being held down, of having no ability to speak or control their own movements. It causes anxiety and produces toxins in the body which signal depressive thoughts. A lack of sleep would make anyone delusional”
*******
In the night time, when I’m about to doze off, I stare at the opening of my door. In my mind, I see a figure standing there. The figure has a shadow covering it, so I can’t see who it is, but I can see blood, the dark red tone, terrifies me. As it draws closer to me, I cry out for help. I call my mum and my dad. I call for anyone that can hear me. But no words come out.
*******
“This inclination is often referred to being a Nightmare, false dreams take over of something lying cumbersome upon the chest, the muscles fail, and brings the overwhelming sense of paralysis…. Because the muscles have failed, an immense sense to breathe takes over, the extraordinary trouble of moving, arises the want for respiration. Now she lays still, breathing heavy, believes to be overlaid by some Demon, Thief, or other cumbersome body being neither able to move or breathe normally…:
“I have a vision one night, that caused me to resort to hurting myself. A dark figure crashed onto my body and held their hands around my neck, pushing me further and further into my bed. I started gripping down onto my hands, and eventually drawn blood from my palms”
******
My breathing intensifies. It gets heavier and heavier. The more I struggle to breathe, the harder it is to breathe. I can feel my chest rise and fall at an abnormal rate. The heaviness, crashed into my chest, securing its place. It succeeded in making my fears come to life.
*****
“ Clients will often be graced with formidable amounts of terror, will often encourage them to become suicidal or even more desolation. When these clients come to us and talk about one’s terror, we often propose, that the fear does not exactly come from their nightmare, but their life”
******
Doctors, professionals, Nurses can’t stop this from happening. I have read everything. Read everything on every cure noted. No medications have stopped it, no amount of Temazepam can help it.
It's untreatable, unbeatable.
******
“Now, Angie, how has Sleep Paralysis affected your life?”
“I was forced to move back into my parent's house, I dropped out of University because I wasn't able to attend class, I stopped eating which resulted in massive weight loss. I lost all my friends, refused to go out with them, or even talk to them. I have been diagnosed with depression, and they believe that it may exist before my sleep paralysis, so I've been battling that for some time now as well”
“How have your parents reacted to this situation?”
“ My mum has been my biggest supporter. Through helping my techniques before I go to sleep, to taking me to appointments and just being there to talk to me”
“Our Client here is experiencing hypnagogic sleep paralysis. This type of sleep paralysis occurs while an individual is falling asleep. sufferers of hypnagogia feel awake in the mind but paralysed in the body. These episodes can be quite frightening and hypnagogia is thought to be the origin of stories of demonic or extraterrestrial visits”
“ There hasn't been a cure found for Sleep paralysis, most probably will never be one”
**** 10 years after ****
“ I have never felt so much better! My life was completely turned upside down, but now, I am free! Professor Ludwig Bornoss, Has given me my life back and has enabled me to live again! I am forever grateful for the hard work that himself and his team, put in to be able to work around Sleep Paralysis!”
“ Now that you have beaten, I guess, sleep paralysis, is there anything you're doing to help?”
“ My mother and I started a support group for other females just like me. We have over 10,000 members and have had over 18,000 people attend our expos and meetings. We are continuing to spread hope for Sleep Paralysis, and immensely working towards a cure!”
My eyes twitch. I feel it. I fear the control it has over me, as the sensation of pins and needles grows stronger and consumes my muscular ability to react.
“HELP! Mum? Dad?” I could think it and feel the sensation of my mouth moving… but no sound.
Temazepam. I relied on it to take away the darkness that cast a shadow over my head. But all it did, was cause trips to the hospital, and a slur in my words. The cold fingers that pressed on my wrist to check there was a pulse, would draw blood to understand my vital levels. Each time, I felt paralysed.
“HELP!”
*******
Professor Ludwig Bormoss from the University of Colorado Thesis expo on Sleep Paralysis, featuring sleep paralysis sufferer Angie Sharp.
“Nights upon nights, I would stay, lying awake, cold, helpless and movement less. By blood would start to boil, as a sense of mix emotions washed over me. I would get angry at myself for not being able to move an inch, but yet, terrified for my own life.”
“Clients often describe the sensation of being held down, of having no ability to speak or control their own movements. It causes anxiety and produces toxins in the body which signal depressive thoughts. A lack of sleep would make anyone delusional”
*******
In the night time, when I’m about to doze off, I stare at the opening of my door. In my mind, I see a figure standing there. The figure has a shadow covering it, so I can’t see who it is, but I can see blood, the dark red tone, terrifies me. As it draws closer to me, I cry out for help. I call my mum and my dad. I call for anyone that can hear me. But no words come out.
*******
“This inclination is often referred to being a Nightmare, false dreams take over of something lying cumbersome upon the chest, the muscles fail, and brings the overwhelming sense of paralysis…. Because the muscles have failed, an immense sense to breathe takes over, the extraordinary trouble of moving, arises the want for respiration. Now she lays still, breathing heavy, believes to be overlaid by some Demon, Thief, or other cumbersome body being neither able to move or breathe normally…:
“I have a vision one night, that caused me to resort to hurting myself. A dark figure crashed onto my body and held their hands around my neck, pushing me further and further into my bed. I started gripping down onto my hands, and eventually drawn blood from my palms”
******
My breathing intensifies. It gets heavier and heavier. The more I struggle to breathe, the harder it is to breathe. I can feel my chest rise and fall at an abnormal rate. The heaviness, crashed into my chest, securing its place. It succeeded in making my fears come to life.
*****
“ Clients will often be graced with formidable amounts of terror, will often encourage them to become suicidal or even more desolation. When these clients come to us and talk about one’s terror, we often propose, that the fear does not exactly come from their nightmare, but their life”
******
Doctors, professionals, Nurses can’t stop this from happening. I have read everything. Read everything on every cure noted. No medications have stopped it, no amount of Temazepam can help it.
It's untreatable, unbeatable.
******
“Now, Angie, how has Sleep Paralysis affected your life?”
“I was forced to move back into my parent's house, I dropped out of University because I wasn't able to attend class, I stopped eating which resulted in massive weight loss. I lost all my friends, refused to go out with them, or even talk to them. I have been diagnosed with depression, and they believe that it may exist before my sleep paralysis, so I've been battling that for some time now as well”
“How have your parents reacted to this situation?”
“ My mum has been my biggest supporter. Through helping my techniques before I go to sleep, to taking me to appointments and just being there to talk to me”
“Our Client here is experiencing hypnagogic sleep paralysis. This type of sleep paralysis occurs while an individual is falling asleep. sufferers of hypnagogia feel awake in the mind but paralysed in the body. These episodes can be quite frightening and hypnagogia is thought to be the origin of stories of demonic or extraterrestrial visits”
“ There hasn't been a cure found for Sleep paralysis, most probably will never be one”
**** 10 years after ****
“ I have never felt so much better! My life was completely turned upside down, but now, I am free! Professor Ludwig Bornoss, Has given me my life back and has enabled me to live again! I am forever grateful for the hard work that himself and his team, put in to be able to work around Sleep Paralysis!”
“ Now that you have beaten, I guess, sleep paralysis, is there anything you're doing to help?”
“ My mother and I started a support group for other females just like me. We have over 10,000 members and have had over 18,000 people attend our expos and meetings. We are continuing to spread hope for Sleep Paralysis, and immensely working towards a cure!”
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 21, 2017, 07:26:39 pm
Hello! Thank you so much for this oppurtunity!
Please just read over it, and make sure it makes sense! Any other corrections you have, i'll be happy to take on board!
- Thanks so much! Aneita :)
Hey Aneita! Welcome to the forums!
Thanks for posting, as per our essay marking rules you'll need 25 posts on ATAR Notes to receive feedback on this piece. The marking threads are very busy at the moment and this is our way of prioritising ;D
Post by: _____ on July 22, 2017, 06:24:30 pm
Issues that I can still see:
Final realisation is still too sudden/language is clunky.
Dialogue with the biker is too brief - I opted against having it two-way to save space and to ensure it remained interesting. Not sure if it works.
Not sure if the updated characterisation (second paragraph added) has worked
Might still be too long for me to write out in 40 minutes but I can work on that.
Spoiler
You wouldn’t have been able to tell Sydney was on the cusp of winter. A light breeze ruffled evergreen leaves, adding little chill to tepid air. The afternoon sun was smiling down, with little care for the fact that it was working unpaid overtime. Its breezy attitude was fabulous for the precise rows of flowerbeds, their occupants swimming drunkenly in sunlight. On the roads sat the houses, waiting patiently for their owners to return for Christmas.
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode through stray locks of sandy hair. He’s the type of kid you’d look right past at the canteen queue, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of looking past you. Eternally inquisitive, he chuffed his teachers until they became fed up of his constant attempts to find discrepancies in the syllabus. Eventually the sleepy state school arranged to offload all five foot four of Xavier to a selective campus for year eleven.
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand?
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball and chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Despite having walked this road for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan grinned and trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall.
Xavier tracked the plane across the Tasman. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty-thousand feet in the air in a thin metal tube?
Hearing chomping, he looked down at Stan and saw the stub of a discarded lamb cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Innocently, the brown marbles looked up at him, wondering what the holdup was.
Xavier tried to recall how many times he’d wrestled street scraps from Stan’s mouth as a puppy. He couldn’t. But he was sure that the dog knew he wasn’t supposed to eat that bone, as the end of his tail was raised ever so slightly as he trotted off. For Stan, Xavier realised, here and now is what matters.
The lead pulled taut, jerking Xavier out of his daze. The dog was trotting off for a reason – on the other side of the road, a bearded slab of a man emerged from a stained facade. Xavier tried hopelessly to resist – the stranger’s ink-drenched skin and shiny Harley Davidson gave him the impression that he wouldn’t be fond of Stan’s antics.
The biker turned around, alerted by the desperate wheezing Stan was making as he dragged his owner across the road.
Xavier did well to supress his wonder as biker’s menacing demeanour melted – his stubby fingers caressed the dog’s anvil-shaped head fondly. Embarrassingly, Stan decided to lie down, indicating it was time for a belly rub. His new friend obliged, having lowered himself slowly down onto his front step, so Xavier found himself having to start a conversation.
“He reminds me of my dog, Lucy,” the man confided. “I lost her a few months back.”
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend got up. “Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” He looked up at Xavier: “See you ‘round bro.”
Order was restored as the pair continued walking, soon arriving back home.
Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes as the keys jangled on the way out of his pocket. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, ready to be plunged eagerly into his familiar water bowl.
Maybe… maybe ignorance really is bliss? Stan takes life for what it is, and he’s happy as can be. He even made a new friend today, enabled by his carefree attitude. Maybe I have something to learn from my four-legged friend…
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode through stray locks of sandy hair. He’s the type of kid you’d look right past at the canteen queue, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of looking past you. Eternally inquisitive, he chuffed his teachers until they became fed up of his constant attempts to find discrepancies in the syllabus. Eventually the sleepy state school arranged to offload all five foot four of Xavier to a selective campus for year eleven.
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand?
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball and chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Despite having walked this road for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan grinned and trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall.
Xavier tracked the plane across the Tasman. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty-thousand feet in the air in a thin metal tube?
Hearing chomping, he looked down at Stan and saw the stub of a discarded lamb cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Innocently, the brown marbles looked up at him, wondering what the holdup was.
Xavier tried to recall how many times he’d wrestled street scraps from Stan’s mouth as a puppy. He couldn’t. But he was sure that the dog knew he wasn’t supposed to eat that bone, as the end of his tail was raised ever so slightly as he trotted off. For Stan, Xavier realised, here and now is what matters.
The lead pulled taut, jerking Xavier out of his daze. The dog was trotting off for a reason – on the other side of the road, a bearded slab of a man emerged from a stained facade. Xavier tried hopelessly to resist – the stranger’s ink-drenched skin and shiny Harley Davidson gave him the impression that he wouldn’t be fond of Stan’s antics.
The biker turned around, alerted by the desperate wheezing Stan was making as he dragged his owner across the road.
Xavier did well to supress his wonder as biker’s menacing demeanour melted – his stubby fingers caressed the dog’s anvil-shaped head fondly. Embarrassingly, Stan decided to lie down, indicating it was time for a belly rub. His new friend obliged, having lowered himself slowly down onto his front step, so Xavier found himself having to start a conversation.
“He reminds me of my dog, Lucy,” the man confided. “I lost her a few months back.”
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend got up. “Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” He looked up at Xavier: “See you ‘round bro.”
Order was restored as the pair continued walking, soon arriving back home.
Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes as the keys jangled on the way out of his pocket. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, ready to be plunged eagerly into his familiar water bowl.
Maybe… maybe ignorance really is bliss? Stan takes life for what it is, and he’s happy as can be. He even made a new friend today, enabled by his carefree attitude. Maybe I have something to learn from my four-legged friend…
Thanks!
Post by: NadineC on July 22, 2017, 07:44:55 pm
Post by: Annie657 on July 22, 2017, 08:31:36 pm
So I finally racked up 15 posts and here is my creative writing! My teacher had no negative feedback but I still need to cut it down and feel like I can't with my storyline so far :-\ Should I change Jordan to a catalyst in the natural environment? Any feedback would be appreciated :)
Thankyou! Annabelle x
Spoiler
The crunching sand between my toes awakens my senses. Paving the way to the main event; my steps quicken in anticipation as I behold the great blue force of mother nature beyond. Icy water laps at my feet, but my toes embrace it’s cool touch, never shirking away in betrayal of my heart’s greatest love. All it takes is a single leap into it’s waiting aims as the waves press me forward, almost as if they are whispering, “come closer, closer”, in response to my daily ritual.
“BANG!” the starter’s gun goes off, and while the young fledglings sprint into the ocean’s depths, wielding the waters as a tool to bring themselves personal glory, I hesitate; knowing it’s beauty is only revealed to those who look deeper, below the smooth surface. Slowly but surely I make my way out and around those obnoxious fluoro buoys, a seeming act of vandalism against the serene horizon.
You see the thing is, I was one of them not all that long ago. I craved the feeling of cool gold kissing my neck, and hungered for the next second off my personal best.
It was she who changed me. She who revealed the world to me in a way that I once ignored.
Eyes brimming with excitement she dove in next to me, the grin spreading across her face an unspoken promise to follow her father’s footsteps; this thought however sweet could not cloud my judgement; I had a job to do. Like always, I was there to win; my sole purpose to outswim my competitors and hurtle over that finish line in first position. Muscles tensed from the moment the cool water hit me; a shock to my system, Jordan next to me too over-rating in response to the numbing of all exposed limbs. Turning my eyes forward, a gap in the break soon opened up in our midst. An opportunity too advantageous to miss, “Jordan, follow me!”, I yelled over the pounding waves and splashing bodies; her response inaudible in the chaotic intensity of the race. I knew it was now or never, and rode the current foward to open ocean.
It was go time.
Powerfully I propelled myself forward, the waves pushing me on as I stroked to the head of the front pack. My mind was clearly focused on that end goal, reciting over and over, “I had put in the countless hours, turned my arms those thousands of times in preparation for this one moment”. Nothing was ever going to come between me and that pure glory. Nothing. And of course Jordan knew that too. Or so I thought.
As my breaths started coming fast and hard, I chucked a glance towards my right. Only a endless horizon extended into the midst; to my left only a row of swimmers jostling over those finish line honours.
Panic started to set in, my breaths coming harder and faster, no longer from exertion but parental fear pooling in the bottom of my stomach as I stopped to scull and take in the water around me. Absolutely nothing. The competition, only a few minutes ago so important to me, thrust out of my mind.
I began my frantic scramble back to the beach, head up while I scanned the blue peaks for her telltale purple cap. So many swimmers, so many turning arms and legs oblivious to my distress. I wanted to scream at them, “please help me! Can anyone….. Please!” but I was alone in my silent struggle; my anguish internal as possibilities of her whereabouts streamed like rapids through my mind.
Left and right I zig zaged, ducking under and over the water for my Jordan. Minutes, seemingly hours passed with no sign of her, but my search would not cease for even a second as I vowed to cover every centimetre of that ocean floor if it came to it. That reef in the distance? The only unsearched waters I hadn’t ventured seemed unlikely, but in my desperation I had to keep that sliver of hope alive, my swim towards the rocks began without hesitation. At first, nothing; only the sound of squabbling seagulls and splashing fish there to mask that almighty cry threatening to spill out of me; but then a flash of purple in the corner of my eye snagged my attention. Legs and arms now weary, almost trembling in exhaustion; every stroke a struggle as I sprinted in it’s direction. “Its her. it’s her.” I repeated over and over in my mind, convincing myself she was there. No other thought could I face; this phrase all that was keeping me whole.
All of a sudden, that purple cap became a face among the froth.
“Dad!”
Time stopped. My excruciating anguish subsided to relief at the sight of Jordan’s face, that innocent excitement so oblivious to my crippling worry only moments ago. It took every last ounce of energy for me to make it over to her, I soaked in every inch of her face I only minutes ago thought was lost forever. We embraced even as she wriggled to stay afloat, and in response to her confusion over my emotional state; “later Jordan. Later.” Those harsh words and realisations would have to come, but later. Adrenaline was still surging through my system, and for now, an explanation of her whereabouts would suffice.
“I was swimming with you dad, but then you disappeared. I just guessed you were trying win, and I couldn’t keep up, so I swam over here, to the reef” . Eyes turned down, in almost a whisper, “Unless I was with you, I didn’t want to compete…...I saw some dory and nemo fish, some pretty pink coral…………….”
I had zoned out; her words hitting me harder surely than intended. The thought of her racing just to be with me had never crossed my mind, and to see the ocean as more than just forward currents and obstructing waves? But instead appreciate it for it’s beauty and gentle hold. It was a foreign concept, but not one I could not grasp in one look below the surface. Gesturing towards all the vibrant corals extending the length of the ocean floor, fish swimming in schools instinctively following one another; I thought she might be onto something. We spent hours exploring it’s depths, beauty I never imagined existing only a few metres deeper than I cared to look. And seeing the joy on her face; I finally understood her desires not to be like me, but to be with me, her eyes seeing the ocean as something so much more than merely a tool for attaining glory.
It was only then I came to realise winning a meagre race was not a triumph over mankind, but instead an ignorance towards nature, lacking the ability to appreciate it’s power in bringing individuals together, through a shared understanding of it’s infinite beauty. Today however, with this knowledge in hand, it is father and daughter who stroke together; all the while keeping an eye on the ocean floor; the beauty of the briny deep revealed only to those who seek it.
Word Count: 1192
“BANG!” the starter’s gun goes off, and while the young fledglings sprint into the ocean’s depths, wielding the waters as a tool to bring themselves personal glory, I hesitate; knowing it’s beauty is only revealed to those who look deeper, below the smooth surface. Slowly but surely I make my way out and around those obnoxious fluoro buoys, a seeming act of vandalism against the serene horizon.
You see the thing is, I was one of them not all that long ago. I craved the feeling of cool gold kissing my neck, and hungered for the next second off my personal best.
It was she who changed me. She who revealed the world to me in a way that I once ignored.
Eyes brimming with excitement she dove in next to me, the grin spreading across her face an unspoken promise to follow her father’s footsteps; this thought however sweet could not cloud my judgement; I had a job to do. Like always, I was there to win; my sole purpose to outswim my competitors and hurtle over that finish line in first position. Muscles tensed from the moment the cool water hit me; a shock to my system, Jordan next to me too over-rating in response to the numbing of all exposed limbs. Turning my eyes forward, a gap in the break soon opened up in our midst. An opportunity too advantageous to miss, “Jordan, follow me!”, I yelled over the pounding waves and splashing bodies; her response inaudible in the chaotic intensity of the race. I knew it was now or never, and rode the current foward to open ocean.
It was go time.
Powerfully I propelled myself forward, the waves pushing me on as I stroked to the head of the front pack. My mind was clearly focused on that end goal, reciting over and over, “I had put in the countless hours, turned my arms those thousands of times in preparation for this one moment”. Nothing was ever going to come between me and that pure glory. Nothing. And of course Jordan knew that too. Or so I thought.
As my breaths started coming fast and hard, I chucked a glance towards my right. Only a endless horizon extended into the midst; to my left only a row of swimmers jostling over those finish line honours.
Panic started to set in, my breaths coming harder and faster, no longer from exertion but parental fear pooling in the bottom of my stomach as I stopped to scull and take in the water around me. Absolutely nothing. The competition, only a few minutes ago so important to me, thrust out of my mind.
I began my frantic scramble back to the beach, head up while I scanned the blue peaks for her telltale purple cap. So many swimmers, so many turning arms and legs oblivious to my distress. I wanted to scream at them, “please help me! Can anyone….. Please!” but I was alone in my silent struggle; my anguish internal as possibilities of her whereabouts streamed like rapids through my mind.
Left and right I zig zaged, ducking under and over the water for my Jordan. Minutes, seemingly hours passed with no sign of her, but my search would not cease for even a second as I vowed to cover every centimetre of that ocean floor if it came to it. That reef in the distance? The only unsearched waters I hadn’t ventured seemed unlikely, but in my desperation I had to keep that sliver of hope alive, my swim towards the rocks began without hesitation. At first, nothing; only the sound of squabbling seagulls and splashing fish there to mask that almighty cry threatening to spill out of me; but then a flash of purple in the corner of my eye snagged my attention. Legs and arms now weary, almost trembling in exhaustion; every stroke a struggle as I sprinted in it’s direction. “Its her. it’s her.” I repeated over and over in my mind, convincing myself she was there. No other thought could I face; this phrase all that was keeping me whole.
All of a sudden, that purple cap became a face among the froth.
“Dad!”
Time stopped. My excruciating anguish subsided to relief at the sight of Jordan’s face, that innocent excitement so oblivious to my crippling worry only moments ago. It took every last ounce of energy for me to make it over to her, I soaked in every inch of her face I only minutes ago thought was lost forever. We embraced even as she wriggled to stay afloat, and in response to her confusion over my emotional state; “later Jordan. Later.” Those harsh words and realisations would have to come, but later. Adrenaline was still surging through my system, and for now, an explanation of her whereabouts would suffice.
“I was swimming with you dad, but then you disappeared. I just guessed you were trying win, and I couldn’t keep up, so I swam over here, to the reef” . Eyes turned down, in almost a whisper, “Unless I was with you, I didn’t want to compete…...I saw some dory and nemo fish, some pretty pink coral…………….”
I had zoned out; her words hitting me harder surely than intended. The thought of her racing just to be with me had never crossed my mind, and to see the ocean as more than just forward currents and obstructing waves? But instead appreciate it for it’s beauty and gentle hold. It was a foreign concept, but not one I could not grasp in one look below the surface. Gesturing towards all the vibrant corals extending the length of the ocean floor, fish swimming in schools instinctively following one another; I thought she might be onto something. We spent hours exploring it’s depths, beauty I never imagined existing only a few metres deeper than I cared to look. And seeing the joy on her face; I finally understood her desires not to be like me, but to be with me, her eyes seeing the ocean as something so much more than merely a tool for attaining glory.
It was only then I came to realise winning a meagre race was not a triumph over mankind, but instead an ignorance towards nature, lacking the ability to appreciate it’s power in bringing individuals together, through a shared understanding of it’s infinite beauty. Today however, with this knowledge in hand, it is father and daughter who stroke together; all the while keeping an eye on the ocean floor; the beauty of the briny deep revealed only to those who seek it.
Word Count: 1192
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 23, 2017, 01:10:24 am
may you please check over this discovery creative writing and make any changes if needed
Hi Nadine, welcome to the forums! ;D
According to our essay marking rules (which you can read here) you'll need 25 posts on ATAR Notes to qualify for feedback in our marking threads. The markers are swamped right now and this is our way of prioritising :)
Keen to see you posting around the forums! Let us know if we can help you find stuff ;D
Hi!
So I finally racked up 15 posts and here is my creative writing! My teacher had no negative feedback but I still need to cut it down and feel like I can't with my storyline so far :-\ Should I change Jordan to a catalyst in the natural environment? Any feedback would be appreciated :)
Thankyou! Annabelle x
Hey Annabelle! I feel so rotten, but our post requirement has increased to 25 posts to help us handle the rush of responses we are getting in the lead up to Trials :( please know I'm genuinely upset in having to say this because I know you've been helping people and working to get the posts up - I'll pop your Creative on the list so it gets into the queue, reckon you could make another 7 helpful posts or questions elsewhere over the next couple of days, then make your eighth by posting back here to let us know? :)
Post by: Daniyahasan on July 23, 2017, 08:03:00 pm
So here is my creative writing piece, PLEASE go crazy with the marking
id like as much creative criticism as possible
this forum is honestly a life saver, THANK YOU SO SO MUCH
iv attached my creative below:)
ps - how long does it typically take for us to get the feedback?
Post by: Annie657 on July 23, 2017, 09:24:32 pm
Hey Annabelle! I feel so rotten, but our post requirement has increased to 25 posts to help us handle the rush of responses we are getting in the lead up to Trials :( please know I'm genuinely upset in having to say this because I know you've been helping people and working to get the posts up - I'll pop your Creative on the list so it gets into the queue, reckon you could make another 7 helpful posts or questions elsewhere over the next couple of days, then make your eighth by posting back here to let us know? :)
Hey Jamon, this is my 25th post! I totally I understand the rule change, maybe you should change the number to 25 on the introduction to this page? Anyways I would love if someone could look at my creative in the next couple of days :)
Post by: beau77bro on July 23, 2017, 09:56:37 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 24, 2017, 01:58:32 am
Hey Guys,
So here is my creative writing piece, PLEASE go crazy with the marking
id like as much creative criticism as possible
this forum is honestly a life saver, THANK YOU SO SO MUCH
iv attached my creative below:)
ps - how long does it typically take for us to get the feedback?
You are welcome! Right now, allow 5 days or so - Anything posted above this line will definitely have feedback before the weekend of the CSSA Paper 1 Exam (aka, by Friday or perhaps Saturday) :)
What is my post count - I need to ration them for all the essays omg.
Your next piece of feedback comes at 110, then 135, then 160, etc... So you've got a few! Just keep in mind if you are wanting feedback for Trials, we can't (in fairness to everyone else) mark a whole heap of your essays in a row though, so start with the one you want the most help with :)
Post by: LillBrad5 on July 24, 2017, 01:04:43 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 24, 2017, 01:20:05 pm
hi i am doing advanced english and am just wondering if my discovery aspect is prominent or obvious enough within my story and if the plot makes sense? Thanks!
Hey LillBrad5! Welcome to the forums! :)
Thanks for posting, as per our essay marking rules you'll need 25 posts on ATAR Notes to receive feedback on this piece. The marking threads are very busy at the moment and this is our way of prioritising ;D hope to see you posting more around the site soon! ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 24, 2017, 04:56:26 pm
Thanks heaps Elyse, that's definitely a good idea re linking the tree to the dad more to make it more meaningful. I think in terms of the discoveries, I was trying to 1) The mother discovers her inner-strength without her husband, in terms of: "Still beaten, still broken, she fell. Without him, her strength had faded, slowly swept away by the wind. Grace was all she had" to then later in the story after seeing the happiness she brings grace - "In the corner, stood her mother. A blood-soaked tourniquet slapped to her wrist, her worn hands no longer a constant reminder of what she once perceived as weakness. She had conquered her fears." If you have any suggestions on how to make this more clear :) Secondly, the ending: "“I love you, mum!” Grace chirped.
“Your father…” she paused –
“He loves you too.”
The two stood together, mesmerised, not by the tree but by memories of Grace’s father. As they would most nights, they took refuge in their still windswept sleeping bag, pale polaroid photographs now grasped between Grace’s hardened hands, the only remaining memory of her childhood, of her father that she misses so dearly. So, every Christmas, Grace would decorate her little gem of hope. A sign that her father had also found his way home." that part of the story, particularly the last line, is supposed to represent the discovery Grace makes about her father, in terms of his death as throughout the story she never really understood what happened to him (for example when im talking about " It was not as if she could simply say that he was an alcoholic. His life was one of more significance than the fateful addiction that it was suffocated by. " refers to how grace's mother never truly knew how to explain to grace the story of her father. again i completely understand this might not be clear enough, if you have any suggestions again that would be great :) i was trying to make it not too obvious and make it more sophisticated if you get my drift but no i completely get it if i have to make these discoveries more clear to the reader but if you had ideas on how to do this without saying it almost directly i would appreciate it :)
Right - okay I do totally see this now. I think the spiritual discovery that kind of threads through (from the Christmas spirit, to the spirit of family, to the spirit of perseverance, etc) is really strong. Now you've pointed them out, I do see those other ones more than what I did on initial reading. It makes me wonder if you could use language to better enhance these discoveries in a light way. So, similes and metaphors established at the beginning but finished towards the end, or the same sentence repeated at the beginning and the end with a slightly different tone or twist. This, to me, seems like a great idea only because we obviously don't want to make things explicit and obvious, but I think it needs just a little more tending to in order to become the discovery that we both want to see!
Post by: georgiia on July 24, 2017, 05:26:49 pm
Thank You!!
btw it is only a first draft sort of, because originally I wrote it as a screenplay but sort of ran into complications with getting that down under a time limit so I've adapted it to a fiction story. I'm going to attach both but I only want the story marked but if you had a tiny chance to take a look at the screenplay version and let me know what is strong/what isn't or if theres anything that stood out in the original one which I havn't been successful in including into my new draft that'd be GREAT!!!!!!!!
Also, I know you are swamped with marking but just so that I have a vague understanding, how long-ish will it be approximately to expect a response by?
Thanks!
Post by: winstondarmawan on July 24, 2017, 05:54:49 pm
Spoiler
Indonesia. What a beautiful country.
The rims of the Chevrolet Bolt EV quickly became engulfed in mud as the vehicle maneuvered across the rural terrain, over jagged rocks and shallow puddles of deep-brown water. It was irritating, to say the least, knowing that such a car would be driven in a place like this. Shifting his focus from the once gleaming rims to the horizon, Johan could make out a towering mound of rubbish set alight, the billowing smoke shrouding the deep crimson sunset. Everything was exactly what he thought it would be; dirty. His nose was not accustomed to the overriding scent of fetid air. Or his body to the sweltering heat.
One day in Bogor.
He just had to pull it together for one day. That wasn’t too bad … right?
His parents had said something about paying a quick visit, to an old church was it? He couldn’t quite remember, but frankly, he didn’t really care.
The dirt road appeared to stretch before his eyes. Johan’s eyelids flickered as he tried falling asleep, only to be kept awake by the muggy atmosphere.
The moisture of the air clung onto him, weighing his entire body down.
His head began to throb, the sharp pangs pulsating behind his temple.
“Johan - “
***
“ - Darmawan”. Mr. Ives face contorted into one of disbelief.
Chuckles resonated throughout the class of kindergarteners, the small faces looking intently around the room.
“Is Johan Darmawan here?”
Johan’s face began to glow tomato red, as he sat in silence.
“His name sounds like ‘dumber one’!” a voice chimed.
The class bursted into laughter.
Dumber one.
***
“- you okay?”. His mother shot him a concerned look. “We are almost there.”
Silence.
He told himself it wouldn't get to him. I mean, they were just kids… right?
But it did.
The fiends of shame and humiliation seemed to always be right around the corner, ready to latch onto his thoughts.
And sometimes, he thought about how much easier it would all be if he wasn’t Indonesian.
It was worrying, at the least, for Johan’s parents.
It was a quickly diminishing hope that he would ever be able to appreciate who he was.
And perhaps they were crazy, bringing him all the way out to Indonesia. Truth be told, they had no idea what they were doing, or what to do at all.
But they had faith, and believed that faith was all you need.
***
“You don’t have to play basketball every Sunday. Uncle and aunty haven’t seen you in so long. Please stay.”
Glancing momentarily at his mother, Johan grunted.
That was the point.
He didn’t want to see them, talk to them, or even hear their heavily accented laugh booming through the house when someone cracked a joke in Indonesian. And it didn’t particularly help that he never knew what they were saying.
But he did know that he was tired of it.
“Please… it’s not the same without you…”
He didn't want to hear it. Clutching the basketball under his arm, Johan bolted out the front door.
***
The skyline remained shrouded in a veil of smoke.
Stepping out of the car, Johan could feel the heated mud clawing at his ankles as his foot sunk into the sodden earth.
Disgusting.
Etched into the marshland were little tree stumps, stretching deep into the mist.
Johan could only imagine the forest that once existed here. The magnificent array of bold trunks and sun-kissed leaves sprung into his thoughts.
It was so far removed from that now, and he wondered what it would be like if things would go back to the way they once were.
Before him was a humble shack that succumbed to the forces of nature and time, deteriorated and abandoned; the wood’s integrity diminished in beauty and strength. A crucifix dangled from the haphazard frame of the entrance, and it appeared any moment from now it would fall.
But it didn’t.
A bittersweet grin swept across his mother’s face as she glanced at the disintegrating structure.
“Ini Hari Minggu.” (“It’s Sunday.”)
Her eyelids closed as she joined her hands together.
“Bapa kami….” (“Our Father…”)
***
… yang ada di surga”. (“... who art in Heaven”)
Little Johan clambered up his mother’s leg into her lap. He could see everybody!
There was Om Agi and II Yuni,
His cousins KoKo Raditya, CiCi Irene,
And of course, mum and dad.
A tingle raced down his spine as they recited each word of the Lord’s prayer in unison, hands linked in a ring around their Sunday feast.
Ah, the feast! How could he forget?
An unmistakable smoky aroma emanated from the ayam satay skewers, indicative of his father’s prowess on the grill. Not to mention his mother’s gado-gado, the perfect combination of sweet, sour and savoury.
He loved Sunday, or Hari Minggu, as his parents would say.
But most importantly, he loved being Indonesian.
***
“... bebaskan la kami dari yang jahat, Amin.” (“But deliver us from evil, Amen”).
A mellow breeze sliced through the muggy air, and as Johan opened his eyes, the fingers of the wind soothing his taut muscles.
Mum, dad, himself. Arms linked in a ring.
Johan thought about that little boy, and he wondered what it would be like if things would go back to the way they once were.
Maybe that’s just the sort of thing being bullied as a kid does.
Being told that you are lesser, weaker, the dumber one.
At least, now he knew who he really was. An Indonesian Catholic. Not many could say that, huh?
And on this Hari Minggu, he promised that he would never forget.
The smog had lifted, and revealed a spectacular crimson sunset. Turning towards it, Johan’s eyes glowed with an intense flare.
Indonesia. What a beautiful country.
The rims of the Chevrolet Bolt EV quickly became engulfed in mud as the vehicle maneuvered across the rural terrain, over jagged rocks and shallow puddles of deep-brown water. It was irritating, to say the least, knowing that such a car would be driven in a place like this. Shifting his focus from the once gleaming rims to the horizon, Johan could make out a towering mound of rubbish set alight, the billowing smoke shrouding the deep crimson sunset. Everything was exactly what he thought it would be; dirty. His nose was not accustomed to the overriding scent of fetid air. Or his body to the sweltering heat.
One day in Bogor.
He just had to pull it together for one day. That wasn’t too bad … right?
His parents had said something about paying a quick visit, to an old church was it? He couldn’t quite remember, but frankly, he didn’t really care.
The dirt road appeared to stretch before his eyes. Johan’s eyelids flickered as he tried falling asleep, only to be kept awake by the muggy atmosphere.
The moisture of the air clung onto him, weighing his entire body down.
His head began to throb, the sharp pangs pulsating behind his temple.
“Johan - “
***
“ - Darmawan”. Mr. Ives face contorted into one of disbelief.
Chuckles resonated throughout the class of kindergarteners, the small faces looking intently around the room.
“Is Johan Darmawan here?”
Johan’s face began to glow tomato red, as he sat in silence.
“His name sounds like ‘dumber one’!” a voice chimed.
The class bursted into laughter.
Dumber one.
***
“- you okay?”. His mother shot him a concerned look. “We are almost there.”
Silence.
He told himself it wouldn't get to him. I mean, they were just kids… right?
But it did.
The fiends of shame and humiliation seemed to always be right around the corner, ready to latch onto his thoughts.
And sometimes, he thought about how much easier it would all be if he wasn’t Indonesian.
It was worrying, at the least, for Johan’s parents.
It was a quickly diminishing hope that he would ever be able to appreciate who he was.
And perhaps they were crazy, bringing him all the way out to Indonesia. Truth be told, they had no idea what they were doing, or what to do at all.
But they had faith, and believed that faith was all you need.
***
“You don’t have to play basketball every Sunday. Uncle and aunty haven’t seen you in so long. Please stay.”
Glancing momentarily at his mother, Johan grunted.
That was the point.
He didn’t want to see them, talk to them, or even hear their heavily accented laugh booming through the house when someone cracked a joke in Indonesian. And it didn’t particularly help that he never knew what they were saying.
But he did know that he was tired of it.
“Please… it’s not the same without you…”
He didn't want to hear it. Clutching the basketball under his arm, Johan bolted out the front door.
***
The skyline remained shrouded in a veil of smoke.
Stepping out of the car, Johan could feel the heated mud clawing at his ankles as his foot sunk into the sodden earth.
Disgusting.
Etched into the marshland were little tree stumps, stretching deep into the mist.
Johan could only imagine the forest that once existed here. The magnificent array of bold trunks and sun-kissed leaves sprung into his thoughts.
It was so far removed from that now, and he wondered what it would be like if things would go back to the way they once were.
Before him was a humble shack that succumbed to the forces of nature and time, deteriorated and abandoned; the wood’s integrity diminished in beauty and strength. A crucifix dangled from the haphazard frame of the entrance, and it appeared any moment from now it would fall.
But it didn’t.
A bittersweet grin swept across his mother’s face as she glanced at the disintegrating structure.
“Ini Hari Minggu.” (“It’s Sunday.”)
Her eyelids closed as she joined her hands together.
“Bapa kami….” (“Our Father…”)
***
… yang ada di surga”. (“... who art in Heaven”)
Little Johan clambered up his mother’s leg into her lap. He could see everybody!
There was Om Agi and II Yuni,
His cousins KoKo Raditya, CiCi Irene,
And of course, mum and dad.
A tingle raced down his spine as they recited each word of the Lord’s prayer in unison, hands linked in a ring around their Sunday feast.
Ah, the feast! How could he forget?
An unmistakable smoky aroma emanated from the ayam satay skewers, indicative of his father’s prowess on the grill. Not to mention his mother’s gado-gado, the perfect combination of sweet, sour and savoury.
He loved Sunday, or Hari Minggu, as his parents would say.
But most importantly, he loved being Indonesian.
***
“... bebaskan la kami dari yang jahat, Amin.” (“But deliver us from evil, Amen”).
A mellow breeze sliced through the muggy air, and as Johan opened his eyes, the fingers of the wind soothing his taut muscles.
Mum, dad, himself. Arms linked in a ring.
Johan thought about that little boy, and he wondered what it would be like if things would go back to the way they once were.
Maybe that’s just the sort of thing being bullied as a kid does.
Being told that you are lesser, weaker, the dumber one.
At least, now he knew who he really was. An Indonesian Catholic. Not many could say that, huh?
And on this Hari Minggu, he promised that he would never forget.
The smog had lifted, and revealed a spectacular crimson sunset. Turning towards it, Johan’s eyes glowed with an intense flare.
Indonesia. What a beautiful country.
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 24, 2017, 07:04:28 pm
Hey Elyse! I have my trials in a week :( Could you please take a look at my creative?
My concern is mainly the following (This makes more sense after reading the story)
I wrote this creative for an earlier assessment, and the discovery of the story at the time was the main character discovering the deteriorating relationship between her and her rural home/her sister. However the feedback I received states that this discovery occurs too late in the story, which I agree.
I fixed the story since then and focused more on her discovery of the urban city lifestyle, consequently making her degrading relationship the ramification of her transformative discovery. I'm just wondering if this is clear? I'm also wondering if her transformation is obvious enough?
Thank you :)
Hey limtou! I'll check this out :)
Spoiler
UNDER THE HEAT
The azure sky greeted me from beyond the train window as I stirred to the soft sounds of shuffling. The vast emerald plain emerged, its familiarity prompting a sudden delight. In my mind, I could clearly picture one particularly weathered wooden house amid the green, baked by the sun a deep, rich copper gold. A house that I once called home. Just to the side was a hill slope that overlooked the Gwydir River and everything else I knew. Throughout my childhood, I would race up the hill at every opportunity and pirouette against the refreshing, choreographed breeze. Alongside me would always be my sister Jade, her enviable, long, auburn hair forever dancing in the air.
When I received the acceptance letter, Jade was the first to hear my news. She embraced me tightly with pride and joy. I would be the first to attend university in my town, Bundarra, since the past decades. Just adjust the syntax here, it reads as the university in your town, rather than, the first person in your town to go to university, if that makes sense :) To celebrate, our father slaughtered a newborn lamb at midday and carried the bloody carcass into the kitchen in merriment. Over time, however, this jubilation transformed into an unspoken sorrow that lingered in the air and haunted us all. Jade still joked “you can finally escape this heat now” but behind the chuckle I could hear the melancholy in her words. To sooth myself, I pictured a luxurious city lifestyle that I would soon embrace, with music playing on every street and people chatting heartily while sipping on coffee. The wording here isn't particularly extreme, yet it just captures me enough that I can have a very clear view of everything I believe you're trying to express. I really like this - it's a very careful balance.
The morning of my departure was a strangely chilly one. A bitter wind blew across, intensifying the scent of freshly burnt grass and engraving it into my mind as I bid my farewell.
***
Sharp, neon lights flashed at me from every angle, blinding me, mocking me. I tried to ask for help, but around me were only heads that buried deep into smartphones and tablets, their hasty footsteps against the concrete pavement like blood cells that flowed unceasingly through the veins of the city. I have a really nice birds-eye view of this pumping-city blood. love it. Anguished and frustrated, I tossed the Sydney map backwards.
The city, so unlike the colourful, majestic land in my imagination, was smudged grey by the smog filled sky. Lingered in the air were scents of smoke and petrol, occasionally mixed with sharp perfume fragrances that radiated off women passing by. Music, which was indeed everywhere, blasted from extravagant department stores into my right ear, while cars’ incessant honking pierced the left. The towering buildings that protruded from the ground had trapped me in their maze and I was the experimental rat desperate to find my way out.
At first, all I wanted was to call Jade and escape back to the restful emerald fields.
Yet as weeks turned into months and years, as the endless routines of university dragged me about like a lifeless puppet, I became sucked into the city’s perpetually pulsating rhythm. My visits back home grew less and less frequent as part time and full time jobs constrained my life. Calls between Jade and I also became scarce. Over time, unsurprisingly, the picturesque sceneries of the landscape no longer appeared behind my eyelids when they shut; instead, work and bus routes and countless brand names filled my head to the brim.
***
The colours of nature came to a halt as a platform emerged. When I stepped off the train, the familiar burning heat travelled rapidly across my skin and dried my throat, as if punishing me for disturbing the saintly land. Grimacing, I swiftly removed my lambswool cardigan, its scarlet colour distinct against the background.
Despite my promises to visit sooner, stressful schedules had kept me in the city and more than half a decade had passed since I had last set my eyes on the land before me. At a distance, a hint of copper gold flashed.
I struggled to maintain my balance as my stiletto heels pushed against the uneven, pebbled ground, but anticipation rushed through me as I moved closer towards the wooden farmhouse, its walls more withered than I remembered.
As I raised my arm to knock on the door, a soft cry sounded from inside. “Jade…” This needs to be on the next line :) Her name slipped out of my mouth as our eyes met. She grinned, but the expression seemed to have lost the touch of childhood. Her hair, still bright auburn, no longer flew wildly in the air and was tucked away tightly into a bun. Wrinkles extended from her eyes like marked vandalism threatening to steal away her youth. Nevertheless, it was my sister in living flesh before my eyes and scenes of two young girls leaping liberatingly in the air resurfaced. A sudden burst of warmth overwhelmed me and my body reached forward for an embrace.
“Ah wait, wait a second. Not now.” Jade scanned me, then sheepishly gestured downwards towards her grimy hands. “I’m working on the farm… don’t want to get you dirty now, do we.” I froze, ears flushing as I sensed my subconscious wince when eyeing Jade’s muddy shirt, its foul appearance a distinct contrast with my cream white dress. Once Jade spoke, I couldn’t overlook my growing reluctance to step nearer.
A moment of silence later, I meekly questioned about the state of the farm, only to find myself oblivious to Jade’s response on a matter that no longer concerns me. And when I refocused, Jade was apologetically lowering her head. “There’s a new lamb coming, I’ve got to go.” New line for dialogue.
With that, she hurried out of sight, her shadow merging into the farm.
The heat seemed to have toasted the ground beneath without notice, suffocating me.
I stilled. For a static moment, I gazed blankly at the recognizable yet somehow unfamiliar field of green in front of me. As I watched the lamb tumble onto the bare earth, sticky with blood and fluid, I realised with a harsh bitterness that it would belong to the farm more than I ever would again.
The azure sky greeted me from beyond the train window as I stirred to the soft sounds of shuffling. The vast emerald plain emerged, its familiarity prompting a sudden delight. In my mind, I could clearly picture one particularly weathered wooden house amid the green, baked by the sun a deep, rich copper gold. A house that I once called home. Just to the side was a hill slope that overlooked the Gwydir River and everything else I knew. Throughout my childhood, I would race up the hill at every opportunity and pirouette against the refreshing, choreographed breeze. Alongside me would always be my sister Jade, her enviable, long, auburn hair forever dancing in the air.
When I received the acceptance letter, Jade was the first to hear my news. She embraced me tightly with pride and joy. I would be the first to attend university in my town, Bundarra, since the past decades. Just adjust the syntax here, it reads as the university in your town, rather than, the first person in your town to go to university, if that makes sense :) To celebrate, our father slaughtered a newborn lamb at midday and carried the bloody carcass into the kitchen in merriment. Over time, however, this jubilation transformed into an unspoken sorrow that lingered in the air and haunted us all. Jade still joked “you can finally escape this heat now” but behind the chuckle I could hear the melancholy in her words. To sooth myself, I pictured a luxurious city lifestyle that I would soon embrace, with music playing on every street and people chatting heartily while sipping on coffee. The wording here isn't particularly extreme, yet it just captures me enough that I can have a very clear view of everything I believe you're trying to express. I really like this - it's a very careful balance.
The morning of my departure was a strangely chilly one. A bitter wind blew across, intensifying the scent of freshly burnt grass and engraving it into my mind as I bid my farewell.
***
Sharp, neon lights flashed at me from every angle, blinding me, mocking me. I tried to ask for help, but around me were only heads that buried deep into smartphones and tablets, their hasty footsteps against the concrete pavement like blood cells that flowed unceasingly through the veins of the city. I have a really nice birds-eye view of this pumping-city blood. love it. Anguished and frustrated, I tossed the Sydney map backwards.
The city, so unlike the colourful, majestic land in my imagination, was smudged grey by the smog filled sky. Lingered in the air were scents of smoke and petrol, occasionally mixed with sharp perfume fragrances that radiated off women passing by. Music, which was indeed everywhere, blasted from extravagant department stores into my right ear, while cars’ incessant honking pierced the left. The towering buildings that protruded from the ground had trapped me in their maze and I was the experimental rat desperate to find my way out.
At first, all I wanted was to call Jade and escape back to the restful emerald fields.
Yet as weeks turned into months and years, as the endless routines of university dragged me about like a lifeless puppet, I became sucked into the city’s perpetually pulsating rhythm. My visits back home grew less and less frequent as part time and full time jobs constrained my life. Calls between Jade and I also became scarce. Over time, unsurprisingly, the picturesque sceneries of the landscape no longer appeared behind my eyelids when they shut; instead, work and bus routes and countless brand names filled my head to the brim.
***
The colours of nature came to a halt as a platform emerged. When I stepped off the train, the familiar burning heat travelled rapidly across my skin and dried my throat, as if punishing me for disturbing the saintly land. Grimacing, I swiftly removed my lambswool cardigan, its scarlet colour distinct against the background.
Despite my promises to visit sooner, stressful schedules had kept me in the city and more than half a decade had passed since I had last set my eyes on the land before me. At a distance, a hint of copper gold flashed.
I struggled to maintain my balance as my stiletto heels pushed against the uneven, pebbled ground, but anticipation rushed through me as I moved closer towards the wooden farmhouse, its walls more withered than I remembered.
As I raised my arm to knock on the door, a soft cry sounded from inside. “Jade…” This needs to be on the next line :) Her name slipped out of my mouth as our eyes met. She grinned, but the expression seemed to have lost the touch of childhood. Her hair, still bright auburn, no longer flew wildly in the air and was tucked away tightly into a bun. Wrinkles extended from her eyes like marked vandalism threatening to steal away her youth. Nevertheless, it was my sister in living flesh before my eyes and scenes of two young girls leaping liberatingly in the air resurfaced. A sudden burst of warmth overwhelmed me and my body reached forward for an embrace.
“Ah wait, wait a second. Not now.” Jade scanned me, then sheepishly gestured downwards towards her grimy hands. “I’m working on the farm… don’t want to get you dirty now, do we.” I froze, ears flushing as I sensed my subconscious wince when eyeing Jade’s muddy shirt, its foul appearance a distinct contrast with my cream white dress. Once Jade spoke, I couldn’t overlook my growing reluctance to step nearer.
A moment of silence later, I meekly questioned about the state of the farm, only to find myself oblivious to Jade’s response on a matter that no longer concerns me. And when I refocused, Jade was apologetically lowering her head. “There’s a new lamb coming, I’ve got to go.” New line for dialogue.
With that, she hurried out of sight, her shadow merging into the farm.
The heat seemed to have toasted the ground beneath without notice, suffocating me.
I stilled. For a static moment, I gazed blankly at the recognizable yet somehow unfamiliar field of green in front of me. As I watched the lamb tumble onto the bare earth, sticky with blood and fluid, I realised with a harsh bitterness that it would belong to the farm more than I ever would again.
Your writing is just enough, it's just enough creative, sophisticated, controlled, and inviting. It's really a pleasure to read. It's smooth! I like the discovery, I see it happening at all stages, it's embedded early but expands throughout the story and really compounds - I think the discovery is really strong. In fact, I want to let you know how happy you should be with this piece, I'm sure it will be received well in the HSC. However, I want to adjust the ending. To me, when she stepped out in stilettos it kind of said that she's forgotten, or she's kind of lost the sensibility she was raised with. So, for me, I think it would be more pertinent if instead she went to ask about the farm, but just didn't know what to ask, or what words to use. I think this warrants Jane walking off, suddenly needing to tend to something, more so than her sister just not understanding. I think this adds to the discovery that she's drifted further than she ever thought, she's lost more of her roots than she ever realised. But, this is just my personal opinion of course - only take on the advice that you think it would work. All the best! :)
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 24, 2017, 07:13:55 pm
Right - okay I do totally see this now. I think the spiritual discovery that kind of threads through (from the Christmas spirit, to the spirit of family, to the spirit of perseverance, etc) is really strong. Now you've pointed them out, I do see those other ones more than what I did on initial reading. It makes me wonder if you could use language to better enhance these discoveries in a light way. So, similes and metaphors established at the beginning but finished towards the end, or the same sentence repeated at the beginning and the end with a slightly different tone or twist. This, to me, seems like a great idea only because we obviously don't want to make things explicit and obvious, but I think it needs just a little more tending to in order to become the discovery that we both want to see!
Yep okay I catch your drift! I did try the idea of a repeated sentence but with a different tone here in my original story: At the start the mother has the photos - "Faded polaroid photos clutched between calloused fingers, her only remaining memory of Grace’s lost childhood, and of her father that Grace barely knew." Then at the end, to demonstrate Grace's new understanding of her father I put - ". As they would most nights, they took refuge in their still windswept sleeping bag, pale polaroid photographs now grasped between Grace’s hardened hands, the only remaining memory of her childhood, of her father that she misses so dearly" Is it clear enough? hardened hands was meant to symbolise Grace's more mature understanding as a result of finding out about the truth about her father, then i got rid of lost when referring to her memory of her childhood to show how she has now a more complete grasp of her childhood (ie. her father) and finally she misses so dearly instead of she barely knew, so the same thing about how she now acknowledges what happened to her father and has come to terms with it. obviously i can't explain my intentions this in depth to the marker so if as you said i just need to make it a bit more clear that is fine :)
and just on another note, do you think i need to add more context etc. to make it clearer why they are on the street just because i think the marker last time found it either too unrealistic or with the tree cutting bit and blood too over the top dramatic. if it is that same marker who gave me 11/15 (even though i think it deserved more) should i still go with this story or do another one - he is my modern teacher and loves women in the war so might do something like that just to play to his interests?
Post by: beau77bro on July 24, 2017, 07:20:27 pm
I can't post the stimulus in there as well because too much space sorry guys.
could i get an estimate on time? my exam is on Wednesday and i will need to arrange around this on how i do things - like with the feedback and like bettering my overall creative skills
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 24, 2017, 07:26:39 pm
Hey elyse and atarnotes squad, could u guys check out this creative. I'm mostly worried about how i incorporated the stimulus. I know my story is solid and i feel like I have enough discoveries in me from the experiences to tackle any stimulus, BUT I NEED TO IMPLEMENT IT. so if you guys could give me any feedback on that and anything and everything else possible i would really appreciate it. Will attach a revised version before you guys see this/get up to this since i noticed a 3 day back log ahhaha. thank you. you guys do some great work.
I can't post the stimulus in there as well because too much space sorry guys.
could i get an estimate on time? my exam is on Wednesday and i will need to arrange around this on how i do things - like with the feedback and like bettering my overall creative skills
You mean next Wednesday right? You should hopefully have feedback by Friday!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 24, 2017, 07:28:34 pm
Hi! I got 11/15 for this creative and the feedback was: "This is a sustained and interesting narrative. Work on setting, as the emotional plot of the surgery sometimes overtakes the response. Further descriptive passages would help you to show your vocabulary and skill in writing."
Thanks guys!
Hey there! I'll have a look at your teacher's comments in relation to what I think as well! :)
Spoiler
Cataracts[/U]
The room was clenched in a grasp of quietness that was so firm, so stifling, that a drop of a pin would have been heard.
Literally.
Akins could feel his heart thudding violently in protest as a steady hand, encased in a sterilised glove, was poised ever so carefully over the operating table, casting a shadow on the left side of his chest.
“You’re being very brave, Akins. Now, this is going to sting a bit...shall we count down to one?”
All he could imagine was the daunting tip of the anaesthetic under the harsh glare of the surgical lighting. It was coming closer and closer by the second…
“Three.”
A hand grasped his own as he curled his fingers involuntarily around them. Like his own, they were clammy, but they felt cold, almost foreign to his palm.
“Two.”
The needle jerked forward, too fast for him to react.
The surgeon hadn’t even reached one. He had been betrayed.
Now, he was left to the mercy of the surgeon.
***
One week before the surgery
“Ah!”
Even before the surgery, he was prone to the agony accompanying the hope stripped away from him.
Aimlessly, he reached for his foot, rubbing his fingers against his toes to soothe their silent screams of anguish. He was used to breaking everything. He was used to stumbling over stray objects, or the corners of furniture. He was used to it all - but yet, he still wished to see a world where the sun’s rays of hope would penetrate the clouded depths of obscured nothingness.
As the pain gradually ebbed away, his hands fumbled for the comforting haven of the sofa before the pulsating pain could flow back in again. Once the familiar grooves of the fabric greeted his fingertips, he collapsed into the comfort of its embrace.
He had worked so hard on assembling his confidence, only to feel it crumbling as it slipped through his fingers. He had been tormented by his peers, shunned by the public - yet here he was, almost defeated by a table he had walked into.
When the front door opened an hour later, his mother had bustled in, armed with the clashing sounds of flimsy overflowing plastic bags as she saw him.
Akins was curled into a ball on the couch, his face buried between his knees. She assumed he had fallen asleep, his neglected mop of hair hiding his face - but it was the dramatic rise and fall of his figure that exposed the tears staining his face. Maybe this is a good place to build the setting more - the temperature, the smell, the amount of light, the old arm chair, or the new chaise lounge? This gives a little more insight into the background, creating a greater empathy, but also shows your prowess as a writer more.
His mother was never home while he was awake, so why today?
“I wanted to come home before you went to sleep today.”
Why today, when he was in such a pitiful state?
“Why didn’t you tell me? You used to tell me everything...”
He didn’t want her to find out. No, that had all ended when he overheard her on the phone after coming home one night, whispering in between weak sobs about how much of a burden he became. How hard it was to watch him struggle, let alone be at home with him.
He shuffled instinctively towards the edge as the couch groaned from the foreign intrusion of his mother’s weight. Even with his cataracts, he could tell that she was biting her lip, filtering her thoughts before breaching the awkward silence he had created.
“Well… your doctor is letting you have your cataracts removed next week. I’m sure it’ll go well. Right? You’ll be able to see clearly. Don’t cry!”
It was almost as if she was trying to convince herself.
“Akins. Say something. You know I never get to see you much and-”
It almost seemed rehearsed when he stood up and fumbled to his room, ignoring the numbness of his legs that came after sitting for such a long time.
His closed door was a shield that protected him from the pitiful stares of his mother. At the same time, it shut him off from the rest of the world, leaving him to simmer with a strange vehemence as he stared out his bedroom window. Even the blurry cage of his eyes could not hold back his imagination as he dreamed.
He could see the trees outside waving their branches against the blue gradient of the skies, beckoning for him in the breeze. He could see the birds swooping down towards children, distracting them from their young with their raucous caws. He could see strangers passing by, all walking with purpose as they glued their eyes to their phones.
He could picture it all, carefully stored away in the darkened crevices of his mind, waiting to be unleashed behind the blurry lens of his eyes. If he hadn’t been deterred by his mother’s unexpected presence, he might have smiled at the hope of seeing, for real.
***
When the tip of the anaesthetic intruded past his eyelids, he wasn’t sure if he was feeling more disconcerted by the sudden sting, or the hand that had reached for his own. As the doctor probed his eyes, Akins began to focus on his mother’s hand as she held his for the first time in months. He almost pulled his hand away - why was she not here for him until now, when he was finally being thrust into the world, void of clouded lens.
But he didn’t.
Calluses on his mother’s hand scratched against his clammy palms as he brushed against wrinkles deeply engraved on her skin.
Now, he could see. Even though he was still being operated on, he could envision his mother, coming home late from long days of manual labour. She would have been exhausted, plagued by the dark circles under her eyes, but it was all so that she would be able to be next to him, supporting him like she was now with her firm grasp on his hands.
With his cataracts being removed, he had finally broken free from the cloudy filter and leapt towards the light.
Every cloud has a silver lining, after all.
The room was clenched in a grasp of quietness that was so firm, so stifling, that a drop of a pin would have been heard.
Literally.
Akins could feel his heart thudding violently in protest as a steady hand, encased in a sterilised glove, was poised ever so carefully over the operating table, casting a shadow on the left side of his chest.
“You’re being very brave, Akins. Now, this is going to sting a bit...shall we count down to one?”
All he could imagine was the daunting tip of the anaesthetic under the harsh glare of the surgical lighting. It was coming closer and closer by the second…
“Three.”
A hand grasped his own as he curled his fingers involuntarily around them. Like his own, they were clammy, but they felt cold, almost foreign to his palm.
“Two.”
The needle jerked forward, too fast for him to react.
The surgeon hadn’t even reached one. He had been betrayed.
Now, he was left to the mercy of the surgeon.
***
One week before the surgery
“Ah!”
Even before the surgery, he was prone to the agony accompanying the hope stripped away from him.
Aimlessly, he reached for his foot, rubbing his fingers against his toes to soothe their silent screams of anguish. He was used to breaking everything. He was used to stumbling over stray objects, or the corners of furniture. He was used to it all - but yet, he still wished to see a world where the sun’s rays of hope would penetrate the clouded depths of obscured nothingness.
As the pain gradually ebbed away, his hands fumbled for the comforting haven of the sofa before the pulsating pain could flow back in again. Once the familiar grooves of the fabric greeted his fingertips, he collapsed into the comfort of its embrace.
He had worked so hard on assembling his confidence, only to feel it crumbling as it slipped through his fingers. He had been tormented by his peers, shunned by the public - yet here he was, almost defeated by a table he had walked into.
When the front door opened an hour later, his mother had bustled in, armed with the clashing sounds of flimsy overflowing plastic bags as she saw him.
Akins was curled into a ball on the couch, his face buried between his knees. She assumed he had fallen asleep, his neglected mop of hair hiding his face - but it was the dramatic rise and fall of his figure that exposed the tears staining his face. Maybe this is a good place to build the setting more - the temperature, the smell, the amount of light, the old arm chair, or the new chaise lounge? This gives a little more insight into the background, creating a greater empathy, but also shows your prowess as a writer more.
His mother was never home while he was awake, so why today?
“I wanted to come home before you went to sleep today.”
Why today, when he was in such a pitiful state?
“Why didn’t you tell me? You used to tell me everything...”
He didn’t want her to find out. No, that had all ended when he overheard her on the phone after coming home one night, whispering in between weak sobs about how much of a burden he became. How hard it was to watch him struggle, let alone be at home with him.
He shuffled instinctively towards the edge as the couch groaned from the foreign intrusion of his mother’s weight. Even with his cataracts, he could tell that she was biting her lip, filtering her thoughts before breaching the awkward silence he had created.
“Well… your doctor is letting you have your cataracts removed next week. I’m sure it’ll go well. Right? You’ll be able to see clearly. Don’t cry!”
It was almost as if she was trying to convince herself.
“Akins. Say something. You know I never get to see you much and-”
It almost seemed rehearsed when he stood up and fumbled to his room, ignoring the numbness of his legs that came after sitting for such a long time.
His closed door was a shield that protected him from the pitiful stares of his mother. At the same time, it shut him off from the rest of the world, leaving him to simmer with a strange vehemence as he stared out his bedroom window. Even the blurry cage of his eyes could not hold back his imagination as he dreamed.
He could see the trees outside waving their branches against the blue gradient of the skies, beckoning for him in the breeze. He could see the birds swooping down towards children, distracting them from their young with their raucous caws. He could see strangers passing by, all walking with purpose as they glued their eyes to their phones.
He could picture it all, carefully stored away in the darkened crevices of his mind, waiting to be unleashed behind the blurry lens of his eyes. If he hadn’t been deterred by his mother’s unexpected presence, he might have smiled at the hope of seeing, for real.
***
When the tip of the anaesthetic intruded past his eyelids, he wasn’t sure if he was feeling more disconcerted by the sudden sting, or the hand that had reached for his own. As the doctor probed his eyes, Akins began to focus on his mother’s hand as she held his for the first time in months. He almost pulled his hand away - why was she not here for him until now, when he was finally being thrust into the world, void of clouded lens.
But he didn’t.
Calluses on his mother’s hand scratched against his clammy palms as he brushed against wrinkles deeply engraved on her skin.
Now, he could see. Even though he was still being operated on, he could envision his mother, coming home late from long days of manual labour. She would have been exhausted, plagued by the dark circles under her eyes, but it was all so that she would be able to be next to him, supporting him like she was now with her firm grasp on his hands.
With his cataracts being removed, he had finally broken free from the cloudy filter and leapt towards the light.
Every cloud has a silver lining, after all.
I didn't comment much during the story and that's because the things I want to talk about run through the entire piece instead of just being noticeable in one or two sections. So, firstly, I think your writing style here is really well manipulated at times, especially when it comes to the truncated sentences in isolation, they can be very significant for the overall tone of the piece. But, it means that you don't get to show a prowess of creativity for a lot of it, and instead you're being quite clinical. In ways, this obviously matches the content so that's important. But, I think you should consider the parts that aren't surrounding surgery to be more warm, full of images and colours, just to make that contrast of setting really strong.
The other thing I want to comment on is the ending line. The use of the cliche idiom works best, in my opinion, when it's embedded earlier in the piece. So if you sew the seed earlier, than it becomes more than just an idiom at the end. So, if your protagonist were staring out the window and looking at the clouds so regularly, for example, and found them to be a muse of misery, then the idiom at the end would be the perfect resolution to the motif. I really think this is important not just for justifying the last sentence, but also for stringing the piece together in a far more creative manner - again, showing your prowess as a writer.
The discovery is strong, I don't have qualms about the way you're addressing the rubric or the plot, it's now just about adjusting the finer mechanics of the piece :)
Post by: limtou on July 24, 2017, 07:29:23 pm
Your writing is just enough, it's just enough creative, sophisticated, controlled, and inviting. It's really a pleasure to read. It's smooth! I like the discovery, I see it happening at all stages, it's embedded early but expands throughout the story and really compounds - I think the discovery is really strong. In fact, I want to let you know how happy you should be with this piece, I'm sure it will be received well in the HSC. However, I want to adjust the ending. To me, when she stepped out in stilettos it kind of said that she's forgotten, or she's kind of lost the sensibility she was raised with. So, for me, I think it would be more pertinent if instead she went to ask about the farm, but just didn't know what to ask, or what words to use. I think this warrants Jane walking off, suddenly needing to tend to something, more so than her sister just not understanding. I think this adds to the discovery that she's drifted further than she ever thought, she's lost more of her roots than she ever realised. But, this is just my personal opinion of course - only take on the advice that you think it would work. All the best! :)
Thank you so much for all the feedback Elyse!!! And your suggestion on the ending is great :) I think I tried too hard to emphasise on the drift between the persona and the land, that it appears a little inauthentic. Thanks for pointing that out!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 24, 2017, 07:34:28 pm
Yep okay I catch your drift! I did try the idea of a repeated sentence but with a different tone here in my original story: At the start the mother has the photos - "Faded polaroid photos clutched between calloused fingers, her only remaining memory of Grace’s lost childhood, and of her father that Grace barely knew." Then at the end, to demonstrate Grace's new understanding of her father I put - ". As they would most nights, they took refuge in their still windswept sleeping bag, pale polaroid photographs now grasped between Grace’s hardened hands, the only remaining memory of her childhood, of her father that she misses so dearly" Is it clear enough? hardened hands was meant to symbolise Grace's more mature understanding as a result of finding out about the truth about her father, then i got rid of lost when referring to her memory of her childhood to show how she has now a more complete grasp of her childhood (ie. her father) and finally she misses so dearly instead of she barely knew, so the same thing about how she now acknowledges what happened to her father and has come to terms with it. obviously i can't explain my intentions this in depth to the marker so if as you said i just need to make it a bit more clear that is fine :)
and just on another note, do you think i need to add more context etc. to make it clearer why they are on the street just because i think the marker last time found it either too unrealistic or with the tree cutting bit and blood too over the top dramatic. if it is that same marker who gave me 11/15 (even though i think it deserved more) should i still go with this story or do another one - he is my modern teacher and loves women in the war so might do something like that just to play to his interests?
For the first paragraph: I agree to everything. I think that's all really nice and skilful, and I really see the benefits of that kind of paralleling. It does need to just be brought to the surface a little more, the discovery, but that's fine. You can definitely pull that off without taking it too far.
As for the other idea...I do agree to an extent that it does just seem a bit...I'm lost for the right word, (not melodramatic ;) ), but I suppose, the story just expects the reader to run with it instead of giving the reader the pieces of the puzzle when it comes to them suddenly being on the street. I think the best way to do this is to not be cryptic, and be mostly direct in how they got to the street. The reason being, it's more just connecting the dots for the reader instead of expressing a chunk of the discovery. So I think if you can spend a little time on that in the story without it distracting from the discoveries at play, then I think it could work. As much as I admire playing into the interests of your teacher, I wonder if it is just too dramatic to engage the war effort, when you've already put the story in the wonderfully ordinary streets of Sydney, if that makes sense? That's one of the appeals I've had to your story - it's just set in the everyday circumstance.
Hope this helps! You're working so hard on this :)
Thank you so much for all the feedback Elyse!!! And your suggestion on the ending is great :) I think I tried too hard to emphasise on the drift between the persona and the land, that it appears a little inauthentic. Thanks for pointing that out!
I'm really chuffed, I'm glad we're on the same wavelength there. Best of luck with it, drop back any time :)
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 24, 2017, 07:49:58 pm
For the first paragraph: I agree to everything. I think that's all really nice and skilful, and I really see the benefits of that kind of paralleling. It does need to just be brought to the surface a little more, the discovery, but that's fine. You can definitely pull that off without taking it too far.
As for the other idea...I do agree to an extent that it does just seem a bit...I'm lost for the right word, (not melodramatic ;) ), but I suppose, the story just expects the reader to run with it instead of giving the reader the pieces of the puzzle when it comes to them suddenly being on the street. I think the best way to do this is to not be cryptic, and be mostly direct in how they got to the street. The reason being, it's more just connecting the dots for the reader instead of expressing a chunk of the discovery. So I think if you can spend a little time on that in the story without it distracting from the discoveries at play, then I think it could work. As much as I admire playing into the interests of your teacher, I wonder if it is just too dramatic to engage the war effort, when you've already put the story in the wonderfully ordinary streets of Sydney, if that makes sense? That's one of the appeals I've had to your story - it's just set in the everyday circumstance.
Hope this helps! You're working so hard on this :)
I'm really chuffed, I'm glad we're on the same wavelength there. Best of luck with it, drop back any time :)
Thanks so much Elyse really appreciate it! Only issue i have is if the teacher realises its the same core of a story and thinks i have just been lazy and just done the same thing he must just give me 11 again. of course its not an issue if hes not marking :)
in terms of the melodramatic part, he wrote "a bit extreme" for this part of the story when my actual english teacher loved it: The streets surrounding Darlinghurst Road, Kings Cross were encapsulated by the scent of thyme-filled turkey sizzling on aluminium foil and dazzling hues of green and red. Moderately sheltered, a mother laid motionless, in a silent embrace with her only daughter, Grace. A windswept sleeping bag, their only security from the sodden concrete beneath. In spite of the fear and squalor of her new life, Grace’s innocent exuberance shone brighter than any of the surrounding estates, splendidly adorned with ornamental lights. Samantha, however, was the image of a mother weathered by shame. Skin hidden behind layers of grime, and hair hung as a tangled mop over sunken eyes. Faded polaroid photos clutched between calloused fingers, her only remaining memory of Grace’s lost childhood, and of her father that Grace barely knew. Yet, Samantha had made a promise to her daughter – a promise to deliver her Christmas wish. - maybe it is too over the top? do you have any thoughts sorry to take up your time haha ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 24, 2017, 07:53:35 pm
Taking Jamon's exquisite advice as seen here: https://atarnotes.com/forum/index.php?topic=164657.msg963430#msg963430 I've updated my piece and I thought I'd resubmit it to see if it's any better.
Issues that I can still see:
Final realisation is still too sudden/language is clunky.
Dialogue with the biker is too brief - I opted against having it two-way to save space and to ensure it remained interesting. Not sure if it works.
Not sure if the updated characterisation (second paragraph added) has worked
Might still be too long for me to write out in 40 minutes but I can work on that.
Thanks!
Heya! Happy to take a look at this with fresh eyes after Jamon has given advice the first time around :)
Spoiler
You wouldn’t have been able to tell Sydney was on the cusp of winter. A light breeze ruffled evergreen leaves, adding little chill to tepid air. The afternoon sun was smiling down, with little care for the fact that it was working unpaid overtime. Its breezy attitude was fabulous for the precise rows of flowerbeds, their occupants swimming drunkenly in sunlight. On the roads sat the houses, waiting patiently for their owners to return for Christmas.
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode through stray locks of sandy hair. He’s the type of kid you’d look right past at the canteen queue, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of looking past you. Really love this! Eternally inquisitive, he chuffed his teachers until they became fed up of his constant attempts to find discrepancies in the syllabus. Eventually the sleepy state school arranged to offload all five foot four of Xavier to a selective campus for year eleven. WONDERFUL imagery! The wording here is just divine.
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand?
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball and chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Despite having walked this road for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan grinned and trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall.
Xavier tracked the plane across the Tasman. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty-thousand feet in the air in a thin metal tube?
Hearing chomping, he looked down at Stan and saw the stub of a discarded lamb cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Innocently, the brown marbles looked up at him, wondering what the holdup was.
Xavier tried to recall how many times he’d wrestled street scraps from Stan’s mouth as a puppy. He couldn’t. But he was sure that the dog knew he wasn’t supposed to eat that bone, as the end of his tail was raised ever so slightly as he trotted off. For Stan, Xavier realised, here and now is what matters.
The lead pulled taut, jerking Xavier out of his daze. The dog was trotting off for a reason – on the other side of the road, a bearded slab of a man emerged from a stained facade. Xavier tried hopelessly to resist – the stranger’s ink-drenched skin and shiny Harley Davidson gave him the impression that he wouldn’t be fond of Stan’s antics.
The biker turned around, alerted by the desperate wheezing Stan was making as he dragged his owner across the road.
Xavier did well to supress his wonder as biker’s menacing demeanour melted – his stubby fingers caressed the dog’s anvil-shaped head fondly. Embarrassingly, Stan decided to lie down, indicating it was time for a belly rub. His new friend obliged, having lowered himself slowly down onto his front step, so Xavier found himself having to start a conversation.
“He reminds me of my dog, Lucy,” the man confided. “I lost her a few months back.”
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend got up. “Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” He looked up at Xavier: “See you ‘round bro.” I've read this over a few times now and I'm confused about the dialogue - I can't work out what's going on? When you say "he looked up," grammatically, you are indicating that Stan is the he. So then I'm not sure iff Xavier is saying both sentences or just one. Either way, you need to start a new line for the dialogue,
and if the second sentence is said by someone other than Xavier, you need to start a new line for that as well. I'm sorry to be so lost in such a crucial part of the story!
Order was restored as the pair continued walking, soon arriving back home.
Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes as the keys jangled on the way out of his pocket. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, ready to be plunged eagerly into his familiar water bowl.
Maybe… maybe ignorance really is bliss? Stan takes life for what it is, and he’s happy as can be. He even made a new friend today, enabled by his carefree attitude. Maybe I have something to learn from my four-legged friend…
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode through stray locks of sandy hair. He’s the type of kid you’d look right past at the canteen queue, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of looking past you. Really love this! Eternally inquisitive, he chuffed his teachers until they became fed up of his constant attempts to find discrepancies in the syllabus. Eventually the sleepy state school arranged to offload all five foot four of Xavier to a selective campus for year eleven. WONDERFUL imagery! The wording here is just divine.
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand?
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball and chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Despite having walked this road for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan grinned and trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall.
Xavier tracked the plane across the Tasman. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty-thousand feet in the air in a thin metal tube?
Hearing chomping, he looked down at Stan and saw the stub of a discarded lamb cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Innocently, the brown marbles looked up at him, wondering what the holdup was.
Xavier tried to recall how many times he’d wrestled street scraps from Stan’s mouth as a puppy. He couldn’t. But he was sure that the dog knew he wasn’t supposed to eat that bone, as the end of his tail was raised ever so slightly as he trotted off. For Stan, Xavier realised, here and now is what matters.
The lead pulled taut, jerking Xavier out of his daze. The dog was trotting off for a reason – on the other side of the road, a bearded slab of a man emerged from a stained facade. Xavier tried hopelessly to resist – the stranger’s ink-drenched skin and shiny Harley Davidson gave him the impression that he wouldn’t be fond of Stan’s antics.
The biker turned around, alerted by the desperate wheezing Stan was making as he dragged his owner across the road.
Xavier did well to supress his wonder as biker’s menacing demeanour melted – his stubby fingers caressed the dog’s anvil-shaped head fondly. Embarrassingly, Stan decided to lie down, indicating it was time for a belly rub. His new friend obliged, having lowered himself slowly down onto his front step, so Xavier found himself having to start a conversation.
“He reminds me of my dog, Lucy,” the man confided. “I lost her a few months back.”
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend got up. “Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” He looked up at Xavier: “See you ‘round bro.” I've read this over a few times now and I'm confused about the dialogue - I can't work out what's going on? When you say "he looked up," grammatically, you are indicating that Stan is the he. So then I'm not sure iff Xavier is saying both sentences or just one. Either way, you need to start a new line for the dialogue,
and if the second sentence is said by someone other than Xavier, you need to start a new line for that as well. I'm sorry to be so lost in such a crucial part of the story!
Order was restored as the pair continued walking, soon arriving back home.
Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes as the keys jangled on the way out of his pocket. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, ready to be plunged eagerly into his familiar water bowl.
Maybe… maybe ignorance really is bliss? Stan takes life for what it is, and he’s happy as can be. He even made a new friend today, enabled by his carefree attitude. Maybe I have something to learn from my four-legged friend…
I think what I like about this story, is firstly, it's simplicity. Jamon commented on this before, but I really do think it is one of the strongest points of the story. Secondly, the way that the characterisation is built from the beginning, so I can understand the significance of Xavier's discovery as prompted by Stan. That's really nice.
What lacks for me is that I don't really understand the engagement with the man on the motorbike. I read your story through three times and tried to perceive him differently each time, but I couldn't quite understand the significance there, and how it relates to the order being restored. I don't think it's your writing that's confusing it (except where that passage of dialogue is), but instead it's just the execution around this general area of the story. At the beginning, the setting was so clear, but when it comes to the people-interactions in the street, it's not so clear anymore. So I have this clear image of Xavier in school, and what the motorbike looks like, but the interactions that happened within just don't quite click for me. If you can explain it in your own words to me what you're trying to achieve, I'll happily give you pointers back to rake it in to the creative we hope for :) You noted that the final realisation might be a bit sudden, and that's potentially true, but I think it all depends on how this interaction plays out!
Let me know what you think :)
Thanks so much Elyse really appreciate it! Only issue i have is if the teacher realises its the same core of a story and thinks i have just been lazy and just done the same thing he must just give me 11 again. of course its not an issue if hes not marking :)
Hopefully your teacher can view it with fresh eyes. Possibly even let him know in advance that you've been working on it based on his feedback, if you're worried that he might be dismissive in marking! Although for your sake - I hope you're marked fairly!
Post by: Daniyahasan on July 24, 2017, 07:54:48 pm
Thanks so much Elyse really appreciate it! Only issue i have is if the teacher realises its the same core of a story and thinks i have just been lazy and just done the same thing he must just give me 11 again. of course its not an issue if hes not marking :)
using your creative twice shouldnt really be an issue unless your school is fussy like that (im pretty sure the teachers at my school dont even remember your storys even a week later lol)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 24, 2017, 07:55:25 pm
Thank you to everyone who has gone out on a limb and shared their work, for everyone who's dropped by for some inspiration, and a particular thank you to everyone who has offered their advice to another peer. What a great community we have. I'm so smiley :)
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 24, 2017, 07:56:18 pm
using your creative twice shouldnt really be an issue unless your school is fussy like that (im pretty sure the teachers at my school dont even remember your storys even a week later lol)
ahha well we find out whos marking tomorrow so fingers crossed its not him. although tbh if hes marking another section he is shocking either way. his feedback ranges from OK to trying to hard to work on a thesis... loves to tell you to work on a thesis even if you have a strong one already aha
Post by: Daniyahasan on July 24, 2017, 07:58:39 pm
WE'VE JUST REACHED 50 FORUM PAGES OF AOS CREATIVE WRITING MARKING! How exciting!
Thank you to everyone who has gone out on a limb and shared their work, for everyone who's dropped by for some inspiration, and a particular thank you to everyone who has offered their advice to another peer. What a great community we have. I'm so smiley :)
I think i spend all my free time scrolling through the forums, such a nice community you guys have here:)
Mod Edit: Post merge :)
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 24, 2017, 08:11:35 pm
Heya! Happy to take a look at this with fresh eyes after Jamon has given advice the first time around :)SpoilerYou wouldn’t have been able to tell Sydney was on the cusp of winter. A light breeze ruffled evergreen leaves, adding little chill to tepid air. The afternoon sun was smiling down, with little care for the fact that it was working unpaid overtime. Its breezy attitude was fabulous for the precise rows of flowerbeds, their occupants swimming drunkenly in sunlight. On the roads sat the houses, waiting patiently for their owners to return for Christmas.
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode through stray locks of sandy hair. He’s the type of kid you’d look right past at the canteen queue, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of looking past you. Really love this! Eternally inquisitive, he chuffed his teachers until they became fed up of his constant attempts to find discrepancies in the syllabus. Eventually the sleepy state school arranged to offload all five foot four of Xavier to a selective campus for year eleven. WONDERFUL imagery! The wording here is just divine.
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand?
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball and chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Despite having walked this road for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan grinned and trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall.
Xavier tracked the plane across the Tasman. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty-thousand feet in the air in a thin metal tube?
Hearing chomping, he looked down at Stan and saw the stub of a discarded lamb cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Innocently, the brown marbles looked up at him, wondering what the holdup was.
Xavier tried to recall how many times he’d wrestled street scraps from Stan’s mouth as a puppy. He couldn’t. But he was sure that the dog knew he wasn’t supposed to eat that bone, as the end of his tail was raised ever so slightly as he trotted off. For Stan, Xavier realised, here and now is what matters.
The lead pulled taut, jerking Xavier out of his daze. The dog was trotting off for a reason – on the other side of the road, a bearded slab of a man emerged from a stained facade. Xavier tried hopelessly to resist – the stranger’s ink-drenched skin and shiny Harley Davidson gave him the impression that he wouldn’t be fond of Stan’s antics.
The biker turned around, alerted by the desperate wheezing Stan was making as he dragged his owner across the road.
Xavier did well to supress his wonder as biker’s menacing demeanour melted – his stubby fingers caressed the dog’s anvil-shaped head fondly. Embarrassingly, Stan decided to lie down, indicating it was time for a belly rub. His new friend obliged, having lowered himself slowly down onto his front step, so Xavier found himself having to start a conversation.
“He reminds me of my dog, Lucy,” the man confided. “I lost her a few months back.”
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend got up. “Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” He looked up at Xavier: “See you ‘round bro.” I've read this over a few times now and I'm confused about the dialogue - I can't work out what's going on? When you say "he looked up," grammatically, you are indicating that Stan is the he. So then I'm not sure iff Xavier is saying both sentences or just one. Either way, you need to start a new line for the dialogue,
and if the second sentence is said by someone other than Xavier, you need to start a new line for that as well. I'm sorry to be so lost in such a crucial part of the story!
Order was restored as the pair continued walking, soon arriving back home.
Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes as the keys jangled on the way out of his pocket. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, ready to be plunged eagerly into his familiar water bowl.
Maybe… maybe ignorance really is bliss? Stan takes life for what it is, and he’s happy as can be. He even made a new friend today, enabled by his carefree attitude. Maybe I have something to learn from my four-legged friend…SpoilerI think what I like about this story, is firstly, it's simplicity. Jamon commented on this before, but I really do think it is one of the strongest points of the story. Secondly, the way that the characterisation is built from the beginning, so I can understand the significance of Xavier's discovery as prompted by Stan. That's really nice.
What lacks for me is that I don't really understand the engagement with the man on the motorbike. I read your story through three times and tried to perceive him differently each time, but I couldn't quite understand the significance there, and how it relates to the order being restored. I don't think it's your writing that's confusing it (except where that passage of dialogue is), but instead it's just the execution around this general area of the story. At the beginning, the setting was so clear, but when it comes to the people-interactions in the street, it's not so clear anymore. So I have this clear image of Xavier in school, and what the motorbike looks like, but the interactions that happened within just don't quite click for me. If you can explain it in your own words to me what you're trying to achieve, I'll happily give you pointers back to rake it in to the creative we hope for :) You noted that the final realisation might be a bit sudden, and that's potentially true, but I think it all depends on how this interaction plays out!
Let me know what you think :)
Hopefully your teacher can view it with fresh eyes. Possibly even let him know in advance that you've been working on it based on his feedback, if you're worried that he might be dismissive in marking! Although for your sake - I hope you're marked fairly!
Hey Elyse, sorry I've just edited my previous post in regards to what part the teacher found melodramatic, if he is the marker I'll ask tomorrow what he thinks I can do to fix it but Ill probably ask either way. :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 24, 2017, 08:30:31 pm
Hi!
So I finally racked up 15 posts and here is my creative writing! My teacher had no negative feedback but I still need to cut it down and feel like I can't with my storyline so far :-\ Should I change Jordan to a catalyst in the natural environment? Any feedback would be appreciated :)
Thankyou! Annabelle x
Hey Annabelle! Thank you x1010038 for getting your post count up from 15 to 25. We really appreciate this kind of commitment, so thanks for being a star! I'll take a look at this :)
Spoiler
The crunching sand between my toes awakens my senses. Paving the way to the main event; my steps quicken in anticipation as I behold the great blue force of mother nature beyond. Icy water laps at my feet, but my toes embrace it’s cool touch, never shirking away in betrayal of my heart’s greatest love. All it takes is a single leap into it’s waiting aims as the waves press me forward, almost as if they are whispering, “come closer, closer”, in response to my daily ritual.
“BANG!” the starter’s gun goes off, and while the young fledglings sprint into the ocean’s depths, wielding the waters as a tool to bring themselves personal glory, I hesitate; knowing it’s beauty is only revealed to those who look deeper, below the smooth surface. Slowly but surely I make my way out and around those obnoxious fluoro buoys, a seeming act of vandalism against the serene horizon. I understand a lot about the way the protagonist feels about the ocean already - how wonderful!
You see the thing is, I was one of them not all that long ago. I craved the feeling of cool gold kissing my neck, and hungered for the next second off my personal best.
It was she who changed me. She who revealed the world to me in a way that I once ignored.
Eyes brimming with excitement she dove in next to me, the grin spreading across her face an unspoken promise to follow her father’s footsteps; this thought however sweet could not cloud my judgement; I had a job to do. Like always, I was there to win; my sole purpose to outswim my competitors and hurtle over that finish line in first position. Muscles tensed from the moment the cool water hit me; a shock to my system, Jordan next to me too over-rating in response to the numbing of all exposed limbs. Turning my eyes forward, a gap in the break soon opened up in our midst. An opportunity too advantageous to miss, “Jordan, follow me!”, I yelled over the pounding waves and splashing bodies; her response inaudible in the chaotic intensity of the race. I knew it was now or never, and rode the current foward to open ocean. Dialogue needs a new line :) Also, just a typo in forward* :)
It was go time.
Powerfully I propelled myself forward, the waves pushing me on as I stroked to the head of the front pack. My mind was clearly focused on that end goal, reciting over and over, “I had put in the countless hours, turned my arms those thousands of times in preparation for this one moment”. Nothing was ever going to come between me and that pure glory. Nothing. And of course Jordan knew that too. Or so I thought.
As my breaths started coming fast and hard, I chucked a glance towards my right. Only a endless horizon extended into the midst; to my left only a row of swimmers jostling over those finish line honours.
Panic started to set in, my breaths coming harder and faster, no longer from exertion but parental fear pooling in the bottom of my stomach as I stopped to scull and take in the water around me. Absolutely nothing. The competition, only a few minutes ago so important to me, thrust out of my mind.
I began my frantic scramble back to the beach, head up while I scanned the blue peaks for her telltale purple cap. So many swimmers, so many turning arms and legs oblivious to my distress. I wanted to scream at them, “please help me! Can anyone….. Please!” but I was alone in my silent struggle; my anguish internal as possibilities of her whereabouts streamed like rapids through my mind. I'm finding it hard to comment because I'm sucked in to the commotion!!
Left and right I zig zaged, ducking under and over the water for my Jordan. Minutes, seemingly hours passed with no sign of her, but my search would not cease for even a second as I vowed to cover every centimetre of that ocean floor if it came to it. That reef in the distance? The only unsearched waters I hadn’t ventured seemed unlikely, but in my desperation I had to keep that sliver of hope alive, my swim towards the rocks began without hesitation. At first, nothing; only the sound of squabbling seagulls and splashing fish there to mask that almighty cry threatening to spill out of me; but then a flash of purple in the corner of my eye snagged my attention. Legs and arms now weary, almost trembling in exhaustion; every stroke a struggle as I sprinted in it’s direction. “Its her. it’s her.” I repeated over and over in my mind, convincing myself she was there. No other thought could I face; this phrase all that was keeping me whole.
All of a sudden, that purple cap became a face among the froth.
“Dad!”
Time stopped. My excruciating anguish subsided to relief at the sight of Jordan’s face, that innocent excitement so oblivious to my crippling worry only moments ago. It took every last ounce of energy for me to make it over to her, I soaked in every inch of her face I only minutes ago thought was lost forever. We embraced even as she wriggled to stay afloat, and in response to her confusion over my emotional state; “later Jordan. Later.” Those harsh words and realisations would have to come, but later. Adrenaline was still surging through my system, and for now, an explanation of her whereabouts would suffice.
“I was swimming with you dad, but then you disappeared. I just guessed you were trying win, and I couldn’t keep up, so I swam over here, to the reef” . Eyes turned down, in almost a whisper, “Unless I was with you, I didn’t want to compete…...I saw some dory and nemo fish, some pretty pink coral…………….”
I had zoned out; her words hitting me harder surely than intended. The thought of her racing just to be with me had never crossed my mind, and to see the ocean as more than just forward currents and obstructing waves? But instead appreciate it for it’s beauty and gentle hold. It was a foreign concept, but not one I could not grasp in one look below the surface. Gesturing towards all the vibrant corals extending the length of the ocean floor, fish swimming in schools instinctively following one another; I thought she might be onto something. We spent hours exploring it’s depths, beauty I never imagined existing only a few metres deeper than I cared to look. And seeing the joy on her face; I finally understood her desires not to be like me, but to be with me, her eyes seeing the ocean as something so much more than merely a tool for attaining glory.
It was only then I came to realise winning a meagre race was not a triumph over mankind, but instead an ignorance towards nature, lacking the ability to appreciate it’s power in bringing individuals together, through a shared understanding of it’s infinite beauty. Today however, with this knowledge in hand, it is father and daughter who stroke together; all the while keeping an eye on the ocean floor; the beauty of the briny deep revealed only to those who seek it.
Word Count: 1192
“BANG!” the starter’s gun goes off, and while the young fledglings sprint into the ocean’s depths, wielding the waters as a tool to bring themselves personal glory, I hesitate; knowing it’s beauty is only revealed to those who look deeper, below the smooth surface. Slowly but surely I make my way out and around those obnoxious fluoro buoys, a seeming act of vandalism against the serene horizon. I understand a lot about the way the protagonist feels about the ocean already - how wonderful!
You see the thing is, I was one of them not all that long ago. I craved the feeling of cool gold kissing my neck, and hungered for the next second off my personal best.
It was she who changed me. She who revealed the world to me in a way that I once ignored.
Eyes brimming with excitement she dove in next to me, the grin spreading across her face an unspoken promise to follow her father’s footsteps; this thought however sweet could not cloud my judgement; I had a job to do. Like always, I was there to win; my sole purpose to outswim my competitors and hurtle over that finish line in first position. Muscles tensed from the moment the cool water hit me; a shock to my system, Jordan next to me too over-rating in response to the numbing of all exposed limbs. Turning my eyes forward, a gap in the break soon opened up in our midst. An opportunity too advantageous to miss, “Jordan, follow me!”, I yelled over the pounding waves and splashing bodies; her response inaudible in the chaotic intensity of the race. I knew it was now or never, and rode the current foward to open ocean. Dialogue needs a new line :) Also, just a typo in forward* :)
It was go time.
Powerfully I propelled myself forward, the waves pushing me on as I stroked to the head of the front pack. My mind was clearly focused on that end goal, reciting over and over, “I had put in the countless hours, turned my arms those thousands of times in preparation for this one moment”. Nothing was ever going to come between me and that pure glory. Nothing. And of course Jordan knew that too. Or so I thought.
As my breaths started coming fast and hard, I chucked a glance towards my right. Only a endless horizon extended into the midst; to my left only a row of swimmers jostling over those finish line honours.
Panic started to set in, my breaths coming harder and faster, no longer from exertion but parental fear pooling in the bottom of my stomach as I stopped to scull and take in the water around me. Absolutely nothing. The competition, only a few minutes ago so important to me, thrust out of my mind.
I began my frantic scramble back to the beach, head up while I scanned the blue peaks for her telltale purple cap. So many swimmers, so many turning arms and legs oblivious to my distress. I wanted to scream at them, “please help me! Can anyone….. Please!” but I was alone in my silent struggle; my anguish internal as possibilities of her whereabouts streamed like rapids through my mind. I'm finding it hard to comment because I'm sucked in to the commotion!!
Left and right I zig zaged, ducking under and over the water for my Jordan. Minutes, seemingly hours passed with no sign of her, but my search would not cease for even a second as I vowed to cover every centimetre of that ocean floor if it came to it. That reef in the distance? The only unsearched waters I hadn’t ventured seemed unlikely, but in my desperation I had to keep that sliver of hope alive, my swim towards the rocks began without hesitation. At first, nothing; only the sound of squabbling seagulls and splashing fish there to mask that almighty cry threatening to spill out of me; but then a flash of purple in the corner of my eye snagged my attention. Legs and arms now weary, almost trembling in exhaustion; every stroke a struggle as I sprinted in it’s direction. “Its her. it’s her.” I repeated over and over in my mind, convincing myself she was there. No other thought could I face; this phrase all that was keeping me whole.
All of a sudden, that purple cap became a face among the froth.
“Dad!”
Time stopped. My excruciating anguish subsided to relief at the sight of Jordan’s face, that innocent excitement so oblivious to my crippling worry only moments ago. It took every last ounce of energy for me to make it over to her, I soaked in every inch of her face I only minutes ago thought was lost forever. We embraced even as she wriggled to stay afloat, and in response to her confusion over my emotional state; “later Jordan. Later.” Those harsh words and realisations would have to come, but later. Adrenaline was still surging through my system, and for now, an explanation of her whereabouts would suffice.
“I was swimming with you dad, but then you disappeared. I just guessed you were trying win, and I couldn’t keep up, so I swam over here, to the reef” . Eyes turned down, in almost a whisper, “Unless I was with you, I didn’t want to compete…...I saw some dory and nemo fish, some pretty pink coral…………….”
I had zoned out; her words hitting me harder surely than intended. The thought of her racing just to be with me had never crossed my mind, and to see the ocean as more than just forward currents and obstructing waves? But instead appreciate it for it’s beauty and gentle hold. It was a foreign concept, but not one I could not grasp in one look below the surface. Gesturing towards all the vibrant corals extending the length of the ocean floor, fish swimming in schools instinctively following one another; I thought she might be onto something. We spent hours exploring it’s depths, beauty I never imagined existing only a few metres deeper than I cared to look. And seeing the joy on her face; I finally understood her desires not to be like me, but to be with me, her eyes seeing the ocean as something so much more than merely a tool for attaining glory.
It was only then I came to realise winning a meagre race was not a triumph over mankind, but instead an ignorance towards nature, lacking the ability to appreciate it’s power in bringing individuals together, through a shared understanding of it’s infinite beauty. Today however, with this knowledge in hand, it is father and daughter who stroke together; all the while keeping an eye on the ocean floor; the beauty of the briny deep revealed only to those who seek it.
Word Count: 1192
Where to begin! I didn't comment a lot throughout because I was just being taken on a journey with the storyline the entire time! Such a pleasure to be taken through the motions like this, there were intense times and there were calm times. I have to say, I think your story is more complicated than what it needs to be. This isn't to say I think it's too complicated, but I will tell you the most outstanding discovery to me. The relationship with the water was assessed at several stages during the piece and it was really refreshing to look at these as minor discoveries. But also, the relationship between reward in materialism and reward through naturalism. To be engaged in materialism meant that it was about the award, the winner. But then it was discovered that the main winner here was when we could see the ocean in a way that was natural, giving, and rewarding in its own way. The interactions between humans like Jordan actually confused me, I found myself reading those sections twice and then discarding them in my mind in a way, so that I could continue with the narrative about the relationship with the sea. So I suppose this presents you an interesting idea, that you could continue this onwards by refining the interactions between Jordan and the protagonist. Or, you could really rake the story back to the simple story of the relationship with the water, which has a strong enough discovery by itself, and then decide if you want to replace the Jordan-interactions with something else. I'm interested for you to explain to me in words outside of the story what the conflict with Jordan is - and maybe I can suggest a way to embed it so that it serves to support the discoveries that I see strongest, instead of being a kind of distraction from them? But I'm happy for you to discard my reading all together, of course, if you want to stick to your guns with this one :) But, happy to chat about this to work out a way to better engage the aspects of the plot for a more cohesive story :)
Post by: _____ on July 24, 2017, 08:34:55 pm
Heya! Happy to take a look at this with fresh eyes after Jamon has given advice the first time around :)SpoilerYou wouldn’t have been able to tell Sydney was on the cusp of winter. A light breeze ruffled evergreen leaves, adding little chill to tepid air. The afternoon sun was smiling down, with little care for the fact that it was working unpaid overtime. Its breezy attitude was fabulous for the precise rows of flowerbeds, their occupants swimming drunkenly in sunlight. On the roads sat the houses, waiting patiently for their owners to return for Christmas.
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode through stray locks of sandy hair. He’s the type of kid you’d look right past at the canteen queue, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of looking past you. Really love this! Eternally inquisitive, he chuffed his teachers until they became fed up of his constant attempts to find discrepancies in the syllabus. Eventually the sleepy state school arranged to offload all five foot four of Xavier to a selective campus for year eleven. WONDERFUL imagery! The wording here is just divine.
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand?
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball and chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Despite having walked this road for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan grinned and trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall.
Xavier tracked the plane across the Tasman. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty-thousand feet in the air in a thin metal tube?
Hearing chomping, he looked down at Stan and saw the stub of a discarded lamb cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Innocently, the brown marbles looked up at him, wondering what the holdup was.
Xavier tried to recall how many times he’d wrestled street scraps from Stan’s mouth as a puppy. He couldn’t. But he was sure that the dog knew he wasn’t supposed to eat that bone, as the end of his tail was raised ever so slightly as he trotted off. For Stan, Xavier realised, here and now is what matters.
The lead pulled taut, jerking Xavier out of his daze. The dog was trotting off for a reason – on the other side of the road, a bearded slab of a man emerged from a stained facade. Xavier tried hopelessly to resist – the stranger’s ink-drenched skin and shiny Harley Davidson gave him the impression that he wouldn’t be fond of Stan’s antics.
The biker turned around, alerted by the desperate wheezing Stan was making as he dragged his owner across the road.
Xavier did well to supress his wonder as biker’s menacing demeanour melted – his stubby fingers caressed the dog’s anvil-shaped head fondly. Embarrassingly, Stan decided to lie down, indicating it was time for a belly rub. His new friend obliged, having lowered himself slowly down onto his front step, so Xavier found himself having to start a conversation.
“He reminds me of my dog, Lucy,” the man confided. “I lost her a few months back.”
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend got up. “Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” He looked up at Xavier: “See you ‘round bro.” I've read this over a few times now and I'm confused about the dialogue - I can't work out what's going on? When you say "he looked up," grammatically, you are indicating that Stan is the he. So then I'm not sure iff Xavier is saying both sentences or just one. Either way, you need to start a new line for the dialogue,
and if the second sentence is said by someone other than Xavier, you need to start a new line for that as well. I'm sorry to be so lost in such a crucial part of the story!
Order was restored as the pair continued walking, soon arriving back home.
Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes as the keys jangled on the way out of his pocket. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, ready to be plunged eagerly into his familiar water bowl.
Maybe… maybe ignorance really is bliss? Stan takes life for what it is, and he’s happy as can be. He even made a new friend today, enabled by his carefree attitude. Maybe I have something to learn from my four-legged friend…
I think what I like about this story, is firstly, it's simplicity. Jamon commented on this before, but I really do think it is one of the strongest points of the story. Secondly, the way that the characterisation is built from the beginning, so I can understand the significance of Xavier's discovery as prompted by Stan. That's really nice.
What lacks for me is that I don't really understand the engagement with the man on the motorbike. I read your story through three times and tried to perceive him differently each time, but I couldn't quite understand the significance there, and how it relates to the order being restored. I don't think it's your writing that's confusing it (except where that passage of dialogue is), but instead it's just the execution around this general area of the story. At the beginning, the setting was so clear, but when it comes to the people-interactions in the street, it's not so clear anymore. So I have this clear image of Xavier in school, and what the motorbike looks like, but the interactions that happened within just don't quite click for me. If you can explain it in your own words to me what you're trying to achieve, I'll happily give you pointers back to rake it in to the creative we hope for :) You noted that the final realisation might be a bit sudden, and that's potentially true, but I think it all depends on how this interaction plays out!
Let me know what you think :)
Thanks a bunch.
Shows how helpful it is to have a second pair of eyes to spot stuff that a marker might be confused by! That dialogue is supposed to be the biker talking - in my head I didn't spot anything wrong with it.
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend got up. “Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” He looked up at Xavier: “See you ‘round bro.” I've read this over a few times now and I'm confused about the dialogue - I can't work out what's going on? When you say "he looked up," grammatically, you are indicating that Stan is the he. So then I'm not sure iff Xavier is saying both sentences or just one. Either way, you need to start a new line for the dialogue,
and if the second sentence is said by someone other than Xavier, you need to start a new line for that as well. I'm sorry to be so lost in such a crucial part of the story!
In my mind, "...until his best friend got up" indicated possession of the biker for the forthcoming dialogue. And then "He looked up at Xavier" continues it for the next sentence. Stan walks to man > man strokes dog > Xavier strikes up a conversation (but whatever he says is omitted) > some of the biker's reply is included. I think I need to be clearer. Is the following the correct way regarding formatting?
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend got up.
“Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” He looked up at Xavier: “See you ‘round bro.”
I'm kind of trying to avoid something super boring like "The man/biker said:" but I suppose it's more important to be clear. I think this is where the confusion begins:
His new friend obliged, having lowered himself slowly down onto his front step, so Xavier found himself having to start a conversation.
“He reminds me of my dog, Lucy,” the man confided. “I lost her a few months back.”
Narrator mentions Xavier beginning a conversation and then the other guy's dialogue begins. Is that confusing as well?
Regarding the meeting, I'll explain what I'm trying to do as its meaning has probably been lost in that abhorrent dialogue. As Jamon suggested, the discovery needed (from the first draft) to be drawn out a bit, with a more significant catalyst. So Stan sees the biker and runs off to him, wanting a hug. Xavier doesn't want to, because he thinks the biker's a bit intimidating and/or he won't like Stan. But, to his "wonder" (rubric term!!11!1!) the guy spends a few minutes stroking Stan, having had a dog himself. Xavier realises that Stan's carefree attitude (juxtapositioned with his analytical mindset/tendency to consider everything really deeply) enables him to live happily. This is what the last lines are trying to say but it's too blunt and could be more delicate. The "order was restored" line was supposed to highlight the significance of the fact Stan had stopped walking (and started again after they set off again), not something related explicitly to the final discovery/realisation.
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 24, 2017, 08:35:29 pm
-Danitabasan
-Georgiia
-Winstondarmavan
-Beau77bro
You've asked how long to expect before these get marked, and I'm hoping to declare we'll be able to get to these by tomorrow evening (I'm making a trip to the library for a marking spree before I start Uni on Wednesday so anything that doesn't get done tonight - tomorrow!) but otherwise, by Wednesday evening for those who have already posted on this thread, at the latest I imagine. Hopefully this helps you work out a bit of a study plan in the mean time :)
Post by: Daniyahasan on July 24, 2017, 08:38:45 pm
Hi all - I have the following on this board as yet to receive marking:
-Danitabasan
-Georgiia
-Winstondarmavan
-Beau77bro
You've asked how long to expect before these get marked, and I'm hoping to declare we'll be able to get to these by tomorrow evening (I'm making a trip to the library for a marking spree before I start Uni on Wednesday so anything that doesn't get done tonight - tomorrow!) but otherwise, by Wednesday evening for those who have already posted on this thread, at the latest I imagine. Hopefully this helps you work out a bit of a study plan in the mean time :)
ohh thanks Elyse!
Post by: georgiia on July 24, 2017, 08:40:33 pm
Hi all - I have the following on this board as yet to receive marking:
-Danitabasan
-Georgiia
-Winstondarmavan
-Beau77bro
You've asked how long to expect before these get marked, and I'm hoping to declare we'll be able to get to these by tomorrow evening (I'm making a trip to the library for a marking spree before I start Uni on Wednesday so anything that doesn't get done tonight - tomorrow!) but otherwise, by Wednesday evening for those who have already posted on this thread, at the latest I imagine. Hopefully this helps you work out a bit of a study plan in the mean time :)
Thank You so much Elyse!
Not sure if this is the right thread for this question but I'm wondering what are some ways that I can learn my creative between now and next week? Aside from adapting it to stimuli and recording myself? Do you recommend any websites that'll turn it into a close passage sort of thing or other websites that turn text into a memorising sort of thing?
Thanks!!
Post by: Daniyahasan on July 24, 2017, 08:51:38 pm
Thank You so much Elyse!
Not sure if this is the right thread for this question but I'm wondering what are some ways that I can learn my creative between now and next week? Aside from adapting it to stimuli and recording myself? Do you recommend any websites that'll turn it into a close passage sort of thing or other websites that turn text into a memorising sort of thing?
Thanks!!
wthh this is such a good idea to memorise!
i used to sit there the night before trying to memorise para by para
im actually so grateful for you to mention that close passage idea, thank youuuuu
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 24, 2017, 08:52:00 pm
Thank You so much Elyse!
Not sure if this is the right thread for this question but I'm wondering what are some ways that I can learn my creative between now and next week? Aside from adapting it to stimuli and recording myself? Do you recommend any websites that'll turn it into a close passage sort of thing or other websites that turn text into a memorising sort of thing?
Thanks!!
I personally have the weirdest method that I came up with and it works 100% for every essay I memorise. I can't just memorise essays by look, cover, saying out loud and checking and it is in my opinion, a waste of time to right paragraph after paragraph out in full until it sinks in, you can do that a couple of times though. My method is a mixture of the two:
I read the 1st sentence, and then memorise it in my head and write the first letters of each word on the paper. So if the sentence was: Both Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World and Malala Yousafzai’s speech to the UN Youth Takeover explore through representation the impacts of individual defiance against repressive governments... I write it out like this: BAHBNWAMYSTUYTETRTIOIDARG... I know it is completely bizarre but it sticks in my head because it combines thinking out loud and not writing but moreso just the action of writing. Then i do next sentence, then next sentence, then put all 3 together and keep going until the essay is done. Now in saying all of this this is a weird special method for me that works 100% but it does for me and may not for you, and btw i dont go into exams and go oh i remember that sentence its... GHDJEBDK i acutally have the sentences in my head because of my method haha but anyway if this is too weird for you elyse posted a great thread on this exact topic here: https://atarnotes.com/memorising-english-essays/ :)
Post by: georgiia on July 24, 2017, 08:57:04 pm
I personally have the weirdest method that I came up with and it works 100% for every essay I memorise. I can't just memorise essays by look, cover, saying out loud and checking and it is in my opinion, a waste of time to right paragraph after paragraph out in full until it sinks in, you can do that a couple of times though. My method is a mixture of the two:
I read the 1st sentence, and then memorise it in my head and write the first letters of each word on the paper. So if the sentence was: Both Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World and Malala Yousafzai’s speech to the UN Youth Takeover explore through representation the impacts of individual defiance against repressive governments... I write it out like this: BAHBNWAMYSTUYTETRTIOIDARG... I know it is completely bizarre but it sticks in my head because it combines thinking out loud and not writing but moreso just the action of writing. Then i do next sentence, then next sentence, then put all 3 together and keep going until the essay is done. Now in saying all of this this is a weird special method for me that works 100% but it does for me and may not for you, and btw i dont go into exams and go oh i remember that sentence its... GHDJEBDK i acutally have the sentences in my head because of my method haha but anyway if this is too weird for you elyse posted a great thread on this exact topic here: https://atarnotes.com/memorising-english-essays/ :)
OMGG You GENISU!! That sounds like exactly the kind of thing that'd work for me!! Thank you!
I'm not the biggest fan of memorising, like AT ALL but for my creative I think this'd work so I'll try it.
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 24, 2017, 09:01:20 pm
OMGG You GENISU!! That sounds like exactly the kind of thing that'd work for me!! Thank you!
I'm not the biggest fan of memorising, like AT ALL but for my creative I think this'd work so I'll try it.
ahah good luck, don't do it in public though, people give you weird looks haha
Post by: Annie657 on July 24, 2017, 09:24:01 pm
Hey Annabelle! Thank you x1010038 for getting your post count up from 15 to 25. We really appreciate this kind of commitment, so thanks for being a star! I'll take a look at this :)SpoilerThe crunching sand between my toes awakens my senses. Paving the way to the main event; my steps quicken in anticipation as I behold the great blue force of mother nature beyond. Icy water laps at my feet, but my toes embrace it’s cool touch, never shirking away in betrayal of my heart’s greatest love. All it takes is a single leap into it’s waiting aims as the waves press me forward, almost as if they are whispering, “come closer, closer”, in response to my daily ritual.
“BANG!” the starter’s gun goes off, and while the young fledglings sprint into the ocean’s depths, wielding the waters as a tool to bring themselves personal glory, I hesitate; knowing it’s beauty is only revealed to those who look deeper, below the smooth surface. Slowly but surely I make my way out and around those obnoxious fluoro buoys, a seeming act of vandalism against the serene horizon. I understand a lot about the way the protagonist feels about the ocean already - how wonderful!
You see the thing is, I was one of them not all that long ago. I craved the feeling of cool gold kissing my neck, and hungered for the next second off my personal best.
It was she who changed me. She who revealed the world to me in a way that I once ignored.
Eyes brimming with excitement she dove in next to me, the grin spreading across her face an unspoken promise to follow her father’s footsteps; this thought however sweet could not cloud my judgement; I had a job to do. Like always, I was there to win; my sole purpose to outswim my competitors and hurtle over that finish line in first position. Muscles tensed from the moment the cool water hit me; a shock to my system, Jordan next to me too over-rating in response to the numbing of all exposed limbs. Turning my eyes forward, a gap in the break soon opened up in our midst. An opportunity too advantageous to miss, “Jordan, follow me!”, I yelled over the pounding waves and splashing bodies; her response inaudible in the chaotic intensity of the race. I knew it was now or never, and rode the current foward to open ocean. Dialogue needs a new line :) Also, just a typo in forward* :)
It was go time.
Powerfully I propelled myself forward, the waves pushing me on as I stroked to the head of the front pack. My mind was clearly focused on that end goal, reciting over and over, “I had put in the countless hours, turned my arms those thousands of times in preparation for this one moment”. Nothing was ever going to come between me and that pure glory. Nothing. And of course Jordan knew that too. Or so I thought.
As my breaths started coming fast and hard, I chucked a glance towards my right. Only a endless horizon extended into the midst; to my left only a row of swimmers jostling over those finish line honours.
Panic started to set in, my breaths coming harder and faster, no longer from exertion but parental fear pooling in the bottom of my stomach as I stopped to scull and take in the water around me. Absolutely nothing. The competition, only a few minutes ago so important to me, thrust out of my mind.
I began my frantic scramble back to the beach, head up while I scanned the blue peaks for her telltale purple cap. So many swimmers, so many turning arms and legs oblivious to my distress. I wanted to scream at them, “please help me! Can anyone….. Please!” but I was alone in my silent struggle; my anguish internal as possibilities of her whereabouts streamed like rapids through my mind. I'm finding it hard to comment because I'm sucked in to the commotion!!
Left and right I zig zaged, ducking under and over the water for my Jordan. Minutes, seemingly hours passed with no sign of her, but my search would not cease for even a second as I vowed to cover every centimetre of that ocean floor if it came to it. That reef in the distance? The only unsearched waters I hadn’t ventured seemed unlikely, but in my desperation I had to keep that sliver of hope alive, my swim towards the rocks began without hesitation. At first, nothing; only the sound of squabbling seagulls and splashing fish there to mask that almighty cry threatening to spill out of me; but then a flash of purple in the corner of my eye snagged my attention. Legs and arms now weary, almost trembling in exhaustion; every stroke a struggle as I sprinted in it’s direction. “Its her. it’s her.” I repeated over and over in my mind, convincing myself she was there. No other thought could I face; this phrase all that was keeping me whole.
All of a sudden, that purple cap became a face among the froth.
“Dad!”
Time stopped. My excruciating anguish subsided to relief at the sight of Jordan’s face, that innocent excitement so oblivious to my crippling worry only moments ago. It took every last ounce of energy for me to make it over to her, I soaked in every inch of her face I only minutes ago thought was lost forever. We embraced even as she wriggled to stay afloat, and in response to her confusion over my emotional state; “later Jordan. Later.” Those harsh words and realisations would have to come, but later. Adrenaline was still surging through my system, and for now, an explanation of her whereabouts would suffice.
“I was swimming with you dad, but then you disappeared. I just guessed you were trying win, and I couldn’t keep up, so I swam over here, to the reef” . Eyes turned down, in almost a whisper, “Unless I was with you, I didn’t want to compete…...I saw some dory and nemo fish, some pretty pink coral…………….”
I had zoned out; her words hitting me harder surely than intended. The thought of her racing just to be with me had never crossed my mind, and to see the ocean as more than just forward currents and obstructing waves? But instead appreciate it for it’s beauty and gentle hold. It was a foreign concept, but not one I could not grasp in one look below the surface. Gesturing towards all the vibrant corals extending the length of the ocean floor, fish swimming in schools instinctively following one another; I thought she might be onto something. We spent hours exploring it’s depths, beauty I never imagined existing only a few metres deeper than I cared to look. And seeing the joy on her face; I finally understood her desires not to be like me, but to be with me, her eyes seeing the ocean as something so much more than merely a tool for attaining glory.
It was only then I came to realise winning a meagre race was not a triumph over mankind, but instead an ignorance towards nature, lacking the ability to appreciate it’s power in bringing individuals together, through a shared understanding of it’s infinite beauty. Today however, with this knowledge in hand, it is father and daughter who stroke together; all the while keeping an eye on the ocean floor; the beauty of the briny deep revealed only to those who seek it.
Word Count: 1192
Where to begin! I didn't comment a lot throughout because I was just being taken on a journey with the storyline the entire time! Such a pleasure to be taken through the motions like this, there were intense times and there were calm times. I have to say, I think your story is more complicated than what it needs to be. This isn't to say I think it's too complicated, but I will tell you the most outstanding discovery to me. The relationship with the water was assessed at several stages during the piece and it was really refreshing to look at these as minor discoveries. But also, the relationship between reward in materialism and reward through naturalism. To be engaged in materialism meant that it was about the award, the winner. But then it was discovered that the main winner here was when we could see the ocean in a way that was natural, giving, and rewarding in its own way. The interactions between humans like Jordan actually confused me, I found myself reading those sections twice and then discarding them in my mind in a way, so that I could continue with the narrative about the relationship with the sea. So I suppose this presents you an interesting idea, that you could continue this onwards by refining the interactions between Jordan and the protagonist. Or, you could really rake the story back to the simple story of the relationship with the water, which has a strong enough discovery by itself, and then decide if you want to replace the Jordan-interactions with something else. I'm interested for you to explain to me in words outside of the story what the conflict with Jordan is - and maybe I can suggest a way to embed it so that it serves to support the discoveries that I see strongest, instead of being a kind of distraction from them? But I'm happy for you to discard my reading all together, of course, if you want to stick to your guns with this one :) But, happy to chat about this to work out a way to better engage the aspects of the plot for a more cohesive story :)
Hi Elyse, thankyou so much for all the feedback!
I also felt like it was complicated and there was too much going on, I couldn't really expand on the impacts of the discovery, meaning I couldnt cut down my word count for risk of losing plot lines. Originally I wanted to focus of the discovery of the water, of the inherent beauty in nature in contrast to the character's initial view of it only as a tool to get what they wanted (like you said, materialism!) However, I only introduced Jordan because I couldn't think of a catalyst, something to promote this discovery. I would actually prefer my story without her, just because I would prefer to describe the ocean more and it is hard to build up a relationship with her in 800 words. What sort of catalyst do you think I could use?
If I kept Jordan, her relationship in my story with her father is that they race together in ocean swims, and the father only thinks she is happy because of the racing and excitement of it; however, she just wants to spend time with him, and does not actually care about the racing. But honestly I feel like I cannot explore this relationship properly within my main discovery, what do you think? My problem is just thinking of a catalyst for the ocean discovery :)
Anyway, thank you so so much for all your advice! Truly grateful for Atar notes :)
Post by: beau77bro on July 24, 2017, 09:52:04 pm
Hi all - I have the following on this board as yet to receive marking:
-Danitabasan
-Georgiia
-Winstondarmavan
-Beau77bro
You've asked how long to expect before these get marked, and I'm hoping to declare we'll be able to get to these by tomorrow evening (I'm making a trip to the library for a marking spree before I start Uni on Wednesday so anything that doesn't get done tonight - tomorrow!) but otherwise, by Wednesday evening for those who have already posted on this thread, at the latest I imagine. Hopefully this helps you work out a bit of a study plan in the mean time :)
THANKYOU ELYSE OML YOU GUYS ARE THE GREATEST. I can barely read my own creative how do u do it ;D
Post by: Daniyahasan on July 24, 2017, 09:54:59 pm
THANKYOU ELYSE OML YOU GUYS ARE THE GREATEST. I can barely read my own creative how do u do it ;D
omg thats so true, i cant read anyone elses work ahahahaha
Post by: left right gn on July 24, 2017, 10:35:40 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 25, 2017, 12:05:00 am
Hello, can I get some feedback on my creative!
Hey! Thanks for posting your Creative, our essay marking rules require you to have 25 posts to qualify for feedback - It's our way of prioritising for the Trial period. You are halfway there already! :)
Post by: left right gn on July 25, 2017, 12:35:30 am
Hey! Thanks for posting your Creative, our essay marking rules require you to have 25 posts to qualify for feedback - It's our way of prioritising for the Trial period. You are halfway there already! :)Ah that seems fair, I guess i better start posting
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 25, 2017, 12:56:48 pm
Thank You so much Elyse!
Not sure if this is the right thread for this question but I'm wondering what are some ways that I can learn my creative between now and next week? Aside from adapting it to stimuli and recording myself? Do you recommend any websites that'll turn it into a close passage sort of thing or other websites that turn text into a memorising sort of thing?
Thanks!!
I read out my essays and creatives like a speech! So I'd inject a few exclamation marks here and there for the fun of the expression, and I'd jump into a persona and go for it like that. I found it easier to remember the lulls and highs of my voice presenting a speech because in that way, it's similar to a song, and not just like words I'm trying to bring to life. In saying this, my creative was a speech so I found it to be a whole lot easier to do this, and it made editing my speech really effective because I could notice a whole new way of expression when verbalising it, so I could go back and edit what was on the page.
However, dancing phalanges suggestions are out of this world!
I personally have the weirdest method that I came up with and it works 100% for every essay I memorise. I can't just memorise essays by look, cover, saying out loud and checking and it is in my opinion, a waste of time to right paragraph after paragraph out in full until it sinks in, you can do that a couple of times though. My method is a mixture of the two:
I read the 1st sentence, and then memorise it in my head and write the first letters of each word on the paper. So if the sentence was: Both Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World and Malala Yousafzai’s speech to the UN Youth Takeover explore through representation the impacts of individual defiance against repressive governments... I write it out like this: BAHBNWAMYSTUYTETRTIOIDARG... I know it is completely bizarre but it sticks in my head because it combines thinking out loud and not writing but moreso just the action of writing. Then i do next sentence, then next sentence, then put all 3 together and keep going until the essay is done. Now in saying all of this this is a weird special method for me that works 100% but it does for me and may not for you, and btw i dont go into exams and go oh i remember that sentence its... GHDJEBDK i acutally have the sentences in my head because of my method haha but anyway if this is too weird for you elyse posted a great thread on this exact topic here: https://atarnotes.com/memorising-english-essays/ :)
This, is incredible. To me, I'm looking at it thinking "surely...surely that doesn't work" but it makes perfect sense really! I used mnemonics a lot, especially for my analysis in paragraphs, but more so in subjects other than English. So this is just an even more broken down version of mnemonics, in a way! Good on you for finding a really unique way that clearly works really well :)
Hi ATAR notes team, Elyse, Jamon, Rui, etc. Attached is my first draft for creative writing AOS. I have met the post requirements, and it was only two days ago I realised that 25 posts is more than you would think. Obviously I spend a regular amount of time on this fantastic forum, but in terms of adding posts, it takes time for them to gradually add up, especially since I did not want to post one word replies on topics just to get the amount to the total. Enough of my spill, below is my first draft, would love to get it reviewed. It is genuinely appreciated what this team does, your commitment to the students like myself does not go unnoticed.
Thankyou!
Hello! Thanks a million for getting your posts up. We won't be long getting to you, promise! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 25, 2017, 03:01:58 pm
Hi Elyse, thankyou so much for all the feedback!
I also felt like it was complicated and there was too much going on, I couldn't really expand on the impacts of the discovery, meaning I couldnt cut down my word count for risk of losing plot lines. Originally I wanted to focus of the discovery of the water, of the inherent beauty in nature in contrast to the character's initial view of it only as a tool to get what they wanted (like you said, materialism!) However, I only introduced Jordan because I couldn't think of a catalyst, something to promote this discovery. I would actually prefer my story without her, just because I would prefer to describe the ocean more and it is hard to build up a relationship with her in 800 words. What sort of catalyst do you think I could use?
If I kept Jordan, her relationship in my story with her father is that they race together in ocean swims, and the father only thinks she is happy because of the racing and excitement of it; however, she just wants to spend time with him, and does not actually care about the racing. But honestly I feel like I cannot explore this relationship properly within my main discovery, what do you think? My problem is just thinking of a catalyst for the ocean discovery :)
Anyway, thank you so so much for all your advice! Truly grateful for Atar notes :)
Hey again :) Okay, I really see why you put Jordan in...but I do agree that I prefer your story without her as well. Not because she's not a good idea, but simply because you don't have the word count to develop her into the story enough, and I also think that it serves as a distraction rather than as a catalyst. Sooo, I think we need to edit Jordan out and write something else in. I'm trying to think of minor changes to make for big result so as to not frighten you and make this easier, but I genuinely think we need to make some adjustments to the plot that won't be so minor. Of course, only take on what you want to take on, but I'll suggest some things anyway and you can take or leave whatever you fancy.
So, she loves the water, it's always been a constant for her. The opening scene is people fleeing into the water, and I kind of have this little nippers vibe happening, the youth is really promising and symbolic, and also a reflection of her younger experience at the beach. So that's really nice. Maybe we could explore the relationships she's had with the water a little more - how she was there every weekend and a few times after school for training, for races, as her family always helped her to do. Over time, maybe she spent some days there with the water as her muse for personal writings/paintings/songs, or maybe she shared intimate moments in her teen years, or other kind of experiences that are very personal and not all competitive. Then maybe, in the lead up to the race she could be talking with her dad, her coach, whoever, and they'll be talking about the way the rips are swelling and the way the wind is blowing, and it'll make it sound so mechanical and not at all the natural muse she sees it as now. Then she'll start the race, it'll be a intense scene, lots flowing through her mind, and then she'll enter the water, sprinting in, paddling out, enough to be out of easy sight from the shore, and then she might just float. Surrender to the ocean, adore it's vast capacity, because to her, this was the real prize, and it wasn't a shiny trophy, but she was sure that no one needed to have it justified to them, because as she floats amongst the chaos, the swimmers move further and further away, and she then discovers that all along, this kind of solitude with the sea is the prize she needs.
Obviously this is MY vision of the story which I'm totally happy for you to take up in totality or partially, but what do you think? I think we still need person-interaction to avoid it becoming similar to a monologue, which is why I've put it with the before-race discussion, but keen to know what you think? :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 25, 2017, 03:08:37 pm
Thanks a bunch.
Shows how helpful it is to have a second pair of eyes to spot stuff that a marker might be confused by! That dialogue is supposed to be the biker talking - in my head I didn't spot anything wrong with it.
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend got up. “Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” He looked up at Xavier: “See you ‘round bro.” I've read this over a few times now and I'm confused about the dialogue - I can't work out what's going on? When you say "he looked up," grammatically, you are indicating that Stan is the he. So then I'm not sure iff Xavier is saying both sentences or just one. Either way, you need to start a new line for the dialogue,
and if the second sentence is said by someone other than Xavier, you need to start a new line for that as well. I'm sorry to be so lost in such a crucial part of the story!
In my mind, "...until his best friend got up" indicated possession of the biker for the forthcoming dialogue. And then "He looked up at Xavier" continues it for the next sentence. Stan walks to man > man strokes dog > Xavier strikes up a conversation (but whatever he says is omitted) > some of the biker's reply is included. I think I need to be clearer. Is the following the correct way regarding formatting?
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend got up.
“Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” He looked up at Xavier: “See you ‘round bro.”
I'm kind of trying to avoid something super boring like "The man/biker said:" but I suppose it's more important to be clear. I think this is where the confusion begins:
His new friend obliged, having lowered himself slowly down onto his front step, so Xavier found himself having to start a conversation.
“He reminds me of my dog, Lucy,” the man confided. “I lost her a few months back.”
Narrator mentions Xavier beginning a conversation and then the other guy's dialogue begins. Is that confusing as well?
Regarding the meeting, I'll explain what I'm trying to do as its meaning has probably been lost in that abhorrent dialogue. As Jamon suggested, the discovery needed (from the first draft) to be drawn out a bit, with a more significant catalyst. So Stan sees the biker and runs off to him, wanting a hug. Xavier doesn't want to, because he thinks the biker's a bit intimidating and/or he won't like Stan. But, to his "wonder" (rubric term!!11!1!) the guy spends a few minutes stroking Stan, having had a dog himself. Xavier realises that Stan's carefree attitude (juxtapositioned with his analytical mindset/tendency to consider everything really deeply) enables him to live happily. This is what the last lines are trying to say but it's too blunt and could be more delicate. The "order was restored" line was supposed to highlight the significance of the fact Stan had stopped walking (and started again after they set off again), not something related explicitly to the final discovery/realisation.
Good afternoon :)
In terms of the new formatting: yes this is much more appropriate. It's easier to read and I do understand it all a little differently now. BUT, I think I've realised that the thing that makes me confused about who is saying what, might actually be, "he looked up at Xavier." Just because, I imagine someone down in order to look up, so I assume the dog is looking up and therefore the dog is saying the words. Obviously, the biker has been patting the dog so I understand why he is down and needs to look up, but I think nonetheless it should be adjusted for clarity - the two men might be both standing and they shake hands in a friendly/mate kind of way. This also might be a way for Xavier to almost resist for a moment, the spontaneity of shaking hands with a stranger like this, but he might feel better that he just connected at random with someone afterwards. I totally understand that you're trying not to use the boring scheme of dialogue. So, I think that perhaps changing the "looking up" thing might be all you need to change it up and it'll be a whole lot clearer. Also, I wasn't sure if I was just crazy in the way I read this so I showed my sister, and she said she was confused about the dynamic of the trio at this point too - so I think just adjusting the interaction there might be enough to pull it all into place! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 25, 2017, 03:37:48 pm
Hey Guys,
So here is my creative writing piece, PLEASE go crazy with the marking
id like as much creative criticism as possible
this forum is honestly a life saver, THANK YOU SO SO MUCH
iv attached my creative below:)
ps - how long does it typically take for us to get the feedback?
Hey there! Thanks for sticking around, finally your turn ;)
I've put some comments in the spoiler below but the bulk of the comments will be at the end :)
Spoiler
AOS DISCOVERY CREATIVE WRITING
The wind howled endlessly into the night, causing the hair mattedupon on her arms to stand on their ends, almost in angst to escape what is to come. The overwhelming feeling that something was amiss, no need for a comma here held her back and prevailed over her trepidation. Her late night walk usually enlivened her, fulfilled every sense, energized energised* her like no amount of caffeine ever could. Yet, that day it felt like she’d run a thousand marathons. Her job being at stake, she somehow had to come up with a story, no matter what it took so she could thrust it upon her editor’s face within 48 hours’ time. As she walked towards the direction of home, something instead her churned, her intuition warned her. Her heart starting beating faster, beads of sweat started crawling down her forehead. The "beads of sweat" analogy is overused, in my opinion. It's seldom that I call out cliches but unfortunately this is one I've seen too often, so I'd look for a new way of describing it :)
It seemed dangerous, and so, she surrendered to her thoughts and changed her direction. The adrenaline racing through her veins was unignorable and somewhat reassuring amongst the chaos of her mind. In hope of an edgy and uncommon story, she mustered up the fragments of her courage, and began the unprecedented walk into the other side of the town, known for its perilous nature. Most people preferred to keep distance from those areas of town, for reasons unknown. "known for its perilous nature" and then "for reasons unknown" kind of cancels each other out - presumably the reason people avoid this area is because it's dangerous. Pupils oscillating, finding final reassurance in whatever slivers of light have dared to venture this far into the alley alongside her, clutching the Polaroid camera in her hands tightly, she allows the darkness to swallow her whole.
Dark shadows danced amongst the walls, the flickering street lamps encouraging them to continue their haunting ritual into the endless night. Following the makeshift path excitedly, a growing sense of exhilaration manifesting itself, she takes in what is surrounding her. The abandoned warehouse stretched endlessly onwards, the walls on the opposite end of her barely visible, obstructed by the towering boxes and rusted vehicles. As much as the excitement that it brought, This doesn't make sense - try, "Although/despite the great excitement it brought,"she felt her hopes fall. A good spot for some imagery - what did she feel as her hopes fell? Was it a pain? A discomfort? Did she squirm? Did her mouth dry? Eyes ache? In this silentness silence* there was no possibility that she would be able to a produce a story for her column in the newspaper. Lingering around for what seemed like forever, with nothing interesting to get a hold on and much disappointment she decided to make her way back home. I'd be interested to have a description of her for the sake of imagery - I want to see a contrast of the type of journalist she was in this area. Is she in a suit? Or does she work for a publication where she can wear jeans? This also hints to us the kind of story she wants, but also gives us a better image of her exploring this area.
A piercing scream followed by gunfire caused her to jolt and stopped her in her tracks, steering her attention to a new light. The disappointment in her mind was replaced with bursting senses of excitement. Ever so quietly she followed the trail of light, spilling out from the cracks of a broken wall. Brimming with determination to get an insight into the happenings of this part of town for her article, she hoists herself up onto a crate and peers into the large cracks in the wall. It comes as a shock when encounters a set of steely grey eyes staring back at her. She finds herself completely frozen, equipped with nothing but her erratic mind devising countless amounts of incomprehensible escape plans. The next few moments came as a blur, the crate collapsed at her weight and she fell at the feet of a man. She raised her gaze slowly at the towering figure in front of her only to find the steely grey eyes once again piercing into her. The man pulled her to her feet and before she even had the chance to let a sound escape her, he hissed into her ear “Don’t even think about making a sound, you’ll regret it”. The full stop goes inside the quotation mark - and this dialogue needs to start on a new line :) He held onto her wrist tightly and pulled her along. Finding it difficult to keep with this strange man’s pace, she stumbled a few times, until they reached the warehouse. Thrusting her inside he shut the door and the sound of the lock clicking almost took her breath away.
A loud wailing sound filled the air, immediate instincts force her to push herself even harder into the crate she was slumped on, almost in an attempt to meld with it. Sickening screams attacked from all sides, surround her. She lay there whimpering, utterly confused and frightened in the dark. Contemplating her next action for a while, she does the only logical thing that comes to mind. Raising the Polaroid camera to her face, she pulls the trigger. A brilliant light flashes throughout the entirety of the room, revealing the horrifying scene laid out before her. I'm wondering why it's a Polaroid...it just seems a bit old school when nothing else suggests this is set in the past?
She catches a glimpse of a man’s back, but it’s the remarkably familiar tattoo on the man’s neck that makes her heart nearly stop “Stan… stop!” New line for new dialogue. Yet, the tall abductor walked off without even sharing a glance. She sat, baffled, about what just happened. The conversant tattoo inked on his back was the exact same tattoo that her dead brother once had. Slowly, she traced the design on the Polaroid; flashbacks reoccurring one by one as she touched every end.
It was a year ago, 22nd April – when the shocking news of Stan’s death knocked on their door. She stood there numb, not being able to comprehend the sudden change of event. Her mother, feeble and traumatized, traumatised* had collapsed out of shock. For a moment, everything felt agonizing. agonising* The sun that was brightly shining now appeared dark, the birds chirping seemed silent. It was an extremely gloomy day, which till day haunts both her and her mother.
Time seemed to have frozen, she still was holding tight onto the Polaroid. At that moment, she decided to wipe her tears and fight her thoughts. Pulling herself up, she dusted her pants and clutched onto both her handy camera and fortitude. Slowly but steadily, she surreptitiously walked across the room in hopes of finding a way out. Through the grills up top, the moon lit luminously and the stars glimmered, casting a shadow. While observing her environment, she discovered a door on the other side. A ray of hope lit up in her, and she pushed with all her force and might resulting in her crashing. Rubbing herself, she picks herself up and uses the walls as her support to assist her in the pitch black path, proceeds to walk. Up ahead, sounds of murmurs and people conversing catch her ear, exciting her.
After what seemed like forever, a beam of light shone through. She tip toed to the entrance, avoiding any attention. Then and there, the scene that she witnessed shook the earth beneath her feet. In front of her, the terrifying figure held a knife, coated and dripping in deep red. He slowly raised his head, she was still holding on tight to her camera. The light breeze gently blew on his messy tresses, a hint of glow revealed his face. It was Stan - the same enchanting green eyes, defined face cut, and sharp nose. She could not be mistaken, her brother was her life; she still had his face mapped in her mind as if she saw him in the morning. Tears welled up and began to drip down her face, a dilemma clouded her mind – what should she do now?
The wind howled endlessly into the night, causing the hair matted
It seemed dangerous, and so, she surrendered to her thoughts and changed her direction. The adrenaline racing through her veins was unignorable and somewhat reassuring amongst the chaos of her mind. In hope of an edgy and uncommon story, she mustered up the fragments of her courage, and began the unprecedented walk into the other side of the town, known for its perilous nature. Most people preferred to keep distance from those areas of town, for reasons unknown. "known for its perilous nature" and then "for reasons unknown" kind of cancels each other out - presumably the reason people avoid this area is because it's dangerous. Pupils oscillating, finding final reassurance in whatever slivers of light have dared to venture this far into the alley alongside her, clutching the Polaroid camera in her hands tightly, she allows the darkness to swallow her whole.
Dark shadows danced amongst the walls, the flickering street lamps encouraging them to continue their haunting ritual into the endless night. Following the makeshift path excitedly, a growing sense of exhilaration manifesting itself, she takes in what is surrounding her. The abandoned warehouse stretched endlessly onwards, the walls on the opposite end of her barely visible, obstructed by the towering boxes and rusted vehicles
A piercing scream followed by gunfire caused her to jolt and stopped her in her tracks, steering her attention to a new light. The disappointment in her mind was replaced with bursting senses of excitement. Ever so quietly she followed the trail of light, spilling out from the cracks of a broken wall. Brimming with determination to get an insight into the happenings of this part of town for her article, she hoists herself up onto a crate and peers into the large cracks in the wall. It comes as a shock when encounters a set of steely grey eyes staring back at her. She finds herself completely frozen, equipped with nothing but her erratic mind devising countless amounts of incomprehensible escape plans. The next few moments came as a blur, the crate collapsed at her weight and she fell at the feet of a man. She raised her gaze slowly at the towering figure in front of her only to find the steely grey eyes once again piercing into her. The man pulled her to her feet and before she even had the chance to let a sound escape her, he hissed into her ear “Don’t even think about making a sound, you’ll regret it”. The full stop goes inside the quotation mark - and this dialogue needs to start on a new line :) He held onto her wrist tightly and pulled her along. Finding it difficult to keep with this strange man’s pace, she stumbled a few times, until they reached the warehouse. Thrusting her inside he shut the door and the sound of the lock clicking almost took her breath away.
A loud wailing sound filled the air, immediate instincts force her to push herself even harder into the crate she was slumped on, almost in an attempt to meld with it. Sickening screams attacked from all sides, surround her. She lay there whimpering, utterly confused and frightened in the dark. Contemplating her next action for a while, she does the only logical thing that comes to mind. Raising the Polaroid camera to her face, she pulls the trigger. A brilliant light flashes throughout the entirety of the room, revealing the horrifying scene laid out before her. I'm wondering why it's a Polaroid...it just seems a bit old school when nothing else suggests this is set in the past?
She catches a glimpse of a man’s back, but it’s the remarkably familiar tattoo on the man’s neck that makes her heart nearly stop “Stan… stop!” New line for new dialogue. Yet, the tall abductor walked off without even sharing a glance. She sat, baffled, about what just happened. The conversant tattoo inked on his back was the exact same tattoo that her dead brother once had. Slowly, she traced the design on the Polaroid; flashbacks reoccurring one by one as she touched every end.
It was a year ago, 22nd April – when the shocking news of Stan’s death knocked on their door. She stood there numb, not being able to comprehend the sudden change of event. Her mother, feeble and traumatized, traumatised* had collapsed out of shock. For a moment, everything felt agonizing. agonising* The sun that was brightly shining now appeared dark, the birds chirping seemed silent. It was an extremely gloomy day, which till day haunts both her and her mother.
Time seemed to have frozen, she still was holding tight onto the Polaroid. At that moment, she decided to wipe her tears and fight her thoughts. Pulling herself up, she dusted her pants and clutched onto both her handy camera and fortitude. Slowly but steadily, she surreptitiously walked across the room in hopes of finding a way out. Through the grills up top, the moon lit luminously and the stars glimmered, casting a shadow. While observing her environment, she discovered a door on the other side. A ray of hope lit up in her, and she pushed with all her force and might resulting in her crashing. Rubbing herself, she picks herself up and uses the walls as her support to assist her in the pitch black path, proceeds to walk. Up ahead, sounds of murmurs and people conversing catch her ear, exciting her.
After what seemed like forever, a beam of light shone through. She tip toed to the entrance, avoiding any attention. Then and there, the scene that she witnessed shook the earth beneath her feet. In front of her, the terrifying figure held a knife, coated and dripping in deep red. He slowly raised his head, she was still holding on tight to her camera. The light breeze gently blew on his messy tresses, a hint of glow revealed his face. It was Stan - the same enchanting green eyes, defined face cut, and sharp nose. She could not be mistaken, her brother was her life; she still had his face mapped in her mind as if she saw him in the morning. Tears welled up and began to drip down her face, a dilemma clouded her mind – what should she do now?
I really liked this story - the physical, moral, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual discovery is very intriguing. Not many students undertake these kind of moral dilemma stories so this is really fresh. Firstly, I think you need to change your Word Document to English (AU) because you've got some American spellings in there ;) I edited some grammar towards the beginning as well although this seemed to fix itself up as the story went on.
My criticism comes from areas that seem just a little too unbelievable, or rather, were discussed a bit too abruptly instead of inviting the reader to understand. The moment I noticed this first was with the tattoo. Don't tell the reader she knew the tattoo was the same as her brothers, leave a bit of intrigue. You can say she recognised the tattoo immediately, but instantly saying "her brother died last year and had the same tattoo" is saying to the reader, "I know it's crazy but believe it" instead of having the reader on for a bit, getting them to wonder why and what was going on...and then revealing it in the last paragraph at the same time as the moral dilemma. This compounds at the end there, so the reader realises the moral dilemma at the same instant that the protagonist questions it herself. I also think the way she comes across the crime is a little unbelievable. She needs a story, she fearlessly walks into the perilous neighbourhood, and just as she's giving up, she hears a gunshot. I think perhaps there could be some more reluctance to enter the area at first, and then she goes in with a plan to interview some local businesses in the hopes of digging up a story there. This way she actually has a plan which seems more understandable and realistic. Then she gets caught up in hearing the gun shot, rather than it being just perfect timing. I hope this makes sense! This way your story shows a little more respect for the readers intellect, and invites them rather than forces them, which is always a great aspect of showing and not telling :)
What do you think?
Post by: Daniyahasan on July 25, 2017, 03:48:19 pm
Hey there! Thanks for sticking around, finally your turn ;)
I've put some comments in the spoiler below but the bulk of the comments will be at the end :)SpoilerAOS DISCOVERY CREATIVE WRITING
The wind howled endlessly into the night, causing the hair matteduponon her arms to stand on their ends, almost in angst to escape what is to come. The overwhelming feeling that something was amiss, no need for a comma here held her back and prevailed over her trepidation. Her late night walk usually enlivened her, fulfilled every sense, energized energised* her like no amount of caffeine ever could. Yet, that day it felt like she’d run a thousand marathons. Her job being at stake, she somehow had to come up with a story, no matter what it took so she could thrust it upon her editor’s face within 48 hours’ time. As she walked towards the direction of home, something instead her churned, her intuition warned her. Her heart starting beating faster, beads of sweat started crawling down her forehead. The "beads of sweat" analogy is overused, in my opinion. It's seldom that I call out cliches but unfortunately this is one I've seen too often, so I'd look for a new way of describing it :)
It seemed dangerous, and so, she surrendered to her thoughts and changed her direction. The adrenaline racing through her veins was unignorable and somewhat reassuring amongst the chaos of her mind. In hope of an edgy and uncommon story, she mustered up the fragments of her courage, and began the unprecedented walk into the other side of the town, known for its perilous nature. Most people preferred to keep distance from those areas of town, for reasons unknown. "known for its perilous nature" and then "for reasons unknown" kind of cancels each other out - presumably the reason people avoid this area is because it's dangerous. Pupils oscillating, finding final reassurance in whatever slivers of light have dared to venture this far into the alley alongside her, clutching the Polaroid camera in her hands tightly, she allows the darkness to swallow her whole.
Dark shadows danced amongst the walls, the flickering street lamps encouraging them to continue their haunting ritual into the endless night. Following the makeshift path excitedly, a growing sense of exhilaration manifesting itself, she takes in what is surrounding her. The abandoned warehouse stretched endlessly onwards, the walls on the opposite end of her barely visible, obstructed by the towering boxes and rusted vehicles. As much as the excitement that it brought,This doesn't make sense - try, "Although/despite the great excitement it brought,"she felt her hopes fall. A good spot for some imagery - what did she feel as her hopes fell? Was it a pain? A discomfort? Did she squirm? Did her mouth dry? Eyes ache? In this silentness silence* there was no possibility that she would be able to a produce a story for her column in the newspaper. Lingering around for what seemed like forever, with nothing interesting to get a hold on and much disappointment she decided to make her way back home. I'd be interested to have a description of her for the sake of imagery - I want to see a contrast of the type of journalist she was in this area. Is she in a suit? Or does she work for a publication where she can wear jeans? This also hints to us the kind of story she wants, but also gives us a better image of her exploring this area.
A piercing scream followed by gunfire caused her to jolt and stopped her in her tracks, steering her attention to a new light. The disappointment in her mind was replaced with bursting senses of excitement. Ever so quietly she followed the trail of light, spilling out from the cracks of a broken wall. Brimming with determination to get an insight into the happenings of this part of town for her article, she hoists herself up onto a crate and peers into the large cracks in the wall. It comes as a shock when encounters a set of steely grey eyes staring back at her. She finds herself completely frozen, equipped with nothing but her erratic mind devising countless amounts of incomprehensible escape plans. The next few moments came as a blur, the crate collapsed at her weight and she fell at the feet of a man. She raised her gaze slowly at the towering figure in front of her only to find the steely grey eyes once again piercing into her. The man pulled her to her feet and before she even had the chance to let a sound escape her, he hissed into her ear “Don’t even think about making a sound, you’ll regret it”. The full stop goes inside the quotation mark - and this dialogue needs to start on a new line :) He held onto her wrist tightly and pulled her along. Finding it difficult to keep with this strange man’s pace, she stumbled a few times, until they reached the warehouse. Thrusting her inside he shut the door and the sound of the lock clicking almost took her breath away.
A loud wailing sound filled the air, immediate instincts force her to push herself even harder into the crate she was slumped on, almost in an attempt to meld with it. Sickening screams attacked from all sides, surround her. She lay there whimpering, utterly confused and frightened in the dark. Contemplating her next action for a while, she does the only logical thing that comes to mind. Raising the Polaroid camera to her face, she pulls the trigger. A brilliant light flashes throughout the entirety of the room, revealing the horrifying scene laid out before her. I'm wondering why it's a Polaroid...it just seems a bit old school when nothing else suggests this is set in the past?
She catches a glimpse of a man’s back, but it’s the remarkably familiar tattoo on the man’s neck that makes her heart nearly stop “Stan… stop!” New line for new dialogue. Yet, the tall abductor walked off without even sharing a glance. She sat, baffled, about what just happened. The conversant tattoo inked on his back was the exact same tattoo that her dead brother once had. Slowly, she traced the design on the Polaroid; flashbacks reoccurring one by one as she touched every end.
It was a year ago, 22nd April – when the shocking news of Stan’s death knocked on their door. She stood there numb, not being able to comprehend the sudden change of event. Her mother, feeble and traumatized, traumatised* had collapsed out of shock. For a moment, everything felt agonizing. agonising* The sun that was brightly shining now appeared dark, the birds chirping seemed silent. It was an extremely gloomy day, which till day haunts both her and her mother.
Time seemed to have frozen, she still was holding tight onto the Polaroid. At that moment, she decided to wipe her tears and fight her thoughts. Pulling herself up, she dusted her pants and clutched onto both her handy camera and fortitude. Slowly but steadily, she surreptitiously walked across the room in hopes of finding a way out. Through the grills up top, the moon lit luminously and the stars glimmered, casting a shadow. While observing her environment, she discovered a door on the other side. A ray of hope lit up in her, and she pushed with all her force and might resulting in her crashing. Rubbing herself, she picks herself up and uses the walls as her support to assist her in the pitch black path, proceeds to walk. Up ahead, sounds of murmurs and people conversing catch her ear, exciting her.
After what seemed like forever, a beam of light shone through. She tip toed to the entrance, avoiding any attention. Then and there, the scene that she witnessed shook the earth beneath her feet. In front of her, the terrifying figure held a knife, coated and dripping in deep red. He slowly raised his head, she was still holding on tight to her camera. The light breeze gently blew on his messy tresses, a hint of glow revealed his face. It was Stan - the same enchanting green eyes, defined face cut, and sharp nose. She could not be mistaken, her brother was her life; she still had his face mapped in her mind as if she saw him in the morning. Tears welled up and began to drip down her face, a dilemma clouded her mind – what should she do now?
I really liked this story - the physical, moral, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual discovery is very intriguing. Not many students undertake these kind of moral dilemma stories so this is really fresh. Firstly, I think you need to change your Word Document to English (AU) because you've got some American spellings in there ;) I edited some grammar towards the beginning as well although this seemed to fix itself up as the story went on.
My criticism comes from areas that seem just a little too unbelievable, or rather, were discussed a bit too abruptly instead of inviting the reader to understand. The moment I noticed this first was with the tattoo. Don't tell the reader she knew the tattoo was the same as her brothers, leave a bit of intrigue. You can say she recognised the tattoo immediately, but instantly saying "her brother died last year and had the same tattoo" is saying to the reader, "I know it's crazy but believe it" instead of having the reader on for a bit, getting them to wonder why and what was going on...and then revealing it in the last paragraph at the same time as the moral dilemma. This compounds at the end there, so the reader realises the moral dilemma at the same instant that the protagonist questions it herself. I also think the way she comes across the crime is a little unbelievable. She needs a story, she fearlessly walks into the perilous neighbourhood, and just as she's giving up, she hears a gunshot. I think perhaps there could be some more reluctance to enter the area at first, and then she goes in with a plan to interview some local businesses in the hopes of digging up a story there. This way she actually has a plan which seems more understandable and realistic. Then she gets caught up in hearing the gun shot, rather than it being just perfect timing. I hope this makes sense! This way your story shows a little more respect for the readers intellect, and invites them rather than forces them, which is always a great aspect of showing and not telling :)
What do you think?
Hey Elyse!
Thanks so much for the feedback
your comments definately make sense, and ill try and fix it up asap
yeah i agree with the sudden decision to go into the neighbourhood does seem a bit absurd
and the tattoo part i wasnt too happy with myself
one more thing - does this story bore the reader or is it interesting to read?
ps : if i fix it up and send it again does that require another 25 posts or?
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 25, 2017, 04:29:07 pm
Hey Elyse!
Thanks so much for the feedback
your comments definately make sense, and ill try and fix it up asap
yeah i agree with the sudden decision to go into the neighbourhood does seem a bit absurd
and the tattoo part i wasnt too happy with myself
one more thing - does this story bore the reader or is it interesting to read?
ps : if i fix it up and send it again does that require another 25 posts or?
Hey Daniya! No, it wasn't at all a bore to read, I was really intrigued by the action of it all. And the ending, like I said, was in fact very compelling! I really enjoyed it. If you want to fix up a particular paragraph and send it back alongside the original to say, "does this sound better?" I'll happily do that for you, but a full review again will mean 25 posts :)
Post by: Daniyahasan on July 25, 2017, 04:59:29 pm
Hey Daniya! No, it wasn't at all a bore to read, I was really intrigued by the action of it all. And the ending, like I said, was in fact very compelling! I really enjoyed it. If you want to fix up a particular paragraph and send it back alongside the original to say, "does this sound better?" I'll happily do that for you, but a full review again will mean 25 posts :)
ohh okay thanks Elyse, ill definatley come back for more feedback
thank you:)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 25, 2017, 05:10:17 pm
Hi, could I possibly have feedback for my creative? I know I just asked in the paper 1 thread for feedback on that but my creative is more urgent atm so please ignore that (i defeated the post anyway)
Thank You!!
btw it is only a first draft sort of, because originally I wrote it as a screenplay but sort of ran into complications with getting that down under a time limit so I've adapted it to a fiction story. I'm going to attach both but I only want the story marked but if you had a tiny chance to take a look at the screenplay version and let me know what is strong/what isn't or if theres anything that stood out in the original one which I havn't been successful in including into my new draft that'd be GREAT!!!!!!!!
Also, I know you are swamped with marking but just so that I have a vague understanding, how long-ish will it be approximately to expect a response by?
Thanks!
Hey Georgia! Really interesting that you went from a screenplay to a short story. What made you switch? Unfortunately because your doc is in a PDF instead of a word doc, the formatting will look funny below, but I've referred to the PDF to see how it's supposed to sit :)
Spoiler
Reminiscence
‘The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still’
- Maya Angelou I really like the starting with the quote. In the exam, don't be afraid to frame it to the side like this as well. The way words sit on the page can be a very powerful expression.
Rizak sits upright in the emptiness, his silhouette disrupting the room. The dream falls away, as
hands rub eyes, and gaze stares blankly into nothingness. The same dream, nightly, wrecked his
sleep.
He shuts his eyes in the darkness - can imagine it as clearly as the moon in the garden beyond the
shutters.
A small utility boat, drifting out of Tathra toward the open sea. Innumerable seagulls trail above
him, as he sits at the wheel with hands caked in the crust of age. In the dream, as it had been ten
years prior, his two kids fight over chips like bickering gulls, each one gleaming and eager. Vessels
as yet unmapped. He turns to absorb the cinematic expanse of sky - the whole world stretches
before him like an open palm. Inviting.
The dream leaks into the floorboard cracks. Fades like stained wine. Outside, the birds gather to the
call of dawn. Screeches and whirling merge with the sound of lapping waves. Rizak stands,
momentarily unsteady on feet that are caged by their own structure. Sturdy, yet uncompromising.
Blinds drawn, eyes squint to the points of pellucid horizon - and something old and buried awaits
him out there on the ocean.
The room is unkept. Dust-caked, haunted by bags of laundry cascading over chairs. Papers
fastidiously ordered in the bookshelf. And his mind, in the middle of the storm, a ship struggling to
hold anchor. I ADORE this!!!! Here we have: complete disorder of laundry, complete order of books, and then a very lost soul in the middle of it all. I think this is one of the best passages I've ever read from a HSC piece. I adore this.
The sky, a deep shade of wine-blue and bubbling with stars, hung over Rizak, drifting with the
energy of an etherised patient to the bird cage at the far edge of his garden. The birds flocked to him
with familiarity. Their eyes were wide as prawns’ for the grains and seeds griped tightly in his
closed palm. He throws the seeds to the birds with the agitation of a storm-tossed ship. Yet he stood
there, unconscious as a flower. The birds fight for the seeds like brothers fighting for a throne.
As his supply of seeds exhausted, Rizak’s absent expression hung to him like a dark, impenetrable
cloud. A pent-up storm, craving for outlet. While the birds mangled one another screeching like an
un-tuned viola, for the remnants of the last remaining seeds, wings and lone feathers tore to all
directions. Rizak’s heartbeat began to race. His spirit beating itself like a caged bird against its
prison bars in vain. And just like the moon which beacons the waves into a suffocating embrace, the
wild commotion of the birds pulled at Rizak like tides, dragging him into the uncharted oceans of
thought.
The waves drummed like a funeral march against the rocks. So large that they dwarfed the capsized
utility boat which road up and down the mighty swelling sea like a child’s toy. There was no mercy
in that dark November wind. No grace in her discordant waves. Only wrath and tempest.
Georgia Plantzos
“Inayaaaaaa!” a voice bellowed with the agony of a battle already lost. The morning would see his
children bobbing in placid water or else several leagues down with the fish. With an expression of
despair and plea, Rizak looked up at the matte black canvas, void of stars. The night returned his
gaze, as if in mockery for him believing that even a feather of hope remained. But Rizak saw that in
his unforgiving fish tank, gulls, innumerable gulls, tossed above him like paper in a storm. Flashes
of white against a black vacuum, tumbling in a struggle against the gale.
And birds had feathers.
Hope conducted the sea’s cacophonous symphony towards a gradual decrescendo. The atmosphere
eased into a requiem. A missa defunctorium. And here Rizak lay alone, as dawn broke out like a
bleeding wound. The imagery in this first sentence of this section is just, uh. You are a very, very talented writer Georgia.
The memory evaporated into the clouds. Colourless like salt. But to Rizak, the clouds resembled a
possible beauty as silver lasers seeped through the gaps. His heartbeat now easing back to an
andante tempo, Rizak took in the empty bird cage before him. Gazing at the cinematic expanse of
the horizon with the caution of a bigger, unsure whether to trust his eyes at seeing change left
behind on a desolate pavement. Rizak sees his birds drifting like leaves into the endless void. To
endless possibility.
Wander and awe swells across his face. Why had they never before tried to escape? After all, they
could fly anywhere. Then Rizak asked himself the same question. Unfortunately, I've read three creatives this year that have used this same structure: wondering why the birds don't fly away, and then asking themselves the same question. You've done it one of the most artful ways because it's embedded so thoroughly throughout, but I feel it's fair to warn you that I've read this before. A kinetic energy of potential
sparked somewhere deep inside of him. For the first time in years, Rizak regarded the ocean sheeted
before him for her calm serenity and not just her strength and unforgiving power. What if I spread
my wings? Rizak thought. Can I be released from this caging fear? This is what makes yours unique - that you continue to press into it deeper rather than just leaving the question in isolation.
Rizak closed his eyes just in time to feel the silver droplets which cascaded upon him as if the storm
had finally decided to weep with shame for what she had done to him. In that moment, he began to
understand.
Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass. It is about learning to dance in the rain. I don't love this bit. Everything you've written is fresh and original and so delicately graceful, but this is a quote I've seen on tumblr and instagram and so on, it's just too colloquial for the delicacy of your story, I believe. The analogy is well fitted in nature, but I think it could be better worded, can you think of an original analogy to replace this?
‘and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.’
‘The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still’
- Maya Angelou I really like the starting with the quote. In the exam, don't be afraid to frame it to the side like this as well. The way words sit on the page can be a very powerful expression.
Rizak sits upright in the emptiness, his silhouette disrupting the room. The dream falls away, as
hands rub eyes, and gaze stares blankly into nothingness. The same dream, nightly, wrecked his
sleep.
He shuts his eyes in the darkness - can imagine it as clearly as the moon in the garden beyond the
shutters.
A small utility boat, drifting out of Tathra toward the open sea. Innumerable seagulls trail above
him, as he sits at the wheel with hands caked in the crust of age. In the dream, as it had been ten
years prior, his two kids fight over chips like bickering gulls, each one gleaming and eager. Vessels
as yet unmapped. He turns to absorb the cinematic expanse of sky - the whole world stretches
before him like an open palm. Inviting.
The dream leaks into the floorboard cracks. Fades like stained wine. Outside, the birds gather to the
call of dawn. Screeches and whirling merge with the sound of lapping waves. Rizak stands,
momentarily unsteady on feet that are caged by their own structure. Sturdy, yet uncompromising.
Blinds drawn, eyes squint to the points of pellucid horizon - and something old and buried awaits
him out there on the ocean.
The room is unkept. Dust-caked, haunted by bags of laundry cascading over chairs. Papers
fastidiously ordered in the bookshelf. And his mind, in the middle of the storm, a ship struggling to
hold anchor. I ADORE this!!!! Here we have: complete disorder of laundry, complete order of books, and then a very lost soul in the middle of it all. I think this is one of the best passages I've ever read from a HSC piece. I adore this.
The sky, a deep shade of wine-blue and bubbling with stars, hung over Rizak, drifting with the
energy of an etherised patient to the bird cage at the far edge of his garden. The birds flocked to him
with familiarity. Their eyes were wide as prawns’ for the grains and seeds griped tightly in his
closed palm. He throws the seeds to the birds with the agitation of a storm-tossed ship. Yet he stood
there, unconscious as a flower. The birds fight for the seeds like brothers fighting for a throne.
As his supply of seeds exhausted, Rizak’s absent expression hung to him like a dark, impenetrable
cloud. A pent-up storm, craving for outlet. While the birds mangled one another screeching like an
un-tuned viola, for the remnants of the last remaining seeds, wings and lone feathers tore to all
directions. Rizak’s heartbeat began to race. His spirit beating itself like a caged bird against its
prison bars in vain. And just like the moon which beacons the waves into a suffocating embrace, the
wild commotion of the birds pulled at Rizak like tides, dragging him into the uncharted oceans of
thought.
The waves drummed like a funeral march against the rocks. So large that they dwarfed the capsized
utility boat which road up and down the mighty swelling sea like a child’s toy. There was no mercy
in that dark November wind. No grace in her discordant waves. Only wrath and tempest.
Georgia Plantzos
“Inayaaaaaa!” a voice bellowed with the agony of a battle already lost. The morning would see his
children bobbing in placid water or else several leagues down with the fish. With an expression of
despair and plea, Rizak looked up at the matte black canvas, void of stars. The night returned his
gaze, as if in mockery for him believing that even a feather of hope remained. But Rizak saw that in
his unforgiving fish tank, gulls, innumerable gulls, tossed above him like paper in a storm. Flashes
of white against a black vacuum, tumbling in a struggle against the gale.
And birds had feathers.
Hope conducted the sea’s cacophonous symphony towards a gradual decrescendo. The atmosphere
eased into a requiem. A missa defunctorium. And here Rizak lay alone, as dawn broke out like a
bleeding wound. The imagery in this first sentence of this section is just, uh. You are a very, very talented writer Georgia.
The memory evaporated into the clouds. Colourless like salt. But to Rizak, the clouds resembled a
possible beauty as silver lasers seeped through the gaps. His heartbeat now easing back to an
andante tempo, Rizak took in the empty bird cage before him. Gazing at the cinematic expanse of
the horizon with the caution of a bigger, unsure whether to trust his eyes at seeing change left
behind on a desolate pavement. Rizak sees his birds drifting like leaves into the endless void. To
endless possibility.
Wander and awe swells across his face. Why had they never before tried to escape? After all, they
could fly anywhere. Then Rizak asked himself the same question. Unfortunately, I've read three creatives this year that have used this same structure: wondering why the birds don't fly away, and then asking themselves the same question. You've done it one of the most artful ways because it's embedded so thoroughly throughout, but I feel it's fair to warn you that I've read this before. A kinetic energy of potential
sparked somewhere deep inside of him. For the first time in years, Rizak regarded the ocean sheeted
before him for her calm serenity and not just her strength and unforgiving power. What if I spread
my wings? Rizak thought. Can I be released from this caging fear? This is what makes yours unique - that you continue to press into it deeper rather than just leaving the question in isolation.
Rizak closed his eyes just in time to feel the silver droplets which cascaded upon him as if the storm
had finally decided to weep with shame for what she had done to him. In that moment, he began to
understand.
Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass. It is about learning to dance in the rain. I don't love this bit. Everything you've written is fresh and original and so delicately graceful, but this is a quote I've seen on tumblr and instagram and so on, it's just too colloquial for the delicacy of your story, I believe. The analogy is well fitted in nature, but I think it could be better worded, can you think of an original analogy to replace this?
‘and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.’
I think I really want to award this as the most delicate yet powerful piece I've read for a HSC AOS entry, possibly ever. I can see the benefit of the story over the screenplay, as you've been able to show such prowess with your writing skills here. It was like I was reading poetry the entire way through! I am struggling, very much struggling, to find places to critique. So I guess my main criticism is what I wrote at the end there - your writing is so authentic, but then at the end it just loses a tiny bit of magic when I read a quote I've read before, the dancing in the rain one. So I think that challenging the quote with new, original, brilliant language (as is in the rest of your story), could really improve the last taste of the story. You should be very proud and pleased with this.
As for the screenplay, I've never read or marked an AOS screenplay before. But, the appeal is that it is very well formatted and well written. The conceptual idea that holds your story together still exists strongly in the screenplay. I wonder if it would be worth pursuing the screenplay because of the originality that comes from the medium alone, but also as a way of standing out? I think your wonderful language will be a stand out anyway, but keen to know your reasoning behind the change?
Post by: georgiia on July 25, 2017, 08:34:31 pm
Hey Georgia! Really interesting that you went from a screenplay to a short story. What made you switch? Unfortunately because your doc is in a PDF instead of a word doc, the formatting will look funny below, but I've referred to the PDF to see how it's supposed to sit :)SpoilerReminiscence
‘The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still’
- Maya Angelou I really like the starting with the quote. In the exam, don't be afraid to frame it to the side like this as well. The way words sit on the page can be a very powerful expression.
Rizak sits upright in the emptiness, his silhouette disrupting the room. The dream falls away, as
hands rub eyes, and gaze stares blankly into nothingness. The same dream, nightly, wrecked his
sleep.
He shuts his eyes in the darkness - can imagine it as clearly as the moon in the garden beyond the
shutters.
A small utility boat, drifting out of Tathra toward the open sea. Innumerable seagulls trail above
him, as he sits at the wheel with hands caked in the crust of age. In the dream, as it had been ten
years prior, his two kids fight over chips like bickering gulls, each one gleaming and eager. Vessels
as yet unmapped. He turns to absorb the cinematic expanse of sky - the whole world stretches
before him like an open palm. Inviting.
The dream leaks into the floorboard cracks. Fades like stained wine. Outside, the birds gather to the
call of dawn. Screeches and whirling merge with the sound of lapping waves. Rizak stands,
momentarily unsteady on feet that are caged by their own structure. Sturdy, yet uncompromising.
Blinds drawn, eyes squint to the points of pellucid horizon - and something old and buried awaits
him out there on the ocean.
The room is unkept. Dust-caked, haunted by bags of laundry cascading over chairs. Papers
fastidiously ordered in the bookshelf. And his mind, in the middle of the storm, a ship struggling to
hold anchor. I ADORE this!!!! Here we have: complete disorder of laundry, complete order of books, and then a very lost soul in the middle of it all. I think this is one of the best passages I've ever read from a HSC piece. I adore this.
The sky, a deep shade of wine-blue and bubbling with stars, hung over Rizak, drifting with the
energy of an etherised patient to the bird cage at the far edge of his garden. The birds flocked to him
with familiarity. Their eyes were wide as prawns’ for the grains and seeds griped tightly in his
closed palm. He throws the seeds to the birds with the agitation of a storm-tossed ship. Yet he stood
there, unconscious as a flower. The birds fight for the seeds like brothers fighting for a throne.
As his supply of seeds exhausted, Rizak’s absent expression hung to him like a dark, impenetrable
cloud. A pent-up storm, craving for outlet. While the birds mangled one another screeching like an
un-tuned viola, for the remnants of the last remaining seeds, wings and lone feathers tore to all
directions. Rizak’s heartbeat began to race. His spirit beating itself like a caged bird against its
prison bars in vain. And just like the moon which beacons the waves into a suffocating embrace, the
wild commotion of the birds pulled at Rizak like tides, dragging him into the uncharted oceans of
thought.
The waves drummed like a funeral march against the rocks. So large that they dwarfed the capsized
utility boat which road up and down the mighty swelling sea like a child’s toy. There was no mercy
in that dark November wind. No grace in her discordant waves. Only wrath and tempest.
Georgia Plantzos
“Inayaaaaaa!” a voice bellowed with the agony of a battle already lost. The morning would see his
children bobbing in placid water or else several leagues down with the fish. With an expression of
despair and plea, Rizak looked up at the matte black canvas, void of stars. The night returned his
gaze, as if in mockery for him believing that even a feather of hope remained. But Rizak saw that in
his unforgiving fish tank, gulls, innumerable gulls, tossed above him like paper in a storm. Flashes
of white against a black vacuum, tumbling in a struggle against the gale.
And birds had feathers.
Hope conducted the sea’s cacophonous symphony towards a gradual decrescendo. The atmosphere
eased into a requiem. A missa defunctorium. And here Rizak lay alone, as dawn broke out like a
bleeding wound. The imagery in this first sentence of this section is just, uh. You are a very, very talented writer Georgia.
The memory evaporated into the clouds. Colourless like salt. But to Rizak, the clouds resembled a
possible beauty as silver lasers seeped through the gaps. His heartbeat now easing back to an
andante tempo, Rizak took in the empty bird cage before him. Gazing at the cinematic expanse of
the horizon with the caution of a bigger, unsure whether to trust his eyes at seeing change left
behind on a desolate pavement. Rizak sees his birds drifting like leaves into the endless void. To
endless possibility.
Wander and awe swells across his face. Why had they never before tried to escape? After all, they
could fly anywhere. Then Rizak asked himself the same question. Unfortunately, I've read three creatives this year that have used this same structure: wondering why the birds don't fly away, and then asking themselves the same question. You've done it one of the most artful ways because it's embedded so thoroughly throughout, but I feel it's fair to warn you that I've read this before. A kinetic energy of potential
sparked somewhere deep inside of him. For the first time in years, Rizak regarded the ocean sheeted
before him for her calm serenity and not just her strength and unforgiving power. What if I spread
my wings? Rizak thought. Can I be released from this caging fear? This is what makes yours unique - that you continue to press into it deeper rather than just leaving the question in isolation.
Rizak closed his eyes just in time to feel the silver droplets which cascaded upon him as if the storm
had finally decided to weep with shame for what she had done to him. In that moment, he began to
understand.
Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass. It is about learning to dance in the rain. I don't love this bit. Everything you've written is fresh and original and so delicately graceful, but this is a quote I've seen on tumblr and instagram and so on, it's just too colloquial for the delicacy of your story, I believe. The analogy is well fitted in nature, but I think it could be better worded, can you think of an original analogy to replace this?
‘and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.’
I think I really want to award this as the most delicate yet powerful piece I've read for a HSC AOS entry, possibly ever. I can see the benefit of the story over the screenplay, as you've been able to show such prowess with your writing skills here. It was like I was reading poetry the entire way through! I am struggling, very much struggling, to find places to critique. So I guess my main criticism is what I wrote at the end there - your writing is so authentic, but then at the end it just loses a tiny bit of magic when I read a quote I've read before, the dancing in the rain one. So I think that challenging the quote with new, original, brilliant language (as is in the rest of your story), could really improve the last taste of the story. You should be very proud and pleased with this.
As for the screenplay, I've never read or marked an AOS screenplay before. But, the appeal is that it is very well formatted and well written. The conceptual idea that holds your story together still exists strongly in the screenplay. I wonder if it would be worth pursuing the screenplay because of the originality that comes from the medium alone, but also as a way of standing out? I think your wonderful language will be a stand out anyway, but keen to know your reasoning behind the change?
OH MY GOD YOU HAVE KNOW IDEA YOU JUST MADE MY WEEK!!!!!!
I have never EVER written a creative before and had positive feedback! (or any feedback besides 'work on strengthening it') Last assessment I got 13/20 for the screenplay which I had written but never got feedback and never got past a 2nd draft. I sent it to my teacher last week of the holidays and she only got back to me on sunday saying the screenplay was not a very good idea. So that's why I forced my self to make the switch and so today she responded to the version I've uploaded here with this:
"Please go through it and see how many similes etc you have - I think you need to edit them for the sake of clarity."
and then in class she said "we need to work on condensing it, but don't stress" or something along those lines so that left me feeling a bit less confident. I at least expected something positive?
So you have know idea how amazing coming h0ome to this feedback has been!!!!!!!! THANK YOU
Are you sure it's not simile/metaphor overload? Thats what she seemed to think. The reason you've seen the bird thing us probably because theres a creative with it floating around and because I have never written before nor have any interest in it, I thought why not use someone else Idea and build on it, so I guess that's why. Oooopsies :/
I completely understand what you're saying about the last part, I'll make a change to that.
My major question is what "types" of discovery stand out the most, like in rubric terms. Because I know my creative considerably well it's hard for me to judge. What should I really hone in on in terms of exaggerating so that It may fit a stimulus?
And do you think it's adaptable to most things they can chuck at me? I really, REALLY do not want to write another one.. Oh and what mark would you give it?
THANKS ELYSE YOU HAVE NOW IDEA HOW MUCH OF A CONFIDENCE BOOST YOU'VE GIVEN ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I actually cannot believe this :)
Post by: beau77bro on July 25, 2017, 09:07:52 pm
Spouts of fog perforated the empty sky and air of silence, we all looked up at the beauty that hung above and around us. I had organised and paid for a trip for my family to the alps. We stood outside the entrance to our door for just a moment to stare up at the sky. I had demanded it from the kids, a moment of admiration and appreciation of what was around us. But the chill of the air and the ice on my back from falling over it made me feel alone there in the night, even amongst the stars. It reminded me of what I am and how I got there, how frivolously we value such insignificant things and don’t appreciate what’s around us makes us up. Stars always reminded me. My wife hugged me and went inside, leaving me outside to contemplate my thoughts and questions. I stood and remembered the cold hospital bed my childhood comprised of and the stick-on-stars that covered the ceiling. I thought of how I learnt to live and value living, on that icy floor with death in the air.
i also changed the ending slightly.
"My wife grabbed me, squeezed me in her arms and told me to come inside. I remembered the familiar sudden jerk that had woken me, opening my eyes to see my dad balling. He squeezed me, which was honestly agony with all the tubes. Then I giggled because I was alive and because I had answered another why. The question of “why are you such an ugly crier dad?” He hugged me again and I looked at the stream of yellow patches that decorated the sky inside. I no longer needed the star by my bed. I would live in spite of it, as well as in thanks. I waved goodbye to the night sky, thanked glowing stickers there and went inside. "
so that it was in the present, and more connected to the stimuli. SORRY AGAIN FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 25, 2017, 09:44:20 pm
Beau77bro, can you reupload your creative with the changes, just to make sure I'm putting it all together in the right order? Thanks a bunch! :)
Georgiia, I'm going to re-read your creative tomorrow as well with the similes in mind to see if I think that's something to be adjusted. It's not something I noticed upon first reading but fresh eyes always pick up different things, so I'll read again :)
Post by: _____ on July 25, 2017, 10:25:23 pm
Good afternoon :)
In terms of the new formatting: yes this is much more appropriate. It's easier to read and I do understand it all a little differently now. BUT, I think I've realised that the thing that makes me confused about who is saying what, might actually be, "he looked up at Xavier." Just because, I imagine someone down in order to look up, so I assume the dog is looking up and therefore the dog is saying the words. Obviously, the biker has been patting the dog so I understand why he is down and needs to look up, but I think nonetheless it should be adjusted for clarity - the two men might be both standing and they shake hands in a friendly/mate kind of way. This also might be a way for Xavier to almost resist for a moment, the spontaneity of shaking hands with a stranger like this, but he might feel better that he just connected at random with someone afterwards. I totally understand that you're trying not to use the boring scheme of dialogue. So, I think that perhaps changing the "looking up" thing might be all you need to change it up and it'll be a whole lot clearer. Also, I wasn't sure if I was just crazy in the way I read this so I showed my sister, and she said she was confused about the dynamic of the trio at this point too - so I think just adjusting the interaction there might be enough to pull it all into place! :)
Thanks so much once again ;D
If you get the chance with your current workload, could you have a brief look at this version just to make sure it kind of works? I've just changed the dialogue at the midway point so I'll paste it here for your convenience with the change in italics.
Spoiler
You wouldn’t have been able to tell Sydney was on the cusp of winter. A light breeze ruffled evergreen leaves, adding little chill to tepid air. The afternoon sun was smiling down, with little care for the fact that it was working unpaid overtime. Its breezy attitude was fabulous for the precise rows of flowerbeds, their occupants swimming drunkenly in sunlight. On the roads sat the houses, waiting patiently for their owners to return for Christmas.
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode through stray locks of sandy hair. He’s the type of kid you’d look right past at the canteen queue, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of looking past you. Eternally inquisitive, he chuffed his teachers until they became fed up of his constant attempts to find discrepancies in the syllabus. Eventually the sleepy state school arranged to offload all five foot four of Xavier to a selective campus for year eleven.
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand?
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball and chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Despite having walked this road for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan grinned and trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall.
Xavier tracked the plane across the Tasman. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty-thousand feet in the air in a thin metal tube?
Hearing chomping, he looked down at Stan and saw the stub of a discarded cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Innocently, the brown marbles looked up at him, wondering what the holdup was.
Xavier tried to recall how many times he’d wrestled street scraps from Stan’s mouth as a puppy. He couldn’t. But he was sure that the dog knew he wasn’t supposed to eat that bone, as the end of his tail was raised ever so slightly as he trotted off. For Stan, Xavier realised, here and now is what matters.
The lead pulled taut, jerking Xavier out of his daze. The dog was trotting off for a reason – on the other side of the road, a bearded slab of a man emerged from a stained facade. Xavier tried hopelessly to resist – the stranger’s ink-drenched skin and shiny Harley Davidson gave him the impression that he wouldn’t be fond of Stan’s antics.
The biker turned around, alerted by the desperate wheezing Stan was making as he dragged his owner across the road.
Xavier did well to supress his wonder as biker’s menacing demeanour melted – his stubby fingers caressed the dog’s anvil-shaped head fondly. Embarrassingly, Stan decided to lie down, indicating it was time for a belly rub. His new friend obliged, having lowered himself slowly down onto his front step, so Xavier found himself having to start a conversation with the man.
“He reminds me of my dog, Lucy,” the biker confided. “I lost her a few months back.”
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend stood up. The man breathed out airily, glancing back down at Stan.
“Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” The biker prised his eyes from the hound’s friendly stare. “See you ‘round bro,” he said to Xavier, with just a hint of emotion glinting in his voice.
Order was restored as the hound and his human continued walking, soon arriving back home.
Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes as the keys jangled on the way out of his pocket. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, ready to be plunged eagerly into his familiar water bowl.
Maybe… maybe ignorance really is bliss? Stan takes life for what it is, and he’s happy as can be. He even made a new friend today, enabled by his carefree attitude. Maybe I have something to learn from my four-legged friend…
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode through stray locks of sandy hair. He’s the type of kid you’d look right past at the canteen queue, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of looking past you. Eternally inquisitive, he chuffed his teachers until they became fed up of his constant attempts to find discrepancies in the syllabus. Eventually the sleepy state school arranged to offload all five foot four of Xavier to a selective campus for year eleven.
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand?
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball and chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Despite having walked this road for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan grinned and trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall.
Xavier tracked the plane across the Tasman. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty-thousand feet in the air in a thin metal tube?
Hearing chomping, he looked down at Stan and saw the stub of a discarded cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Innocently, the brown marbles looked up at him, wondering what the holdup was.
Xavier tried to recall how many times he’d wrestled street scraps from Stan’s mouth as a puppy. He couldn’t. But he was sure that the dog knew he wasn’t supposed to eat that bone, as the end of his tail was raised ever so slightly as he trotted off. For Stan, Xavier realised, here and now is what matters.
The lead pulled taut, jerking Xavier out of his daze. The dog was trotting off for a reason – on the other side of the road, a bearded slab of a man emerged from a stained facade. Xavier tried hopelessly to resist – the stranger’s ink-drenched skin and shiny Harley Davidson gave him the impression that he wouldn’t be fond of Stan’s antics.
The biker turned around, alerted by the desperate wheezing Stan was making as he dragged his owner across the road.
Xavier did well to supress his wonder as biker’s menacing demeanour melted – his stubby fingers caressed the dog’s anvil-shaped head fondly. Embarrassingly, Stan decided to lie down, indicating it was time for a belly rub. His new friend obliged, having lowered himself slowly down onto his front step, so Xavier found himself having to start a conversation with the man.
“He reminds me of my dog, Lucy,” the biker confided. “I lost her a few months back.”
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend stood up. The man breathed out airily, glancing back down at Stan.
“Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” The biker prised his eyes from the hound’s friendly stare. “See you ‘round bro,” he said to Xavier, with just a hint of emotion glinting in his voice.
Order was restored as the hound and his human continued walking, soon arriving back home.
Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes as the keys jangled on the way out of his pocket. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, ready to be plunged eagerly into his familiar water bowl.
Maybe… maybe ignorance really is bliss? Stan takes life for what it is, and he’s happy as can be. He even made a new friend today, enabled by his carefree attitude. Maybe I have something to learn from my four-legged friend…
I kind of changed it a bit more than you suggested. I get what you mean with the handshake, but it would feel out of place for me on a walk, and my intention was for the discovery to be more about gaining an understanding of the dog's view rather than some personal experience but that's just me.
If it's still confusing at all please lmk. If the dialogue is no longer ambiguous, does the image of the meeting seem to "fit" in the story for you? Or does it still need something like that handshake idea? Once again thank you so much for the help :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2017, 08:01:50 am
OH MY GOD YOU HAVE KNOW IDEA YOU JUST MADE MY WEEK!!!!!!
I have never EVER written a creative before and had positive feedback! (or any feedback besides 'work on strengthening it') Last assessment I got 13/20 for the screenplay which I had written but never got feedback and never got past a 2nd draft. I sent it to my teacher last week of the holidays and she only got back to me on sunday saying the screenplay was not a very good idea. So that's why I forced my self to make the switch and so today she responded to the version I've uploaded here with this:
"Please go through it and see how many similes etc you have - I think you need to edit them for the sake of clarity."
and then in class she said "we need to work on condensing it, but don't stress" or something along those lines so that left me feeling a bit less confident. I at least expected something positive?
So you have know idea how amazing coming h0ome to this feedback has been!!!!!!!! THANK YOU
Are you sure it's not simile/metaphor overload? Thats what she seemed to think. The reason you've seen the bird thing us probably because theres a creative with it floating around and because I have never written before nor have any interest in it, I thought why not use someone else Idea and build on it, so I guess that's why. Oooopsies :/
I completely understand what you're saying about the last part, I'll make a change to that.
My major question is what "types" of discovery stand out the most, like in rubric terms. Because I know my creative considerably well it's hard for me to judge. What should I really hone in on in terms of exaggerating so that It may fit a stimulus?
And do you think it's adaptable to most things they can chuck at me? I really, REALLY do not want to write another one.. Oh and what mark would you give it?
THANKS ELYSE YOU HAVE NOW IDEA HOW MUCH OF A CONFIDENCE BOOST YOU'VE GIVEN ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I actually cannot believe this :)
I read this last night and it made me all fuzzy and excited for you and I've just read it again to the same effect! I just read the story again as well, being critical of all the similes. For me, I followed them all quite easily. BUT, perhaps there is merit in what your teacher is saying for the reason that a marker will read 60+ creatives, and although ideally they'd be able to give the same dilligence to each, perhaps they'll have tired eyes and they'll not be able to follow things so closely. See, I read your creative yesterday and followed it all but it was only the second creative I read. To me, the stand out part of your work is the writing, the language. It just flows so artfully and I'm very impressed. There certainly are lots of similes, but I followed them. But it does make me wonder if it is worth condensing it just a little, even by taking out like 75 words, by just editing out a few bits and bobs here and there (maybe similes) for the sake of making it just slightly more accessible to your marker. I think that it is easy to get swept up by the wonderful language and forget that I'm meant to be analysing a discovery!
I think the spiritual discovery is foremost, but it also fits into physical, emotional, and even intellectual. It's about relationships with space and capacity, and it's a discovery that has certainly changed perspectives (big rubric point!). I think after you go back and just trim it ever so slightly, working to a stimulus is certainly the next step for you. The writing is so delicate that I hope you can seamlessly respond in an exam situation without fragmenting the language!
Be proud of what you've produced!
Post by: beau77bro on July 26, 2017, 09:39:00 am
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2017, 10:07:43 am
Hello! I have my creative in the spoiler below. I have my trials on Monday, so it would be nice if it's back (by Friday??) I know you guys have a lot to mark but it would be super nice if I can have feedback on this. Thank you so much! (Note: I also have a Mod B Essay up on the Module Thread, that would be very helpful to have done too. Sorry for the hassle!)
Spoiler
Indonesia. What a beautiful country.
The rims of the Chevrolet Bolt EV quickly became engulfed in mud as the vehicle maneuvered across the rural terrain, over jagged rocks and shallow puddles of deep-brown water. It was irritating, to say the least, knowing that such a car would be driven in a place like this. Shifting his focus from the once gleaming rims to the horizon, Johan could make out a towering mound of rubbish set alight, the billowing smoke shrouding the deep crimson sunset. Everything was exactly what he thought it would be; dirty. His nose was not accustomed to the overriding scent of fetid air. Or his body to the sweltering heat.
One day in Bogor.
He just had to pull it together for one day. That wasn’t too bad … right?
His parents had said something about paying a quick visit, to an old church was it? He couldn’t quite remember, but frankly, he didn’t really care.
The dirt road appeared to stretch before his eyes. Johan’s eyelids flickered as he tried falling asleep, only to be kept awake by the muggy atmosphere.
The moisture of the air clung onto him, weighing his entire body down.
His head began to throb, the sharp pangs pulsating behind his temple.
“Johan - “
***
“ - Darmawan”. Mr. Ives face contorted into one of disbelief.
Chuckles resonated throughout the class of kindergarteners, the small faces looking intently around the room.
“Is Johan Darmawan here?”
Johan’s face began to glow tomato red, as he sat in silence.
“His name sounds like ‘dumber one’!” a voice chimed.
The class bursted into laughter.
Dumber one.
***
“- you okay?”. His mother shot him a concerned look. “We are almost there.” Great formatting of quotations - a lot of students don't do this correctly but you've got it sorted.
Silence.
He told himself it wouldn't get to him. I mean, they were just kids… right?
But it did.
The fiends of shame and humiliation seemed to always be right around the corner, ready to latch onto his thoughts.
And sometimes, he thought about how much easier it would all be if he wasn’t Indonesian.
It was worrying, at the least, for Johan’s parents.
It was a quickly diminishing hope that he would ever be able to appreciate who he was.
And perhaps they were crazy, bringing him all the way out to Indonesia. Truth be told, they had no idea what they were doing, or what to do at all.
But they had faith, and believed that faith was all you need.
***
“You don’t have to play basketball every Sunday. Uncle and aunty haven’t seen you in so long. Please stay.”
Glancing momentarily at his mother, Johan grunted.
That was the point.
He didn’t want to see them, talk to them, or even hear their heavily accented laugh booming through the house when someone cracked a joke in Indonesian. And it didn’t particularly help that he never knew what they were saying.
But he did know that he was tired of it.
“Please… it’s not the same without you…”
He didn't want to hear it. Clutching the basketball under his arm, Johan bolted out the front door.
***
The skyline remained shrouded in a veil of smoke.
Stepping out of the car, Johan could feel the heated mud clawing at his ankles as his foot sunk into the sodden earth.
Disgusting.
Etched into the marshland were little tree stumps, stretching deep into the mist.
Johan could only imagine the forest that once existed here. The magnificent array of bold trunks and sun-kissed leaves sprung into his thoughts.
It was so far removed from that now, and he wondered what it would be like if things would go back to the way they once were.
Before him was a humble shack that succumbed to the forces of nature and time, deteriorated and abandoned; the wood’s integrity diminished in beauty and strength. A crucifix dangled from the haphazard frame of the entrance, and it appeared any moment from now it would fall.
But it didn’t.
A bittersweet grin swept across his mother’s face as she glanced at the disintegrating structure.
“Ini Hari Minggu.” (“It’s Sunday.”)
Her eyelids closed as she joined her hands together.
“Bapa kami….” (“Our Father…”)
***
… yang ada di surga”. (“... who art in Heaven”)
Little Johan clambered up his mother’s leg into her lap. He could see everybody!
There was Om Agi and II Yuni,
His cousins KoKo Raditya, CiCi Irene,
And of course, mum and dad.
A tingle raced down his spine as they recited each word of the Lord’s prayer in unison, hands linked in a ring around their Sunday feast.
Ah, the feast! How could he forget?
An unmistakable smoky aroma emanated from the ayam satay skewers, indicative of his father’s prowess on the grill. Not to mention his mother’s gado-gado, the perfect combination of sweet, sour and savoury.
He loved Sunday, or Hari Minggu, as his parents would say.
But most importantly, he loved being Indonesian. **See comment below
***
“... bebaskan la kami dari yang jahat, Amin.” (“But deliver us from evil, Amen”).
A mellow breeze sliced through the muggy air, and as Johan opened his eyes, the fingers of the wind soothing his taut muscles.
Mum, dad, himself. Arms linked in a ring.
Johan thought about that little boy, and he wondered what it would be like if things would go back to the way they once were.
Maybe that’s just the sort of thing being bullied as a kid does.
Being told that you are lesser, weaker, the dumber one.
At least, now he knew who he really was. An Indonesian Catholic. Not many could say that, huh?
And on this Hari Minggu, he promised that he would never forget.
The smog had lifted, and revealed a spectacular crimson sunset. Turning towards it, Johan’s eyes glowed with an intense flare.
Indonesia. What a beautiful country.
The rims of the Chevrolet Bolt EV quickly became engulfed in mud as the vehicle maneuvered across the rural terrain, over jagged rocks and shallow puddles of deep-brown water. It was irritating, to say the least, knowing that such a car would be driven in a place like this. Shifting his focus from the once gleaming rims to the horizon, Johan could make out a towering mound of rubbish set alight, the billowing smoke shrouding the deep crimson sunset. Everything was exactly what he thought it would be; dirty. His nose was not accustomed to the overriding scent of fetid air. Or his body to the sweltering heat.
One day in Bogor.
He just had to pull it together for one day. That wasn’t too bad … right?
His parents had said something about paying a quick visit, to an old church was it? He couldn’t quite remember, but frankly, he didn’t really care.
The dirt road appeared to stretch before his eyes. Johan’s eyelids flickered as he tried falling asleep, only to be kept awake by the muggy atmosphere.
The moisture of the air clung onto him, weighing his entire body down.
His head began to throb, the sharp pangs pulsating behind his temple.
“Johan - “
***
“ - Darmawan”. Mr. Ives face contorted into one of disbelief.
Chuckles resonated throughout the class of kindergarteners, the small faces looking intently around the room.
“Is Johan Darmawan here?”
Johan’s face began to glow tomato red, as he sat in silence.
“His name sounds like ‘dumber one’!” a voice chimed.
The class bursted into laughter.
Dumber one.
***
“- you okay?”. His mother shot him a concerned look. “We are almost there.” Great formatting of quotations - a lot of students don't do this correctly but you've got it sorted.
Silence.
He told himself it wouldn't get to him. I mean, they were just kids… right?
But it did.
The fiends of shame and humiliation seemed to always be right around the corner, ready to latch onto his thoughts.
And sometimes, he thought about how much easier it would all be if he wasn’t Indonesian.
It was worrying, at the least, for Johan’s parents.
It was a quickly diminishing hope that he would ever be able to appreciate who he was.
And perhaps they were crazy, bringing him all the way out to Indonesia. Truth be told, they had no idea what they were doing, or what to do at all.
But they had faith, and believed that faith was all you need.
***
“You don’t have to play basketball every Sunday. Uncle and aunty haven’t seen you in so long. Please stay.”
Glancing momentarily at his mother, Johan grunted.
That was the point.
He didn’t want to see them, talk to them, or even hear their heavily accented laugh booming through the house when someone cracked a joke in Indonesian. And it didn’t particularly help that he never knew what they were saying.
But he did know that he was tired of it.
“Please… it’s not the same without you…”
He didn't want to hear it. Clutching the basketball under his arm, Johan bolted out the front door.
***
The skyline remained shrouded in a veil of smoke.
Stepping out of the car, Johan could feel the heated mud clawing at his ankles as his foot sunk into the sodden earth.
Disgusting.
Etched into the marshland were little tree stumps, stretching deep into the mist.
Johan could only imagine the forest that once existed here. The magnificent array of bold trunks and sun-kissed leaves sprung into his thoughts.
It was so far removed from that now, and he wondered what it would be like if things would go back to the way they once were.
Before him was a humble shack that succumbed to the forces of nature and time, deteriorated and abandoned; the wood’s integrity diminished in beauty and strength. A crucifix dangled from the haphazard frame of the entrance, and it appeared any moment from now it would fall.
But it didn’t.
A bittersweet grin swept across his mother’s face as she glanced at the disintegrating structure.
“Ini Hari Minggu.” (“It’s Sunday.”)
Her eyelids closed as she joined her hands together.
“Bapa kami….” (“Our Father…”)
***
… yang ada di surga”. (“... who art in Heaven”)
Little Johan clambered up his mother’s leg into her lap. He could see everybody!
There was Om Agi and II Yuni,
His cousins KoKo Raditya, CiCi Irene,
And of course, mum and dad.
A tingle raced down his spine as they recited each word of the Lord’s prayer in unison, hands linked in a ring around their Sunday feast.
Ah, the feast! How could he forget?
An unmistakable smoky aroma emanated from the ayam satay skewers, indicative of his father’s prowess on the grill. Not to mention his mother’s gado-gado, the perfect combination of sweet, sour and savoury.
He loved Sunday, or Hari Minggu, as his parents would say.
But most importantly, he loved being Indonesian. **See comment below
***
“... bebaskan la kami dari yang jahat, Amin.” (“But deliver us from evil, Amen”).
A mellow breeze sliced through the muggy air, and as Johan opened his eyes, the fingers of the wind soothing his taut muscles.
Mum, dad, himself. Arms linked in a ring.
Johan thought about that little boy, and he wondered what it would be like if things would go back to the way they once were.
Maybe that’s just the sort of thing being bullied as a kid does.
Being told that you are lesser, weaker, the dumber one.
At least, now he knew who he really was. An Indonesian Catholic. Not many could say that, huh?
And on this Hari Minggu, he promised that he would never forget.
The smog had lifted, and revealed a spectacular crimson sunset. Turning towards it, Johan’s eyes glowed with an intense flare.
Indonesia. What a beautiful country.
I want to talk about two aspects of the story: the plot and the writing style.
Firstly, the writing style. So often you've used a declarative writing style, done more telling than showing. I think this is a missed opportunity because it seems as though you have an experience of or connection to Indonesia, so I'm keen to smell everything with you, taste it too, and so on. I get this a little with the satay skewers! But I think there could be more of it than there is. Instead we are told, he doesn't like to feel the way he does, he doesn't like hearing the words he doesn't understand, he doesn't like this, he feels like that. Don't get me wrong, they are all valid emotions for the telling of the story, but they are declared instead of shown, and I think this is a missed opportunity to show your prowess as a writer.
Secondly, this is where I want to refer to the ** I put above. The plot jumps a bit. It spends time resenting identity and experience, and then within one scene everything changes, and the protagonist loves being an Indonesian Catholic. I think it's just not enough development. Perhaps if the scene of change were more rich and evocative, I could be on board with it more. But at the moment it's a little rough in the way one scene changes everything. I think if you were to write out a story board of what happens at each moment, I think you'd find that there is slow progression, then a big leap, and then we have the outcome of the discovery. I think it needs to be embedded more gently.
About the discovery, it definitely exists in a strong way, and it's only upwards from here. The reason I say upwards from here is because when we adjust the language, or slightly tweak the plot, no doubt the discovery will sit on new layers as empathy is evoked in the reader. I really like the way the source of sadness turned into a source of inspiration - I think it's a really nice turn around and certainly reflects a discovery.
As a suggestion for the plot, perhaps you could look at the ways that the protagonist tried to engage with the culture, despite it being the reason the protagonist was bullied, but just couldn't break in because they were caught between identities. And then the defining scene could be a combination of both Australian and Indonesian cultures combined, and the discovery could be geared towards the two existing together to create a unique hybrid experience, and this can be viewed as the source of inspiration! Just a thought! Hopefully this helps :)
Post by: Daniyahasan on July 26, 2017, 10:31:30 am
so i took on board your feedback, so itll be great if you could have a look at this paragraph
ORGINAL
Dark shadows danced amongst the walls, the flickering street lamps encouraging them to continue their haunting ritual into the endless night. Following the makeshift path excitedly, a growing sense of exhilaration manifesting itself, she takes in what is surrounding her. The abandoned warehouse stretched endlessly onwards, the walls on the opposite end of her barely visible, obstructed by the towering boxes and rusted vehicles. As much as the excitement that it brought, she felt her hopes fall. In this silentness there was no possibility that she would be able to a produce a story for her column in the newspaper. Lingering around for what seemed like forever, with nothing interesting to get a hold on and much disappointment she decided to make her way back home.A piercing scream followed by gunfire caused her to jolt and stopped her in her tracks, steering her attention to a new light. The disappointment in her mind was replaced with bursting senses of excitement.
EDITED
Dark shadows danced and swayed amongst the dark walls, the flickering street lamps encouraging them to continue their haunting ritual into the endless night. Following the makeshift path excitedly, a growing sense of exhilaration manifesting itself, she takes in what is surrounding her. The abandoned warehouse stretched ceaselessly onwards, the walls on the opposite end of her barely visible, obstructed by the towering boxes and rusted vehicles – despite her excitement and eagerness all bubbled up in her, she felt her hopes fall. A feeling of extreme dismay and sorrow rushed up her spine, making her feel exhausted. Nibbling on her bottom lip and standing in the middle of darkness, she looked around with extreme anticipation. In this eerie silence there was no possibility that she would be able to a produce a story for her column in the newspaper. Lingering around for what seemed like forever, with nothing interesting to get a hold on and much disappointment, as if having the wind taken out of one's sails, she decided to find another destination – her determination still hoisted high. The path she kicked and trotted along was dusty and thick, dirtying her off white slip on. At this point, the weather had become somewhat chilly, and so her black jeans and the flannel she threw on failed to keep her warm. With her camera dangling around her neck; she sighed and walked on.
At some point, she bumped into a few citizens. A ray of optimism sparked within her, and she began questioning them in the hope that she’ll be able to get some story for her column from these people. Much to her frustration, she could barely get them to speak. Staring at her as if she was an erratic creature, she became self-conscious. Regardless, this side of the town was monotonous and so were the people living. Hindrance and fury built up in her as she kicked the rocks and pebbles within sight on the road. She stomped off in the other direction when she heard a loud noise that stunned her and made her stop in her direction.
I've made changes throught the creative according to your feedback but this paragraph i really wanted you to see if its okay
Thanks Elyse!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2017, 10:34:13 am
hey elyse here is the revised version thankyou
Great timing Beau! Thank you :)
Spoiler
Creative Practice - Stimuli 1 (HSC 2016)
Compose a piece of imaginative writing that explores the relationship between place and individual discovery.
Spouts of fog perforated the empty sky and air of silence, we all looked up at the beauty that hung above and around us. I had organised and paid for a trip for my family to the alps. Capitalisation required - The Alps. We stood outside the entrance to our door for just a moment to stare up at the sky. I had demanded it from the kids, a moment of admiration and appreciation of what was around us. But the chill of the air and the ice on my back from falling over it made me feel alone there in the night, even amongst the stars. It reminded me of what I am and how I got there, how frivolously we value such insignificant things and don’t appreciate what’s around us makes us up. Just a bit of clumsy expression, try: "and don't appreciate the way our surroundings are our makeup," or, "don't appreciate the way our surroundings create who we are."Stars always reminded me. My wife hugged me and went inside, leaving me outside to contemplate my thoughts and questions. I stood and remembered the cold hospital bed my childhood comprised of and the stick-on-stars that covered the ceiling. I thought of how I learnt to live and value living, on that icy floor with death in the air.
…
I do not remember much of the time I spent in hospital. A lot of it was an a bit of a blur. I don’t remember all the surgeries (thank god). I don’t remember the nurses, the paper cards from friends and relatives, the absence of my brother, and the long nights my mother spent next to me. I don’t remember the sickly faces that evaporated from the beds around me, but I know that they are no longer with us. I remember the light yellow stars stuck to the ceiling and I know the feeling of rage and bewilderment that plagued me. It always came back to the same question, however i chose to phrase it. WHY? Why me? What was the reason for any of this suffering? What had I done to deserve this? In 2 years I couldn’t work it out, but in one night that cold hard floor knocked the answer within my reach… i just needed to grasp it.
My endless tossing and turning had strangled me in my sheets, and my arm in the cords that maintained my existence. Any dream or measure of sleep was broken by that barrelling feeling of falling. That feeling of inertia as your organs resist the motion of falling and the rest of your body accelerates towards the ground. It’s a terrible, sickening feelingI’ve always found jerked you awake even if you weren’t truly falling. I really like this paragraph so far, but this last bit here is telling what the reader already accepts: that you don't actually fall. So I think it's best to take it out as to avoid limiting your creativity. Like stumbling in a dream. But the fall felt pretty real and so did the ground I met. The cold stung at me through the sheets, like a bed of needles. Meanwhile the actual needles pulled at my weak limbs and my body was covered in warm streaks of red. The cords had become entangled around me and with each other. The thumb clamp had come off and without it my star ceased to blip, a barely glowing screen. The warmth was gone. I had been devoured by a chill that shot down my body, like falling through the ice. With it came a sea of questions. More unknowns. More whys? A where and a was.
I cried. Not because of the pain, I had no more tears left for pain. I cried out of fear and out of anger, I had used no tears for them. I never did complain, not out loud. I didn’t want to face the answers to my questions, but as I lay there, alone, I asked my first… I could not ask the second.
“Where was my star? Was I…?”
The screen had gone dark. My star had gone out. Seeing as though I was only six years old I didn’t know it had simply gone out. That’s where the overwhelming issue of my sickness stuck, I DIDN’T KNOW. There was nothing in my life I understood anymore and nothing I had control of. It was like one day all the air was knocked out of my lungs and I was just hobbling about for months since, I had to be pushed around in a PRAM! In a moment I was no more - eaten up by sickness, and anger and confusion. But really I was scared I looked up to the ceiling for the warmth of the stars, but they were a blurr. A series of fluorescent streaks. I did not struggle when the darkness seeped across my view.
Why? Why was I different? What was wrong with me? Why did every moment have to be hard; talking to mum and my siblings, breathing, walking?... Where was my glimmering star? Was I…? Was this…?
When I opened my eyes, i met the cold again. It was all through me. It was like my bones and blood burnt. It was worse than the chemo. I winced at every movement, every breath. Agony. I wanted the darkness again, any reprieve from this existence… I hated anyone who didn’t have to live like this. It still stung at me, Why? Why didn’t they have to endure this? No. I would not sleep. I would not lea… I would not leave them unanswered. I stared at the glowing specs above me. Resolute. But as the world knocked at me and shook, the energy sapped from my eyes… I couldn’t fight as the ceiling turned to blackness. No matter how hard I clung to the blurry specs. And as they receded I knew. I knew I didn’t have controlled control* over what was happening, or what had happened. I didn’t cause any of this - but I had consumed myself in it.
Things JUST happened. That was just it. I hadn’t cause this. Lying there i had no control over anything. I was helpless. Now and before, and really, it was liberating. The questions that pulled me towards the black ice inside of me were gone… they didn’t need answers, I had done nothing wrong. I saw the lights, the specs were clear. Warmed, I faced the cold and the darkness outside of me, and I embraced them.
“I can control myself. I can choose how I want to deal with what life throws at me…. that’s enough, maybe just enough to change what’s ahead of me. But I can’t change this, so I’m not going to fight it.”
…
My wife grabbed me, squeezed me in her arms and told me to come inside. I remembered the familiar sudden jerk that had woken me, opening my eyes to see my dad balling. He squeezed me, which was honestly agony with all the tubes. Then I giggled because I was alive and because I had answered another why. The question of “why are you such an ugly crier dad?” He hugged me again and I looked at the stream of yellow patches that decorated the sky inside. I no longer needed the star by my bed. I would live in spite of it, as well as in thanks. I waved goodbye to the night sky, thanked glowing stickers there and went inside.
Compose a piece of imaginative writing that explores the relationship between place and individual discovery.
Spouts of fog perforated the empty sky and air of silence, we all looked up at the beauty that hung above and around us. I had organised and paid for a trip for my family to the alps. Capitalisation required - The Alps. We stood outside the entrance to our door for just a moment to stare up at the sky. I had demanded it from the kids, a moment of admiration and appreciation of what was around us. But the chill of the air and the ice on my back from falling over it made me feel alone there in the night, even amongst the stars. It reminded me of what I am and how I got there, how frivolously we value such insignificant things and don’t appreciate what’s around us makes us up. Just a bit of clumsy expression, try: "and don't appreciate the way our surroundings are our makeup," or, "don't appreciate the way our surroundings create who we are."Stars always reminded me. My wife hugged me and went inside, leaving me outside to contemplate my thoughts and questions. I stood and remembered the cold hospital bed my childhood comprised of and the stick-on-stars that covered the ceiling. I thought of how I learnt to live and value living, on that icy floor with death in the air.
…
I do not remember much of the time I spent in hospital. A lot of it was an a bit of a blur. I don’t remember all the surgeries (thank god). I don’t remember the nurses, the paper cards from friends and relatives, the absence of my brother, and the long nights my mother spent next to me. I don’t remember the sickly faces that evaporated from the beds around me, but I know that they are no longer with us. I remember the light yellow stars stuck to the ceiling and I know the feeling of rage and bewilderment that plagued me. It always came back to the same question, however i chose to phrase it. WHY? Why me? What was the reason for any of this suffering? What had I done to deserve this? In 2 years I couldn’t work it out, but in one night that cold hard floor knocked the answer within my reach… i just needed to grasp it.
My endless tossing and turning had strangled me in my sheets, and my arm in the cords that maintained my existence. Any dream or measure of sleep was broken by that barrelling feeling of falling. That feeling of inertia as your organs resist the motion of falling and the rest of your body accelerates towards the ground. It’s a terrible, sickening feeling
I cried. Not because of the pain, I had no more tears left for pain. I cried out of fear and out of anger, I had used no tears for them. I never did complain, not out loud. I didn’t want to face the answers to my questions, but as I lay there, alone, I asked my first… I could not ask the second.
“Where was my star? Was I…?”
The screen had gone dark. My star had gone out. Seeing as though I was only six years old I didn’t know it had simply gone out. That’s where the overwhelming issue of my sickness stuck, I DIDN’T KNOW. There was nothing in my life I understood anymore and nothing I had control of. It was like one day all the air was knocked out of my lungs and I was just hobbling about for months since, I had to be pushed around in a PRAM! In a moment I was no more - eaten up by sickness, and anger and confusion. But really I was scared I looked up to the ceiling for the warmth of the stars, but they were a blurr. A series of fluorescent streaks. I did not struggle when the darkness seeped across my view.
Why? Why was I different? What was wrong with me? Why did every moment have to be hard; talking to mum and my siblings, breathing, walking?... Where was my glimmering star? Was I…? Was this…?
When I opened my eyes, i met the cold again. It was all through me. It was like my bones and blood burnt. It was worse than the chemo. I winced at every movement, every breath. Agony. I wanted the darkness again, any reprieve from this existence… I hated anyone who didn’t have to live like this. It still stung at me, Why? Why didn’t they have to endure this? No. I would not sleep. I would not lea… I would not leave them unanswered. I stared at the glowing specs above me. Resolute. But as the world knocked at me and shook, the energy sapped from my eyes… I couldn’t fight as the ceiling turned to blackness. No matter how hard I clung to the blurry specs. And as they receded I knew. I knew I didn’t have controlled control* over what was happening, or what had happened. I didn’t cause any of this - but I had consumed myself in it.
Things JUST happened. That was just it. I hadn’t cause this. Lying there i had no control over anything. I was helpless. Now and before, and really, it was liberating. The questions that pulled me towards the black ice inside of me were gone… they didn’t need answers, I had done nothing wrong. I saw the lights, the specs were clear. Warmed, I faced the cold and the darkness outside of me, and I embraced them.
“I can control myself. I can choose how I want to deal with what life throws at me…. that’s enough, maybe just enough to change what’s ahead of me. But I can’t change this, so I’m not going to fight it.”
…
My wife grabbed me, squeezed me in her arms and told me to come inside. I remembered the familiar sudden jerk that had woken me, opening my eyes to see my dad balling. He squeezed me, which was honestly agony with all the tubes. Then I giggled because I was alive and because I had answered another why. The question of “why are you such an ugly crier dad?” He hugged me again and I looked at the stream of yellow patches that decorated the sky inside. I no longer needed the star by my bed. I would live in spite of it, as well as in thanks. I waved goodbye to the night sky, thanked glowing stickers there and went inside.
Oh Beau...I looove the way you've edited this story. The beginning and ending have such a nice framework for the story now, I really see it in new light. There is something more than I want of the ending, though. I want to go back to that sentence I edited in the introduction, about our surroundings being our makeup. I'd love to come back to this in the ending there, and maybe even draw an analogy between the way all of the stars are the composition of the night sky, and every experience for us adjusts the way we are too. This just adds another layer to your work, but you've already got the motif of the stars in there already so it's just adding onto them. Or, at least something to this effect, I think.
There are times were grammar needs to be adjusted - sometimes it's too many commas. I suggest just reading this out loud in the way you've written it and I'm sure you'll iron out a few things here and there so that you can use the grammar to ensure the way it is received by the reader.
Excellent work on your adjustments. Are you happier with the story now? Do you have any concerns about it?
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2017, 10:39:50 am
Hey Elyse!
so i took on board your feedback, so itll be great if you could have a look at this paragraph
ORGINAL
Dark shadows danced amongst the walls, the flickering street lamps encouraging them to continue their haunting ritual into the endless night. Following the makeshift path excitedly, a growing sense of exhilaration manifesting itself, she takes in what is surrounding her. The abandoned warehouse stretched endlessly onwards, the walls on the opposite end of her barely visible, obstructed by the towering boxes and rusted vehicles. As much as the excitement that it brought, she felt her hopes fall. In this silentness there was no possibility that she would be able to a produce a story for her column in the newspaper. Lingering around for what seemed like forever, with nothing interesting to get a hold on and much disappointment she decided to make her way back home.A piercing scream followed by gunfire caused her to jolt and stopped her in her tracks, steering her attention to a new light. The disappointment in her mind was replaced with bursting senses of excitement.
EDITED
Dark shadows danced and swayed amongst the dark walls, the flickering street lamps encouraging them to continue their haunting ritual into the endless night. Following the makeshift path excitedly, a growing sense of exhilaration manifesting itself, she takes in what is surrounding her. The abandoned warehouse stretched ceaselessly onwards, the walls on the opposite end of her barely visible, obstructed by the towering boxes and rusted vehicles – despite her excitement and eagerness all bubbled up in her, she felt her hopes fall. A feeling of extreme dismay and sorrow rushed up her spine, making her feel exhausted. Nibbling on her bottom lip and standing in the middle of darkness, she looked around with extreme anticipation. In this eerie silence there was no possibility that she would be able to a produce a story for her column in the newspaper. Lingering around for what seemed like forever, with nothing interesting to get a hold on and much disappointment, as if having the wind taken out of one's sails, she decided to find another destination – her determination still hoisted high. The path she kicked and trotted along was dusty and thick, dirtying her off white slip on. At this point, the weather had become somewhat chilly, and so her black jeans and the flannel she threw on failed to keep her warm. With her camera dangling around her neck; she sighed and walked on.
At some point, she bumped into a few citizens. A ray of optimism sparked within her, and she began questioning them in the hope that she’ll be able to get some story for her column from these people. Much to her frustration, she could barely get them to speak. Staring at her as if she was an erratic creature, she became self-conscious. Regardless, this side of the town was monotonous and so were the people living. Hindrance and fury built up in her as she kicked the rocks and pebbles within sight on the road. She stomped off in the other direction when she heard a loud noise that stunned her and made her stop in her direction.
I've made changes throught the creative according to your feedback but this paragraph i really wanted you to see if its okay
Thanks Elyse!
Yes! Are you more happy with this version? Because I am. I like that I can place what she's wearing - it gives me more information about the kind of journalist and person she is, which is important for when I chew on the moral dilemma later. But also, the plot makes more sense now. I know it's extended it, but it definitely contributes to the way a reader can follow the plot and trust in your writing to get us to the point of discovery. I'm really pleased with the way you've developed this, I hope you are too!
Post by: cxmplete on July 26, 2017, 10:46:09 am
Spoiler
Lost And Found
I liked being a mess. The desk that should have been clear was besieged with bowls of cereal and spoiled milk, old magazines, and Post-it notes of reminders I ought to remember. My floor was a vacuum in itself, eating anything entering my room. It consumed sweaters, stuffed animals, socks, and shoes. The heavy covers lay crumpled and cold across my bed, moulded by the twists and turns of the night. My shelves overflowed with containers of little odds and ends: hair bands, Chap Stick, matches, loose mints, coins, and earring backings.
Something inside me began to itch as I recalled that my friends were yet to return from camp, visiting family, or some community-service trip. I tried taking a shower, scrubbing myself with every body wash and bar of soap I could get my hands on. I checked my e-mail, but it was empty. I checked the DVR to see if any new shows had been recorded, but I had already seen everything.
I went downstairs and found my brother playing video games, my mum on the phone, and my dad in his office – everyone in their usual place. I told my mum that something didn't feel right, and she suggested that maybe for once I should clean my room. Dragging myself upstairs, I felt overwhelmed with the thought of organising that chaotic mess that I might as well have been floundering without a boat in the Atlantic Ocean.
When I opened the door to my bedroom, everything was in its usual cluttered arrangement. I trudged to the centre of the clutter and I had become aware of the filthy air that I had become so accustomed to. I noticed my stuffed animal, Vanilla, on my bed and remembered how during one winter, she had fallen behind my dresser and I didn’t notice her until the repulsive scent of her fur burning against the heater permeated the room.
Vanilla’s state sparked my sympathy for everything buried in the room that had become consumed by age. Lost items long forgotten resurfaced into my consciousness: my favourite yellow tank top, the picture of my mum and I on a boat in Jamaica, and my AFL card collection. The lost objects suffused me with an urge to dive under my bed and uncover everything lurking in the murky depths of dust.
And so I started to clean. Under my bed, in a box buried under old textbooks, I found a letter that my Poppy had written me while I was at camp. I hadn't thought of him since his funeral. I remembered the thrill of running through the cold sprinklers hand in hand, the spicy smell of barbecue mixing with the salty air at his beach house, and the distinct feeling of his soft sweater rubbing against my cheek every time he enveloped me in a hug.
I remembered my dad rocking me to sleep the night Poppy died, and how the tears wouldn't stop.
I sat with the letter, and tried blocking out the rest of the mess around me. I was in the middle of a storm, but I sat there and studied it again and again until I had memorised every line. Tears began to roll down my cheeks again. The relief from that bizarre itchy feeling was like the sound of heavy rain pounding on a roof at the end of a drought.
Wiping my tears, I tried to distract myself, directing my attention to the bedside drawer. I found the picture of my mum and me on that boat in Jamaica. I’ve forgotten the sight of those turquoise waters, and the sticky warmth enveloping the boat. I started to remember my elated anticipation for new adventures as I smiled for the camera, full from a hearty breakfast of eggs and toast and stacks of pancakes. I was barely able to recognise this person who had drowned in the mess of her room so many years after Poppy had died. A person who rarely anticipated getting up in the morning, and seldom felt full after even a hearty meal of what she desired. Someone who clung to the memory of Poppy’s toothy grin, and sparkling amber eyes, and the torturously blissful feeling of her heart racing as she saw him. My heart raced as I recalled those memories. My breathing accelerated. I started to feel the walls close onto me as the mess seemed to mock me. My stomach lurched, and adrenaline pumped through me as I wanted to scream to let out my grief.
I was not the chaos of my room.
I am the silly child who ran to the wrong plane, and the owner of the fingers that made the lightest cupcakes. I am the writer of nightmarish stories and the creator of lame punch lines.
I am whomever I decided to be.
Slowly, I began to place the books, belts, and baskets in their right places. Everything will finally be where it should be. It was like finding the missing pieces of the puzzle.
Gently I framed that photo and hung it high up on my wall. After all, it was me I had been searching for.
I liked being a mess. The desk that should have been clear was besieged with bowls of cereal and spoiled milk, old magazines, and Post-it notes of reminders I ought to remember. My floor was a vacuum in itself, eating anything entering my room. It consumed sweaters, stuffed animals, socks, and shoes. The heavy covers lay crumpled and cold across my bed, moulded by the twists and turns of the night. My shelves overflowed with containers of little odds and ends: hair bands, Chap Stick, matches, loose mints, coins, and earring backings.
Something inside me began to itch as I recalled that my friends were yet to return from camp, visiting family, or some community-service trip. I tried taking a shower, scrubbing myself with every body wash and bar of soap I could get my hands on. I checked my e-mail, but it was empty. I checked the DVR to see if any new shows had been recorded, but I had already seen everything.
I went downstairs and found my brother playing video games, my mum on the phone, and my dad in his office – everyone in their usual place. I told my mum that something didn't feel right, and she suggested that maybe for once I should clean my room. Dragging myself upstairs, I felt overwhelmed with the thought of organising that chaotic mess that I might as well have been floundering without a boat in the Atlantic Ocean.
When I opened the door to my bedroom, everything was in its usual cluttered arrangement. I trudged to the centre of the clutter and I had become aware of the filthy air that I had become so accustomed to. I noticed my stuffed animal, Vanilla, on my bed and remembered how during one winter, she had fallen behind my dresser and I didn’t notice her until the repulsive scent of her fur burning against the heater permeated the room.
Vanilla’s state sparked my sympathy for everything buried in the room that had become consumed by age. Lost items long forgotten resurfaced into my consciousness: my favourite yellow tank top, the picture of my mum and I on a boat in Jamaica, and my AFL card collection. The lost objects suffused me with an urge to dive under my bed and uncover everything lurking in the murky depths of dust.
And so I started to clean. Under my bed, in a box buried under old textbooks, I found a letter that my Poppy had written me while I was at camp. I hadn't thought of him since his funeral. I remembered the thrill of running through the cold sprinklers hand in hand, the spicy smell of barbecue mixing with the salty air at his beach house, and the distinct feeling of his soft sweater rubbing against my cheek every time he enveloped me in a hug.
I remembered my dad rocking me to sleep the night Poppy died, and how the tears wouldn't stop.
I sat with the letter, and tried blocking out the rest of the mess around me. I was in the middle of a storm, but I sat there and studied it again and again until I had memorised every line. Tears began to roll down my cheeks again. The relief from that bizarre itchy feeling was like the sound of heavy rain pounding on a roof at the end of a drought.
Wiping my tears, I tried to distract myself, directing my attention to the bedside drawer. I found the picture of my mum and me on that boat in Jamaica. I’ve forgotten the sight of those turquoise waters, and the sticky warmth enveloping the boat. I started to remember my elated anticipation for new adventures as I smiled for the camera, full from a hearty breakfast of eggs and toast and stacks of pancakes. I was barely able to recognise this person who had drowned in the mess of her room so many years after Poppy had died. A person who rarely anticipated getting up in the morning, and seldom felt full after even a hearty meal of what she desired. Someone who clung to the memory of Poppy’s toothy grin, and sparkling amber eyes, and the torturously blissful feeling of her heart racing as she saw him. My heart raced as I recalled those memories. My breathing accelerated. I started to feel the walls close onto me as the mess seemed to mock me. My stomach lurched, and adrenaline pumped through me as I wanted to scream to let out my grief.
I was not the chaos of my room.
I am the silly child who ran to the wrong plane, and the owner of the fingers that made the lightest cupcakes. I am the writer of nightmarish stories and the creator of lame punch lines.
I am whomever I decided to be.
Slowly, I began to place the books, belts, and baskets in their right places. Everything will finally be where it should be. It was like finding the missing pieces of the puzzle.
Gently I framed that photo and hung it high up on my wall. After all, it was me I had been searching for.
Post by: Daniyahasan on July 26, 2017, 10:46:29 am
Yes! Are you more happy with this version? Because I am. I like that I can place what she's wearing - it gives me more information about the kind of journalist and person she is, which is important for when I chew on the moral dilemma later. But also, the plot makes more sense now. I know it's extended it, but it definitely contributes to the way a reader can follow the plot and trust in your writing to get us to the point of discovery. I'm really pleased with the way you've developed this, I hope you are too!
Yep i like this version too,
and about the part where she decides to go to the neighbourhood iv changed that too, so now she's a bit reluctant to go there, cos you said it seemed a bit unbelievable and i totally agree with that
A hint of reluctance and fright almost stopped her from beginning her excursion. Most people preferred to keep distance from those areas of town - headlines about precarious incidents taking place, odd and daunting noises echoing day in and day out were enough to keep the people from stealing a glance or even wandering around the threshold of this zone.
do these 2 sentences sound better?
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2017, 10:52:07 am
Yep i like this version too,
and about the part where she decides to go to the neighbourhood iv changed that too, so now she's a bit reluctant to go there, cos you said it seemed a bit unbelievable and i totally agree with that
A hint of reluctance and fright almost stopped her from beginning her excursion. Most people preferred to keep distance from those areas of town - headlines about precarious incidents taking place, odd and daunting noises echoing day in and day out were enough to keep the people from stealing a glance or even wandering around the threshold of this zone.
do these 2 sentences sound better?
Wonderful! Very impressive. It just makes everything flow with a little more believability, so this is great :)
Post by: georgiia on July 26, 2017, 12:12:04 pm
I read this last night and it made me all fuzzy and excited for you and I've just read it again to the same effect! I just read the story again as well, being critical of all the similes. For me, I followed them all quite easily. BUT, perhaps there is merit in what your teacher is saying for the reason that a marker will read 60+ creatives, and although ideally they'd be able to give the same dilligence to each, perhaps they'll have tired eyes and they'll not be able to follow things so closely. See, I read your creative yesterday and followed it all but it was only the second creative I read. To me, the stand out part of your work is the writing, the language. It just flows so artfully and I'm very impressed. There certainly are lots of similes, but I followed them. But it does make me wonder if it is worth condensing it just a little, even by taking out like 75 words, by just editing out a few bits and bobs here and there (maybe similes) for the sake of making it just slightly more accessible to your marker. I think that it is easy to get swept up by the wonderful language and forget that I'm meant to be analysing a discovery!
I think the spiritual discovery is foremost, but it also fits into physical, emotional, and even intellectual. It's about relationships with space and capacity, and it's a discovery that has certainly changed perspectives (big rubric point!). I think after you go back and just trim it ever so slightly, working to a stimulus is certainly the next step for you. The writing is so delicate that I hope you can seamlessly respond in an exam situation without fragmenting the language!
Be proud of what you've produced!
THANK YOU so much Elyse!! You have made me so much more confident about it! Im not even kidding but if it weren't for this feedback I honestly think I would've brushed it aside and half-heartedly memorised it, hoping to make something up on the spot. I mill condense/re-draft it and let you know how I go.
Thank You so much!!!!! :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 26, 2017, 03:35:17 pm
Hi, I gave my creative to my teacher and she says there are some points I need to expand on, so I fixed them up. I was wondering if I could get feedback on it. Also, is the discovery element evident in my story? Thanks.
Hey cxmplete! Thanks for posting your Creative - You'll need 40 posts on ATAR Notes to qualify for feedback (note that the requirement has been bumped to 25 posts to help us prioritise in the Trial period) :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2017, 05:32:40 pm
Not to fear - you still have 48 hours to post your work and we will get to marking them even after the threads are locked (if there's backlog).
We'll still be here to help you during the trials with all of our Q+A threads, downloadable notes, thesis statement feedback and so on. Thanks for understanding! We're still here to help on all of the boards that aren't marking threads! :)
Post by: Annie657 on July 26, 2017, 07:01:33 pm
Hey again :) Okay, I really see why you put Jordan in...but I do agree that I prefer your story without her as well. Not because she's not a good idea, but simply because you don't have the word count to develop her into the story enough, and I also think that it serves as a distraction rather than as a catalyst. Sooo, I think we need to edit Jordan out and write something else in. I'm trying to think of minor changes to make for big result so as to not frighten you and make this easier, but I genuinely think we need to make some adjustments to the plot that won't be so minor. Of course, only take on what you want to take on, but I'll suggest some things anyway and you can take or leave whatever you fancy.
So, she loves the water, it's always been a constant for her. The opening scene is people fleeing into the water, and I kind of have this little nippers vibe happening, the youth is really promising and symbolic, and also a reflection of her younger experience at the beach. So that's really nice. Maybe we could explore the relationships she's had with the water a little more - how she was there every weekend and a few times after school for training, for races, as her family always helped her to do. Over time, maybe she spent some days there with the water as her muse for personal writings/paintings/songs, or maybe she shared intimate moments in her teen years, or other kind of experiences that are very personal and not all competitive. Then maybe, in the lead up to the race she could be talking with her dad, her coach, whoever, and they'll be talking about the way the rips are swelling and the way the wind is blowing, and it'll make it sound so mechanical and not at all the natural muse she sees it as now. Then she'll start the race, it'll be a intense scene, lots flowing through her mind, and then she'll enter the water, sprinting in, paddling out, enough to be out of easy sight from the shore, and then she might just float. Surrender to the ocean, adore it's vast capacity, because to her, this was the real prize, and it wasn't a shiny trophy, but she was sure that no one needed to have it justified to them, because as she floats amongst the chaos, the swimmers move further and further away, and she then discovers that all along, this kind of solitude with the sea is the prize she needs.
Obviously this is MY vision of the story which I'm totally happy for you to take up in totality or partially, but what do you think? I think we still need person-interaction to avoid it becoming similar to a monologue, which is why I've put it with the before-race discussion, but keen to know what you think? :)
Wow Elyse, I absolutely agree something needs to be changed with the plot in order to remove Jordan, and I really love your suggestions! Maybe her transition to to painting in front of the water, could be because she can no longer find creative inspiration in a house where her parents are fighting(?); the ocean a calm place where she can find solace and peace. I really like the whole race talk thing, and the build up of action for the race then the relaxing scene at the end. Thankyou so much for all your help, I'm excited to start writing this again :)
Post by: Daniyahasan on July 26, 2017, 09:24:12 pm
Wonderful! Very impressive. It just makes everything flow with a little more believability, so this is great :)
thanks Elyse, i feel much more confident with my creative now:)
Post by: _____ on July 26, 2017, 09:47:55 pm
If it's on your to do list I'm really sorry for bothering you - I just wanted to make sure the post was bumped considering the probable influx of creatives before Friday.
Thanks so much once again for all the help ;D
Post by: beau77bro on July 26, 2017, 11:14:01 pm
Great timing Beau! Thank you :)SpoilerCreative Practice - Stimuli 1 (HSC 2016)
Compose a piece of imaginative writing that explores the relationship between place and individual discovery.
Spouts of fog perforated the empty sky and air of silence, we all looked up at the beauty that hung above and around us. I had organised and paid for a trip for my family to the alps. Capitalisation required - The Alps. We stood outside the entrance to our door for just a moment to stare up at the sky. I had demanded it from the kids, a moment of admiration and appreciation of what was around us. But the chill of the air and the ice on my back from falling over it made me feel alone there in the night, even amongst the stars. It reminded me of what I am and how I got there, how frivolously we value such insignificant things and don’t appreciate what’s around us makes us up. Just a bit of clumsy expression, try: "and don't appreciate the way our surroundings are our makeup," or, "don't appreciate the way our surroundings create who we are."Stars always reminded me. My wife hugged me and went inside, leaving me outside to contemplate my thoughts and questions. I stood and remembered the cold hospital bed my childhood comprised of and the stick-on-stars that covered the ceiling. I thought of how I learnt to live and value living, on that icy floor with death in the air.
…
I do not remember much of the time I spent in hospital. A lot of it was an a bit of a blur. I don’t remember all the surgeries (thank god). I don’t remember the nurses, the paper cards from friends and relatives, the absence of my brother, and the long nights my mother spent next to me. I don’t remember the sickly faces that evaporated from the beds around me, but I know that they are no longer with us. I remember the light yellow stars stuck to the ceiling and I know the feeling of rage and bewilderment that plagued me. It always came back to the same question, however i chose to phrase it. WHY? Why me? What was the reason for any of this suffering? What had I done to deserve this? In 2 years I couldn’t work it out, but in one night that cold hard floor knocked the answer within my reach… i just needed to grasp it.
My endless tossing and turning had strangled me in my sheets, and my arm in the cords that maintained my existence. Any dream or measure of sleep was broken by that barrelling feeling of falling. That feeling of inertia as your organs resist the motion of falling and the rest of your body accelerates towards the ground. It’s a terrible, sickening feelingI’ve always found jerked you awake even if you weren’t truly falling.I really like this paragraph so far, but this last bit here is telling what the reader already accepts: that you don't actually fall. So I think it's best to take it out as to avoid limiting your creativity. Like stumbling in a dream. But the fall felt pretty real and so did the ground I met. The cold stung at me through the sheets, like a bed of needles. Meanwhile the actual needles pulled at my weak limbs and my body was covered in warm streaks of red. The cords had become entangled around me and with each other. The thumb clamp had come off and without it my star ceased to blip, a barely glowing screen. The warmth was gone. I had been devoured by a chill that shot down my body, like falling through the ice. With it came a sea of questions. More unknowns. More whys? A where and a was.
I cried. Not because of the pain, I had no more tears left for pain. I cried out of fear and out of anger, I had used no tears for them. I never did complain, not out loud. I didn’t want to face the answers to my questions, but as I lay there, alone, I asked my first… I could not ask the second.
“Where was my star? Was I…?”
The screen had gone dark. My star had gone out. Seeing as though I was only six years old I didn’t know it had simply gone out. That’s where the overwhelming issue of my sickness stuck, I DIDN’T KNOW. There was nothing in my life I understood anymore and nothing I had control of. It was like one day all the air was knocked out of my lungs and I was just hobbling about for months since, I had to be pushed around in a PRAM! In a moment I was no more - eaten up by sickness, and anger and confusion. But really I was scared I looked up to the ceiling for the warmth of the stars, but they were a blurr. A series of fluorescent streaks. I did not struggle when the darkness seeped across my view.
Why? Why was I different? What was wrong with me? Why did every moment have to be hard; talking to mum and my siblings, breathing, walking?... Where was my glimmering star? Was I…? Was this…?
When I opened my eyes, i met the cold again. It was all through me. It was like my bones and blood burnt. It was worse than the chemo. I winced at every movement, every breath. Agony. I wanted the darkness again, any reprieve from this existence… I hated anyone who didn’t have to live like this. It still stung at me, Why? Why didn’t they have to endure this? No. I would not sleep. I would not lea… I would not leave them unanswered. I stared at the glowing specs above me. Resolute. But as the world knocked at me and shook, the energy sapped from my eyes… I couldn’t fight as the ceiling turned to blackness. No matter how hard I clung to the blurry specs. And as they receded I knew. I knew I didn’t have controlled control* over what was happening, or what had happened. I didn’t cause any of this - but I had consumed myself in it.
Things JUST happened. That was just it. I hadn’t cause this. Lying there i had no control over anything. I was helpless. Now and before, and really, it was liberating. The questions that pulled me towards the black ice inside of me were gone… they didn’t need answers, I had done nothing wrong. I saw the lights, the specs were clear. Warmed, I faced the cold and the darkness outside of me, and I embraced them.
“I can control myself. I can choose how I want to deal with what life throws at me…. that’s enough, maybe just enough to change what’s ahead of me. But I can’t change this, so I’m not going to fight it.”
…
My wife grabbed me, squeezed me in her arms and told me to come inside. I remembered the familiar sudden jerk that had woken me, opening my eyes to see my dad balling. He squeezed me, which was honestly agony with all the tubes. Then I giggled because I was alive and because I had answered another why. The question of “why are you such an ugly crier dad?” He hugged me again and I looked at the stream of yellow patches that decorated the sky inside. I no longer needed the star by my bed. I would live in spite of it, as well as in thanks. I waved goodbye to the night sky, thanked glowing stickers there and went inside.
Oh Beau...I looove the way you've edited this story. The beginning and ending have such a nice framework for the story now, I really see it in new light. There is something more than I want of the ending, though. I want to go back to that sentence I edited in the introduction, about our surroundings being our makeup. I'd love to come back to this in the ending there, and maybe even draw an analogy between the way all of the stars are the composition of the night sky, and every experience for us adjusts the way we are too. This just adds another layer to your work, but you've already got the motif of the stars in there already so it's just adding onto them. Or, at least something to this effect, I think.
There are times were grammar needs to be adjusted - sometimes it's too many commas. I suggest just reading this out loud in the way you've written it and I'm sure you'll iron out a few things here and there so that you can use the grammar to ensure the way it is received by the reader.
Excellent work on your adjustments. Are you happier with the story now? Do you have any concerns about it?
Oh yea i agree, that sentence needs to be fixed in order to make it clear how I'm addressing the stimulus. I just want to know if the story is good? frankly i feel like i can't have an unbiased opinion and I feel quite neutral about my creative. My grammar is actually terrible, ironically related to this creative - I missed most of year 1, 2 and have subsequently or independently(not sure yet) developed a reading disability where I can't sound and work out words or sounds when I'm writing and reading. Makes it really hard to distinguish when I'm doing things well and having a good flow - but i will try and come back. I am going to fix that sentence and add to the ending.
I just want to know whether it was impactful? Like I feel the motif was strong, or at least there but did i necessarily use it well - as well as did I incorporate the stimulus well, I wanna take as much away in terms of using the stimulus because that will help me come exams. And i feel like the experience was really impactful for me - and if i can work on improving that and how i convey it.
the essential idea/realisation being, which I'm more than certain you picked up on, that existence is both short as well as often beyond reason and control - and that, that in itself doesn't diminish who you are and what you've done. To reiterate; Life is what you make of it, but is still subject to tragic circumstances and those circumstances don't reflect your value. shit just happens.
But yea i really wanna convey that as well as possible - possibly emphasising more the helpless feeling and the feeling of inadequacy. I guess that is something to add on later, right now is my discovery significant enough? and would this creative merit even close to 13-15/15?
I'm so sorry this is late. I was extremely caught up in school. I super appreciate your feedback and I'm gonna use all of it as well as i can thankyou
Post by: kristengrant on July 27, 2017, 04:04:07 pm
Spoiler
The rusty hinges on the wire gates screeched as I pushed them open. The sound had become accustomed to my ears, after five years of the same routine, day in and day out, it was somewhat melodic in a sense that it had meaning, and I had a purpose. Some people couldn’t say the same.
The walls of Pompeii’s amphitheatre stood looming overhead, shadows casting in different directions in which I still cowered in fear seeing. Five years ago, stepping into this exact abyss of a world, seemed surreal. At this very moment, standing, being danced around by shadows, I remembered the words of Nero.
***
“You are exotic markers of exceptionally lavish spectacles.” He stated, referring to the limited females that stood among the bulky and cumbersome men, including me. At age 18, unmarried and young, I was a rarity. But standing there, in the shadows of the night, in what seemed to be a farfetched attempt at encouragement. I was undoubtedly scared.
***
Every time I walked out into the arena, I felt at home. With the roars of the crowd and even the wealthy up on their feet at the mere sight of a female gladiator, it was unheard of. Most men saw women imprisoned under their own hand, yet my hand held a sword. The look on their faces fuelled my determination and grit to succeed. I had conquered men and women alike in the arena. The scars on my body were not only physical, but psychological, an imbalance. They were a reminder of my life, my achievements, my purpose, my pain. I didn’t hide in the shadows, I myself had the light to push forward; in order to become the best and fulfil my purpose, I needed to stand on the shoulders of giants, as these giants fell, it only reminded me of the past, the pain, the loss and yet I held the sword of triumph, not triumph, but hope, both in my hand and in my mind.
As I stepped one foot in front of the other at a steady pace, my heartbeat accelerated to inhuman speeds at the sound of clashing swords and agonising groans. He lashed out in a frenzy, dodging merely every move; it was child’s play. The thrill of death so near made my blood rush, never had I experienced so much excitement in my life. To take a man down felt so rewarding. He leant in to thrust his sword toward my stomach; I countered with a deflection and quick blow. The familiar face of my father stared back at me with rage in his eyes. Fear crippled me through this one look. Never had I ceased up in combat, but at this moment, my blood had run cold, and time had frozen. I lapsed back into reality meeting my opponent's fist square in my jaw, the intensity of the pain growing as I tried to mouth a word. My eyes opening only to see death awaiting me, his sword inches away from my neck, his cold gaze so full of hate, exactly like my father. A fire ignited within me. Grabbing his arm I sent my blade into him, staring at his eyes losing their colour, gasping for air, I watched with content as his body slowly crumpled to the ground, a smile forming on my face. I knew everyone was watching. I not only wanted to prove to myself but to every man, that a woman could be among these proclaimed ‘gods’. Not only was this a statement to men … it was to the gods as well.
***
The screams, the applause, the reactions, the victory; it didn’t come without the pain, the blood, the sweat and the tears. My tireless training and strained muscles, had been for this. My purpose. The gladiatorial games were the last stand and easily became the highest deterrent of gladiators in combat out of pure unnerve and lethality. Yet, I, the most disciplined and ruthless fighter in the games, falls in defeat, but still rises to victory, all because I fell from the shoulders of the giant in the face of my father, but in the end, cut down the giant to a size of a dwarf so I could stand taller.
As I stand in the arena surrounded by stands, with the beasts of burden running rampant in my head, the one thing that mattered the most was survival. At the brink of defeat with my breath running low, my thoughts wanted to fuel action that I was no longer capable of completing. I thought I had a purpose here in the arena, but the realisation dawned on me, that this was not my purpose.
I wish I had known from the beginning that this wasn’t my purpose, but that this was soon to be my end. No longer would I face the fears of my past and cower in fear, but I would rise to the challenge and plant the seeds of wisdom in my hand.
The walls of Pompeii’s amphitheatre stood looming overhead, shadows casting in different directions in which I still cowered in fear seeing. Five years ago, stepping into this exact abyss of a world, seemed surreal. At this very moment, standing, being danced around by shadows, I remembered the words of Nero.
***
“You are exotic markers of exceptionally lavish spectacles.” He stated, referring to the limited females that stood among the bulky and cumbersome men, including me. At age 18, unmarried and young, I was a rarity. But standing there, in the shadows of the night, in what seemed to be a farfetched attempt at encouragement. I was undoubtedly scared.
***
Every time I walked out into the arena, I felt at home. With the roars of the crowd and even the wealthy up on their feet at the mere sight of a female gladiator, it was unheard of. Most men saw women imprisoned under their own hand, yet my hand held a sword. The look on their faces fuelled my determination and grit to succeed. I had conquered men and women alike in the arena. The scars on my body were not only physical, but psychological, an imbalance. They were a reminder of my life, my achievements, my purpose, my pain. I didn’t hide in the shadows, I myself had the light to push forward; in order to become the best and fulfil my purpose, I needed to stand on the shoulders of giants, as these giants fell, it only reminded me of the past, the pain, the loss and yet I held the sword of triumph, not triumph, but hope, both in my hand and in my mind.
As I stepped one foot in front of the other at a steady pace, my heartbeat accelerated to inhuman speeds at the sound of clashing swords and agonising groans. He lashed out in a frenzy, dodging merely every move; it was child’s play. The thrill of death so near made my blood rush, never had I experienced so much excitement in my life. To take a man down felt so rewarding. He leant in to thrust his sword toward my stomach; I countered with a deflection and quick blow. The familiar face of my father stared back at me with rage in his eyes. Fear crippled me through this one look. Never had I ceased up in combat, but at this moment, my blood had run cold, and time had frozen. I lapsed back into reality meeting my opponent's fist square in my jaw, the intensity of the pain growing as I tried to mouth a word. My eyes opening only to see death awaiting me, his sword inches away from my neck, his cold gaze so full of hate, exactly like my father. A fire ignited within me. Grabbing his arm I sent my blade into him, staring at his eyes losing their colour, gasping for air, I watched with content as his body slowly crumpled to the ground, a smile forming on my face. I knew everyone was watching. I not only wanted to prove to myself but to every man, that a woman could be among these proclaimed ‘gods’. Not only was this a statement to men … it was to the gods as well.
***
The screams, the applause, the reactions, the victory; it didn’t come without the pain, the blood, the sweat and the tears. My tireless training and strained muscles, had been for this. My purpose. The gladiatorial games were the last stand and easily became the highest deterrent of gladiators in combat out of pure unnerve and lethality. Yet, I, the most disciplined and ruthless fighter in the games, falls in defeat, but still rises to victory, all because I fell from the shoulders of the giant in the face of my father, but in the end, cut down the giant to a size of a dwarf so I could stand taller.
As I stand in the arena surrounded by stands, with the beasts of burden running rampant in my head, the one thing that mattered the most was survival. At the brink of defeat with my breath running low, my thoughts wanted to fuel action that I was no longer capable of completing. I thought I had a purpose here in the arena, but the realisation dawned on me, that this was not my purpose.
I wish I had known from the beginning that this wasn’t my purpose, but that this was soon to be my end. No longer would I face the fears of my past and cower in fear, but I would rise to the challenge and plant the seeds of wisdom in my hand.
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 27, 2017, 05:56:14 pm
Wow Elyse, I absolutely agree something needs to be changed with the plot in order to remove Jordan, and I really love your suggestions! Maybe her transition to to painting in front of the water, could be because she can no longer find creative inspiration in a house where her parents are fighting(?); the ocean a calm place where she can find solace and peace. I really like the whole race talk thing, and the build up of action for the race then the relaxing scene at the end. Thankyou so much for all your help, I'm excited to start writing this again :)
So glad to hear this! Best of luck for your trial!! :)
thanks Elyse, i feel much more confident with my creative now:)
Hooray! Happy to hear :)
Elyse I am so sorry to pester you again - I just wanted to make sure you hadn't missed this post - it might have got buried in all that feedback from yesterday: https://atarnotes.com/forum/index.php?topic=164657.msg966150#msg966150
If it's on your to do list I'm really sorry for bothering you - I just wanted to make sure the post was bumped considering the probable influx of creatives before Friday.
Thanks so much once again for all the help ;D
Sorry - definitely overlooked it. But will get to it shortly! :)
Post by: tloos1999 on July 27, 2017, 06:12:25 pm
Post by: winstondarmawan on July 27, 2017, 06:39:39 pm
SpoilerIndonesia. What a beautiful country.
The rims of the Chevrolet Bolt EV quickly became engulfed in mud as the vehicle maneuvered across the rural terrain, over jagged rocks and shallow puddles of deep-brown water. It was irritating, to say the least, knowing that such a car would be driven in a place like this. Shifting his focus from the once gleaming rims to the horizon, Johan could make out a towering mound of rubbish set alight, the billowing smoke shrouding the deep crimson sunset. Everything was exactly what he thought it would be; dirty. His nose was not accustomed to the overriding scent of fetid air. Or his body to the sweltering heat.
One day in Bogor.
He just had to pull it together for one day. That wasn’t too bad … right?
His parents had said something about paying a quick visit, to an old church was it? He couldn’t quite remember, but frankly, he didn’t really care.
The dirt road appeared to stretch before his eyes. Johan’s eyelids flickered as he tried falling asleep, only to be kept awake by the muggy atmosphere.
The moisture of the air clung onto him, weighing his entire body down.
His head began to throb, the sharp pangs pulsating behind his temple.
“Johan - “
***
“ - Darmawan”. Mr. Ives face contorted into one of disbelief.
Chuckles resonated throughout the class of kindergarteners, the small faces looking intently around the room.
“Is Johan Darmawan here?”
Johan’s face began to glow tomato red, as he sat in silence.
“His name sounds like ‘dumber one’!” a voice chimed.
The class bursted into laughter.
Dumber one.
***
“- you okay?”. His mother shot him a concerned look. “We are almost there.” Great formatting of quotations - a lot of students don't do this correctly but you've got it sorted.
Silence.
He told himself it wouldn't get to him. I mean, they were just kids… right?
But it did.
The fiends of shame and humiliation seemed to always be right around the corner, ready to latch onto his thoughts.
And sometimes, he thought about how much easier it would all be if he wasn’t Indonesian.
It was worrying, at the least, for Johan’s parents.
It was a quickly diminishing hope that he would ever be able to appreciate who he was.
And perhaps they were crazy, bringing him all the way out to Indonesia. Truth be told, they had no idea what they were doing, or what to do at all.
But they had faith, and believed that faith was all you need.
***
“You don’t have to play basketball every Sunday. Uncle and aunty haven’t seen you in so long. Please stay.”
Glancing momentarily at his mother, Johan grunted.
That was the point.
He didn’t want to see them, talk to them, or even hear their heavily accented laugh booming through the house when someone cracked a joke in Indonesian. And it didn’t particularly help that he never knew what they were saying.
But he did know that he was tired of it.
“Please… it’s not the same without you…”
He didn't want to hear it. Clutching the basketball under his arm, Johan bolted out the front door.
***
The skyline remained shrouded in a veil of smoke.
Stepping out of the car, Johan could feel the heated mud clawing at his ankles as his foot sunk into the sodden earth.
Disgusting.
Etched into the marshland were little tree stumps, stretching deep into the mist.
Johan could only imagine the forest that once existed here. The magnificent array of bold trunks and sun-kissed leaves sprung into his thoughts.
It was so far removed from that now, and he wondered what it would be like if things would go back to the way they once were.
Before him was a humble shack that succumbed to the forces of nature and time, deteriorated and abandoned; the wood’s integrity diminished in beauty and strength. A crucifix dangled from the haphazard frame of the entrance, and it appeared any moment from now it would fall.
But it didn’t.
A bittersweet grin swept across his mother’s face as she glanced at the disintegrating structure.
“Ini Hari Minggu.” (“It’s Sunday.”)
Her eyelids closed as she joined her hands together.
“Bapa kami….” (“Our Father…”)
***
… yang ada di surga”. (“... who art in Heaven”)
Little Johan clambered up his mother’s leg into her lap. He could see everybody!
There was Om Agi and II Yuni,
His cousins KoKo Raditya, CiCi Irene,
And of course, mum and dad.
A tingle raced down his spine as they recited each word of the Lord’s prayer in unison, hands linked in a ring around their Sunday feast.
Ah, the feast! How could he forget?
An unmistakable smoky aroma emanated from the ayam satay skewers, indicative of his father’s prowess on the grill. Not to mention his mother’s gado-gado, the perfect combination of sweet, sour and savoury.
He loved Sunday, or Hari Minggu, as his parents would say.
But most importantly, he loved being Indonesian. **See comment below
***
“... bebaskan la kami dari yang jahat, Amin.” (“But deliver us from evil, Amen”).
A mellow breeze sliced through the muggy air, and as Johan opened his eyes, the fingers of the wind soothing his taut muscles.
Mum, dad, himself. Arms linked in a ring.
Johan thought about that little boy, and he wondered what it would be like if things would go back to the way they once were.
Maybe that’s just the sort of thing being bullied as a kid does.
Being told that you are lesser, weaker, the dumber one.
At least, now he knew who he really was. An Indonesian Catholic. Not many could say that, huh?
And on this Hari Minggu, he promised that he would never forget.
The smog had lifted, and revealed a spectacular crimson sunset. Turning towards it, Johan’s eyes glowed with an intense flare.
Indonesia. What a beautiful country.
I want to talk about two aspects of the story: the plot and the writing style.
Firstly, the writing style. So often you've used a declarative writing style, done more telling than showing. I think this is a missed opportunity because it seems as though you have an experience of or connection to Indonesia, so I'm keen to smell everything with you, taste it too, and so on. I get this a little with the satay skewers! But I think there could be more of it than there is. Instead we are told, he doesn't like to feel the way he does, he doesn't like hearing the words he doesn't understand, he doesn't like this, he feels like that. Don't get me wrong, they are all valid emotions for the telling of the story, but they are declared instead of shown, and I think this is a missed opportunity to show your prowess as a writer.
Secondly, this is where I want to refer to the ** I put above. The plot jumps a bit. It spends time resenting identity and experience, and then within one scene everything changes, and the protagonist loves being an Indonesian Catholic. I think it's just not enough development. Perhaps if the scene of change were more rich and evocative, I could be on board with it more. But at the moment it's a little rough in the way one scene changes everything. I think if you were to write out a story board of what happens at each moment, I think you'd find that there is slow progression, then a big leap, and then we have the outcome of the discovery. I think it needs to be embedded more gently.
About the discovery, it definitely exists in a strong way, and it's only upwards from here. The reason I say upwards from here is because when we adjust the language, or slightly tweak the plot, no doubt the discovery will sit on new layers as empathy is evoked in the reader. I really like the way the source of sadness turned into a source of inspiration - I think it's a really nice turn around and certainly reflects a discovery.
As a suggestion for the plot, perhaps you could look at the ways that the protagonist tried to engage with the culture, despite it being the reason the protagonist was bullied, but just couldn't break in because they were caught between identities. And then the defining scene could be a combination of both Australian and Indonesian cultures combined, and the discovery could be geared towards the two existing together to create a unique hybrid experience, and this can be viewed as the source of inspiration! Just a thought! Hopefully this helps :)
Hey! Thank you for the feedback!
I'm really stressed because there are only 3 and a bit more days until my trials, and I am a very poor writer.
English is by far my worst performing subject, and I don't think I have the time to drastically improve upon my creative, which definitely needs it. So right now I'm conflicted on what I should do. I have an old creative which scored a 10/15, which is why I decided to write an entirely new one.
If I do decide to go with this one, I'm going to cut out the Catholic aspect of the story. Would this be a good idea?
Any advice or guidance would be appreciated, thank you so much.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 27, 2017, 10:00:10 pm
Hi, I'm not too sure if my creative makes sense or if the concept of discovery is strong enough??
Hey Kristen! Welcome to the forums!! Our essay marking rules, which you can read here, require 25 posts on ATAR Notes for you to get feedback for this piece. The marking threads are swamped for Trials and this is our way of prioritising ;D hope to see you posting around more!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 27, 2017, 10:04:05 pm
Hi Elyse, just confirming that you got my creative writing story a few days ago. I posted and attached a pdf of my creative writing, although hopefully it hasn't been read yet, because in the meantime I have edited my first draft. Hoping that my comment hadn't been overlooked and I am soon to be marked as I recall posting a while back and my trials are this Monday. Once again I understand that you have been inundated with messages and stories, but it would be great to have some feedback as soon as possible. Below is my creative (edited second attempt)
Just confirming you are on the list (pretty much next I think) and that we'll use this new version :)
Post by: tloos1999 on July 27, 2017, 11:15:16 pm
Just confirming you are on the list (pretty much next I think) and that we'll use this new version :)
sweet, thankyou Jamon.
Post by: abachmid on July 28, 2017, 12:33:43 am
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 28, 2017, 10:51:06 am
hey this is my first draft attempt for creative writing, which i suck at, can you pls tell me how to add value and integrity to the story? thanks
Hey abachmid! Thanks for posting your response! Our essay marking rules, which you can read here, require 25 posts on ATAR Notes for you to get feedback for this piece. The marking threads are swamped for Trials and this is our way of prioritising ;D hope to see you posting around more!
Post by: Wales on July 28, 2017, 10:59:43 am
hey this is my first draft attempt for creative writing, which i suck at, can you pls tell me how to add value and integrity to the story? thanks
I had a quick read and I'll see if I can be of any help!
As a whole, I don't see many aspects of discovery. You need to emphasise on the effect the loss of the protagonists mother. You don't show me the specific areas where you miss her. I can see that you've tried to implement a flashback but all it shows me is what the protagonist experienced at the time. I think it would be more effective if you set it in the present and vividly described how she felt in the moment and possibly contrast it to the past. You have to show the marker HOW the death impacted her. You can possibly write about how she misses the smell of the risotto and how it was unique. Describe each sense.
The ending imo is a bit weird. I see what you did there but it doesn't come across as a transformation in any sense. You need to focus more on the discovery and it's ramifications.
Hope this little bit of feedback helped! I'll try answer any questions if you have any.
Regards, Wales
Post by: meiing on July 28, 2017, 11:47:53 am
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 28, 2017, 11:50:29 am
Im really struggling with my creative story and how to link it to the discovery rubric. Please help me out!
Hey meiing! Welcome to the forums! ;D
Our essay marking rules, which you can read here, require 25 posts on ATAR Notes for you to get feedback for this piece. The marking threads are swamped for Trials and this is our way of prioritising ;D hope to see you posting around more!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 28, 2017, 12:39:32 pm
Hi Elyse, just confirming that you got my creative writing story a few days ago. I posted and attached a pdf of my creative writing, although hopefully it hasn't been read yet, because in the meantime I have edited my first draft. Hoping that my comment hadn't been overlooked and I am soon to be marked as I recall posting a while back and my trials are this Monday. Once again I understand that you have been inundated with messages and stories, but it would be great to have some feedback as soon as possible. Below is my creative (edited second attempt)
Hey! I've attached your Creative below with feedback in bold!
Creative w/ Feedback
I walked down the barren road, legs were shaking, trembling like a warrior, about to enter his first battle. Comma placement is a little off there. I'd remove the one after 'warrior,' but there could be other ways to structure it. Sweat rushed down my flushed face, beads sliding onto my lips, the combination of salt and water lingering. I had attempted to pace my breathing, trying to keep calm in a rather confrontational situation. I had to keep reminding myself why I was doing this, for closure, for my own sanity. I'd break the paragraph here to really emphasise that last statement - Perhaps even put "for my own sanity" in its own sentence - Playing with sentence length a bit would add some drama to this introduction. For someone so weathered in age and a wealth of life’s experience, I was still worried sick, like the new kid in the school. Slightly forced simile there, try not to work TOO hard to put techniques in. It should be natural - This feels a little out of place. I continued my gradual walk to the isolated shed, the dirt crumbling underneath my heavy feet, rocks sharpening on the sole of my rather worn trainers. The sun began to waver away, as did the hope and confidence that I had mustered up the way here. ON the way here. I heard the grinding of an axe, a loud cough followed by the sputtering of a man. A man who created me, a man who left me with the nerve to run away from his problems. I like that your persona refuses to say the word Father, that's clever. A solid introduction! Perhaps a TAD too much description?
***
I walked in the front door, grinning from ear to ear about the day I had at school.I'd love you to spend a little longer establishing the sense of innocence here, to really juxtapose against the introduction. Build up to the conflict a bit. Closing the door behind me and taking off my school shoes, I was immediately confronted with raised voices. You could say it was ‘deja vu’, I was immune to this level of confrontation due to being exposed to this every day, stirring if you ask me. Ditto, perhaps a little longer establishing the conflict? Describe the scene a bit better? It might be your Creative choice that the persona doesn't want to describe it though. I always knew that things were never going to get better, but at the end of the night, we would all sit down, pray to the Lord and eat some delicious ice cream, with a guilt undertone because Dad buys it every damn time him and mum get into it. Little to be known, today wasn’t an ice cream type of day, it was more of a violent, regretful, God forgive me of my Sins type of day. Ha. Smiled when I read that last sentence. That's magic. Beautiful.
***
My heart pounding, felt like it was about to erupt out of my tensed chest. I felt my body go into overdrive and was struggling to maintain any composure. One raised foot in front of the other, I had worked my way up the two leading steps, for what seemed like an absolute eternity. Door ajar, I raised my left arm, slowly knocking to attract the attention of the man sitting hunched over his seat. He craned his neck, gradually turning around. He seemed unrecognisable, like someone I used to know, yet still had that familiar crinkle at the top of his nose. His body was stick thin, worn like a piece of used cloth. Despite the frailty in his body he still carried such intimidation. Such intimidation that you wouldn’t expect from someone of his make up, yet the same intimidation that single handedly drove mother and myself away. As he began to purse his lips into words, I had considered running out of the room almost as quick as I walked in. It was only the recurring idea that I needed this closure, I needed to discover change. Using the word 'discover' there is a little too obvious. You should be able to communicate Discovery ideas without using the word (unless the word is natural, I don't think it is here). Great paragraph otherwise, sets the mood nicely.
***
I heard a loud smack, followed by a harrowing thud onto the wooden floor. Dropping my school bag, I rushed into the kitchen, complete disarray. Sprawled lifeless in the middle of the floor was my mother, my sweet, caring, mother, who wouldn’t inflict pain upon even the smallest of creatures. Sensitive issue, I think you've handled it appropriately. No graphic descriptions, so it works. Perhaps play with sentence length in this paragraph a bit more, "My mother. My sweet caring mother. My sweet caring mother who wouldn't..." <- An example also using accumulation? Time stopped, coming to a halt. Everything became slow, it was like I was in a movie, but the kind of movie that gave little children haunting nightmares. Except this was no movie, rather my reality, the nightmare right in front of my very eyes. Break the paragraph here - Finishing your paragraph on impactful statements is almost always a good choice. My attention had shifted to father, bent in the corner, tears afresh, crying a river. He was shaking like a leaf on Autumn's day, repeatedly shaking his head, moaning ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Before I could even act upon this ghostly reality, before I could even attend to my limp darling mother, he ran out, eye contact not present. This would be the last time I saw this man, this sinned man for a long, long time. I slumped over my mother, urgently screaming out for help. How could someone inflict this much pain upon a life's partner. For they put forth vows, for they spent all their young lives together, for they wombed my innocent soul. To now to see this split in one act that I am sure this man would regret till his death, broke me and broke our us as a family. Slight wording issue at the end here, but an effective paragraph. Works well to handle a very powerful scene. I'd keep adjusting though - I think it *could* be better, be more powerful.
***
‘Grace, how are you.’ Dialogue on its own line in Creative pieces (usually), and I think it would work well for dramatic effect here anyway. I had looked into his eyes, piercing a look that on any other day, would take man's soul. I looked him up and down, questioning how I could even begin to forgive my father, how could I even attempt to rediscover this distant relationship. ‘You know it was your fault that we became so distant’, he sternly mentioned. Be sure that your dialogue is realistic, would the father actually say this in this situation? Dialogue is really tough to get right. As soon as this was said, my body shut down, for a number of reasons. This "number of reasons" bit seems a little too logical, too 'academic,' for the situation the persona is in. The tone isn't quite right. Apart from being swept with an evil rage, I found this relatively amusing. How could someone who had committed so much wrong, have the audacity to even entertain such a thought. Before I could get a word in, my feet had taken control and in one swift motion I had begun to storm out of the room. I had come long and afar to try and get something out of this, to try and start putting in the metaphorical blocks to build this crumbled relationship back up again. ‘Grace, please. I am sorry, I am awfully sorry,’ he said. Again, watch dialogue. "Awfully sorry" is overly formal and definitely not appropriate for this exchange. It was only because I had come from far, that I turned around and entertained his remorse. To my surprise, he was a shuddering mess, tears rushing from his hardened cheeks. This paragraph definitely needs to be broken up a little - By this stage as a reader I'm a little fatigued, I'm looking for breaks between sections to organise the story in my head. It was the same face that he pulled fifteen years ago after when he struck mum, yet this had more depth to it. Slight wording issue. This had a story, and judging his expression, this was a story of deep, deep regret. Seeing the shame that my father held, brought swelling to my eyes. My heart began to crumble, because in that wrinkled, weathered old man, was a heart, a heart that I had seen before, yet not as often as I would have liked. Beautiful. I could see he was apologetic for everything that he did, and although it would take me probably the rest of my goddamn life to ever fully forgive him, I knew that I had to start somewhere. We both met in the middle of the room, his shoulders sagged, and he put his arms around my waist. ‘I’m sorry Grace. To you and your mum, I am sorry, so so sorry.’ I welcomed his apologies with this embrace, an embrace that had long been missed. For he was my father, and for she was my mother, but despite what he did, despite that shameful act on that shameful day, I needed to accept nothing could be taken back, but we could move forward. I loved my dad, and even if my mums broken heart could not be mended, I, on behalf of her, was ready to give him a second chance and rediscover a bond that once was.
***
I walked in the front door, grinning from ear to ear about the day I had at school.I'd love you to spend a little longer establishing the sense of innocence here, to really juxtapose against the introduction. Build up to the conflict a bit. Closing the door behind me and taking off my school shoes, I was immediately confronted with raised voices. You could say it was ‘deja vu’, I was immune to this level of confrontation due to being exposed to this every day, stirring if you ask me. Ditto, perhaps a little longer establishing the conflict? Describe the scene a bit better? It might be your Creative choice that the persona doesn't want to describe it though. I always knew that things were never going to get better, but at the end of the night, we would all sit down, pray to the Lord and eat some delicious ice cream, with a guilt undertone because Dad buys it every damn time him and mum get into it. Little to be known, today wasn’t an ice cream type of day, it was more of a violent, regretful, God forgive me of my Sins type of day. Ha. Smiled when I read that last sentence. That's magic. Beautiful.
***
My heart pounding, felt like it was about to erupt out of my tensed chest. I felt my body go into overdrive and was struggling to maintain any composure. One raised foot in front of the other, I had worked my way up the two leading steps, for what seemed like an absolute eternity. Door ajar, I raised my left arm, slowly knocking to attract the attention of the man sitting hunched over his seat. He craned his neck, gradually turning around. He seemed unrecognisable, like someone I used to know, yet still had that familiar crinkle at the top of his nose. His body was stick thin, worn like a piece of used cloth. Despite the frailty in his body he still carried such intimidation. Such intimidation that you wouldn’t expect from someone of his make up, yet the same intimidation that single handedly drove mother and myself away. As he began to purse his lips into words, I had considered running out of the room almost as quick as I walked in. It was only the recurring idea that I needed this closure, I needed to discover change. Using the word 'discover' there is a little too obvious. You should be able to communicate Discovery ideas without using the word (unless the word is natural, I don't think it is here). Great paragraph otherwise, sets the mood nicely.
***
I heard a loud smack, followed by a harrowing thud onto the wooden floor. Dropping my school bag, I rushed into the kitchen, complete disarray. Sprawled lifeless in the middle of the floor was my mother, my sweet, caring, mother, who wouldn’t inflict pain upon even the smallest of creatures. Sensitive issue, I think you've handled it appropriately. No graphic descriptions, so it works. Perhaps play with sentence length in this paragraph a bit more, "My mother. My sweet caring mother. My sweet caring mother who wouldn't..." <- An example also using accumulation? Time stopped, coming to a halt. Everything became slow, it was like I was in a movie, but the kind of movie that gave little children haunting nightmares. Except this was no movie, rather my reality, the nightmare right in front of my very eyes. Break the paragraph here - Finishing your paragraph on impactful statements is almost always a good choice. My attention had shifted to father, bent in the corner, tears afresh, crying a river. He was shaking like a leaf on Autumn's day, repeatedly shaking his head, moaning ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Before I could even act upon this ghostly reality, before I could even attend to my limp darling mother, he ran out, eye contact not present. This would be the last time I saw this man, this sinned man for a long, long time. I slumped over my mother, urgently screaming out for help. How could someone inflict this much pain upon a life's partner. For they put forth vows, for they spent all their young lives together, for they wombed my innocent soul. To now to see this split in one act that I am sure this man would regret till his death, broke me and broke our us as a family. Slight wording issue at the end here, but an effective paragraph. Works well to handle a very powerful scene. I'd keep adjusting though - I think it *could* be better, be more powerful.
***
‘Grace, how are you.’ Dialogue on its own line in Creative pieces (usually), and I think it would work well for dramatic effect here anyway. I had looked into his eyes, piercing a look that on any other day, would take man's soul. I looked him up and down, questioning how I could even begin to forgive my father, how could I even attempt to rediscover this distant relationship. ‘You know it was your fault that we became so distant’, he sternly mentioned. Be sure that your dialogue is realistic, would the father actually say this in this situation? Dialogue is really tough to get right. As soon as this was said, my body shut down, for a number of reasons. This "number of reasons" bit seems a little too logical, too 'academic,' for the situation the persona is in. The tone isn't quite right. Apart from being swept with an evil rage, I found this relatively amusing. How could someone who had committed so much wrong, have the audacity to even entertain such a thought. Before I could get a word in, my feet had taken control and in one swift motion I had begun to storm out of the room. I had come long and afar to try and get something out of this, to try and start putting in the metaphorical blocks to build this crumbled relationship back up again. ‘Grace, please. I am sorry, I am awfully sorry,’ he said. Again, watch dialogue. "Awfully sorry" is overly formal and definitely not appropriate for this exchange. It was only because I had come from far, that I turned around and entertained his remorse. To my surprise, he was a shuddering mess, tears rushing from his hardened cheeks. This paragraph definitely needs to be broken up a little - By this stage as a reader I'm a little fatigued, I'm looking for breaks between sections to organise the story in my head. It was the same face that he pulled fifteen years ago after when he struck mum, yet this had more depth to it. Slight wording issue. This had a story, and judging his expression, this was a story of deep, deep regret. Seeing the shame that my father held, brought swelling to my eyes. My heart began to crumble, because in that wrinkled, weathered old man, was a heart, a heart that I had seen before, yet not as often as I would have liked. Beautiful. I could see he was apologetic for everything that he did, and although it would take me probably the rest of my goddamn life to ever fully forgive him, I knew that I had to start somewhere. We both met in the middle of the room, his shoulders sagged, and he put his arms around my waist. ‘I’m sorry Grace. To you and your mum, I am sorry, so so sorry.’ I welcomed his apologies with this embrace, an embrace that had long been missed. For he was my father, and for she was my mother, but despite what he did, despite that shameful act on that shameful day, I needed to accept nothing could be taken back, but we could move forward. I loved my dad, and even if my mums broken heart could not be mended, I, on behalf of her, was ready to give him a second chance and rediscover a bond that once was.
Overall comments:
- Well written piece - Excellent mechanics, and extra techniques used appropriately in most instances. Watch how you use dialogue (be sure it is natural, read the exchange aloud, does it sound forced or overly academic/formal?) and be careful you aren't using techniques for the sake of it.
- I think the choice to engage in a Discovery at the end (what you are focusing on, presumably) is a little quick, not built up to properly, and a little cliche. The ending of hugging the father is just a bit, I don't know... Like, "Oh, of course they hug and make up." I think its a little idealistic, especially given the horrific pictures you paint earlier. I don't quite believe it. Perhaps you could rework the ending to have the same effect, but without the hug - The hug is the bit that I think, in my opinion, betrays the power of the ending a little.
- A little too much description in places, and perhaps not enough in others (see comments throughout)
- The story idea itself, while slightly cliche, is really well executed. It is engaging and provocative for the reader, and I think the flashbacks work. Perhaps you could restructure - You say the face the father has when he calls the persona back is the same as the one when he strikes the mother - Perhaps that can be the link between past and present? Perhaps seeing that face could inspire the flashback? Like, the first set is sort of linked by coming in the door both times, the second one could be linked in that way? Just an idea :)
Overall, a really well written piece. Really, it is just the ending that subtracts from its power in my opinion. Not entirely sure how you might choose to adapt it, but the hug just doesn't quite suit the piece to me, and feels a little idealistic/cliche ;D
Post by: TheFreeMarketeer on July 28, 2017, 12:53:10 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 28, 2017, 12:57:58 pm
So, has the lockdown been activated?
Not yet, I'll probably lock all the threads once my Q+A session finishes at 7:00 tonight ;D
Post by: TheFreeMarketeer on July 28, 2017, 01:02:17 pm
Not yet, I'll probably lock all the threads once my Q+A session finishes at 7:00 tonight ;D
So if I hand in my piece by 7 tonight, it'll be in queue for checking?
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 28, 2017, 01:03:59 pm
So if I hand in my piece by 7 tonight, it'll be in queue for checking?
According to my spreadsheet you need to hit 50 posts before you qualify for your next bit of feedback - But yeah, if you post it before I lock it, it will go in the queue. Go earlier if you can - I'd hate to lock it just as you go to post it :)
Post by: TheFreeMarketeer on July 28, 2017, 01:05:58 pm
According to my spreadsheet you need to hit 50 posts before you qualify for your next bit of feedback - But yeah, if you post it before I lock it, it will go in the queue. Go earlier if you can - I'd hate to lock it just as you go to post it :)
Hey Jamon,
Just to clarify, I thought because of how brief the feedback was on my last creative submission that it didn't count towards my post count.
Thanks.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 28, 2017, 01:13:37 pm
According to my spreadsheet you need to hit 50 posts before you qualify for your next bit of feedback - But yeah, if you post it before I lock it, it will go in the queue. Go earlier if you can - I'd hate to lock it just as you go to post it :)
Hey Jamon,
Just to clarify, I thought because of how brief the feedback was on my last creative submission that it didn't count towards my post count.
Thanks.
Huh, right you are! Must have done something weird in the spreadsheet because I had you down as getting something marked for 25 posts, that Creative in March would have been worth 15 even if it did count - You're all sweet! Post away :)
Post by: tloos1999 on July 28, 2017, 03:19:04 pm
Hey! I've attached your Creative below with feedback in bold!Creative w/ FeedbackI walked down the barren road, legs were shaking, trembling like a warrior, about to enter his first battle. Comma placement is a little off there. I'd remove the one after 'warrior,' but there could be other ways to structure it. Sweat rushed down my flushed face, beads sliding onto my lips, the combination of salt and water lingering. I had attempted to pace my breathing, trying to keep calm in a rather confrontational situation. I had to keep reminding myself why I was doing this, for closure, for my own sanity. I'd break the paragraph here to really emphasise that last statement - Perhaps even put "for my own sanity" in its own sentence - Playing with sentence length a bit would add some drama to this introduction. For someone so weathered in age and a wealth of life’s experience, I was still worried sick, like the new kid in the school. Slightly forced simile there, try not to work TOO hard to put techniques in. It should be natural - This feels a little out of place. I continued my gradual walk to the isolated shed, the dirt crumbling underneath my heavy feet, rocks sharpening on the sole of my rather worn trainers. The sun began to waver away, as did the hope and confidence that I had mustered up the way here. ON the way here. I heard the grinding of an axe, a loud cough followed by the sputtering of a man. A man who created me, a man who left me with the nerve to run away from his problems. I like that your persona refuses to say the word Father, that's clever. A solid introduction! Perhaps a TAD too much description?
***
I walked in the front door, grinning from ear to ear about the day I had at school.I'd love you to spend a little longer establishing the sense of innocence here, to really juxtapose against the introduction. Build up to the conflict a bit. Closing the door behind me and taking off my school shoes, I was immediately confronted with raised voices. You could say it was ‘deja vu’, I was immune to this level of confrontation due to being exposed to this every day, stirring if you ask me. Ditto, perhaps a little longer establishing the conflict? Describe the scene a bit better? It might be your Creative choice that the persona doesn't want to describe it though. I always knew that things were never going to get better, but at the end of the night, we would all sit down, pray to the Lord and eat some delicious ice cream, with a guilt undertone because Dad buys it every damn time him and mum get into it. Little to be known, today wasn’t an ice cream type of day, it was more of a violent, regretful, God forgive me of my Sins type of day. Ha. Smiled when I read that last sentence. That's magic. Beautiful.
***
My heart pounding, felt like it was about to erupt out of my tensed chest. I felt my body go into overdrive and was struggling to maintain any composure. One raised foot in front of the other, I had worked my way up the two leading steps, for what seemed like an absolute eternity. Door ajar, I raised my left arm, slowly knocking to attract the attention of the man sitting hunched over his seat. He craned his neck, gradually turning around. He seemed unrecognisable, like someone I used to know, yet still had that familiar crinkle at the top of his nose. His body was stick thin, worn like a piece of used cloth. Despite the frailty in his body he still carried such intimidation. Such intimidation that you wouldn’t expect from someone of his make up, yet the same intimidation that single handedly drove mother and myself away. As he began to purse his lips into words, I had considered running out of the room almost as quick as I walked in. It was only the recurring idea that I needed this closure, I needed to discover change. Using the word 'discover' there is a little too obvious. You should be able to communicate Discovery ideas without using the word (unless the word is natural, I don't think it is here). Great paragraph otherwise, sets the mood nicely.
***
I heard a loud smack, followed by a harrowing thud onto the wooden floor. Dropping my school bag, I rushed into the kitchen, complete disarray. Sprawled lifeless in the middle of the floor was my mother, my sweet, caring, mother, who wouldn’t inflict pain upon even the smallest of creatures. Sensitive issue, I think you've handled it appropriately. No graphic descriptions, so it works. Perhaps play with sentence length in this paragraph a bit more, "My mother. My sweet caring mother. My sweet caring mother who wouldn't..." <- An example also using accumulation? Time stopped, coming to a halt. Everything became slow, it was like I was in a movie, but the kind of movie that gave little children haunting nightmares. Except this was no movie, rather my reality, the nightmare right in front of my very eyes. Break the paragraph here - Finishing your paragraph on impactful statements is almost always a good choice. My attention had shifted to father, bent in the corner, tears afresh, crying a river. He was shaking like a leaf on Autumn's day, repeatedly shaking his head, moaning ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Before I could even act upon this ghostly reality, before I could even attend to my limp darling mother, he ran out, eye contact not present. This would be the last time I saw this man, this sinned man for a long, long time. I slumped over my mother, urgently screaming out for help. How could someone inflict this much pain upon a life's partner. For they put forth vows, for they spent all their young lives together, for they wombed my innocent soul. To now to see this split in one act that I am sure this man would regret till his death, broke me and broke our us as a family. Slight wording issue at the end here, but an effective paragraph. Works well to handle a very powerful scene. I'd keep adjusting though - I think it *could* be better, be more powerful.
***
‘Grace, how are you.’ Dialogue on its own line in Creative pieces (usually), and I think it would work well for dramatic effect here anyway. I had looked into his eyes, piercing a look that on any other day, would take man's soul. I looked him up and down, questioning how I could even begin to forgive my father, how could I even attempt to rediscover this distant relationship. ‘You know it was your fault that we became so distant’, he sternly mentioned. Be sure that your dialogue is realistic, would the father actually say this in this situation? Dialogue is really tough to get right. As soon as this was said, my body shut down, for a number of reasons. This "number of reasons" bit seems a little too logical, too 'academic,' for the situation the persona is in. The tone isn't quite right. Apart from being swept with an evil rage, I found this relatively amusing. How could someone who had committed so much wrong, have the audacity to even entertain such a thought. Before I could get a word in, my feet had taken control and in one swift motion I had begun to storm out of the room. I had come long and afar to try and get something out of this, to try and start putting in the metaphorical blocks to build this crumbled relationship back up again. ‘Grace, please. I am sorry, I am awfully sorry,’ he said. Again, watch dialogue. "Awfully sorry" is overly formal and definitely not appropriate for this exchange. It was only because I had come from far, that I turned around and entertained his remorse. To my surprise, he was a shuddering mess, tears rushing from his hardened cheeks. This paragraph definitely needs to be broken up a little - By this stage as a reader I'm a little fatigued, I'm looking for breaks between sections to organise the story in my head. It was the same face that he pulled fifteen years ago after when he struck mum, yet this had more depth to it. Slight wording issue. This had a story, and judging his expression, this was a story of deep, deep regret. Seeing the shame that my father held, brought swelling to my eyes. My heart began to crumble, because in that wrinkled, weathered old man, was a heart, a heart that I had seen before, yet not as often as I would have liked. Beautiful. I could see he was apologetic for everything that he did, and although it would take me probably the rest of my goddamn life to ever fully forgive him, I knew that I had to start somewhere. We both met in the middle of the room, his shoulders sagged, and he put his arms around my waist. ‘I’m sorry Grace. To you and your mum, I am sorry, so so sorry.’ I welcomed his apologies with this embrace, an embrace that had long been missed. For he was my father, and for she was my mother, but despite what he did, despite that shameful act on that shameful day, I needed to accept nothing could be taken back, but we could move forward. I loved my dad, and even if my mums broken heart could not be mended, I, on behalf of her, was ready to give him a second chance and rediscover a bond that once was.
Overall comments:
- Well written piece - Excellent mechanics, and extra techniques used appropriately in most instances. Watch how you use dialogue (be sure it is natural, read the exchange aloud, does it sound forced or overly academic/formal?) and be careful you aren't using techniques for the sake of it.
- I think the choice to engage in a Discovery at the end (what you are focusing on, presumably) is a little quick, not built up to properly, and a little cliche. The ending of hugging the father is just a bit, I don't know... Like, "Oh, of course they hug and make up." I think its a little idealistic, especially given the horrific pictures you paint earlier. I don't quite believe it. Perhaps you could rework the ending to have the same effect, but without the hug - The hug is the bit that I think, in my opinion, betrays the power of the ending a little.
- A little too much description in places, and perhaps not enough in others (see comments throughout)
- The story idea itself, while slightly cliche, is really well executed. It is engaging and provocative for the reader, and I think the flashbacks work. Perhaps you could restructure - You say the face the father has when he calls the persona back is the same as the one when he strikes the mother - Perhaps that can be the link between past and present? Perhaps seeing that face could inspire the flashback? Like, the first set is sort of linked by coming in the door both times, the second one could be linked in that way? Just an idea :)
Overall, a really well written piece. Really, it is just the ending that subtracts from its power in my opinion. Not entirely sure how you might choose to adapt it, but the hug just doesn't quite suit the piece to me, and feels a little idealistic/cliche ;D
Hi Jamon, thankyou for the review. It was a much, much, much more thorough review than what my teacher did and I couldn't be more grateful. I definitely agree with the idea the ending is a little too cliche, and will fix this up immediately. The feedback had lots of depth and will assist me in executing this creative piece. Once again, thank you for the expert review, and glad to get some affirmation that my story is on the right track. Kindest Regards, tloos1999.
It is also going to be interesting how I can adapt this to the stimulus...hopefully CSSA is kind to me.
Mod Edit: Post merge :)
Post by: asd987 on July 28, 2017, 04:23:54 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 29, 2017, 11:26:52 am
Thanks so much once again ;D
If you get the chance with your current workload, could you have a brief look at this version just to make sure it kind of works? I've just changed the dialogue at the midway point so I'll paste it here for your convenience with the change in italics.SpoilerYou wouldn’t have been able to tell Sydney was on the cusp of winter. A light breeze ruffled evergreen leaves, adding little chill to tepid air. The afternoon sun was smiling down, with little care for the fact that it was working unpaid overtime. Its breezy attitude was fabulous for the precise rows of flowerbeds, their occupants swimming drunkenly in sunlight. On the roads sat the houses, waiting patiently for their owners to return for Christmas.
Xavier paced along slowly, taking in his green and blue abode through stray locks of sandy hair. He’s the type of kid you’d look right past at the canteen queue, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of looking past you. Eternally inquisitive, he chuffed his teachers until they became fed up of his constant attempts to find discrepancies in the syllabus. Eventually the sleepy state school arranged to offload all five foot four of Xavier to a selective campus for year eleven.
He didn’t understand why but the world felt heavier when he walked, especially when the streets were barren. With just the perfect azure sky and the shells of houses – not homes, it was hard not to ponder questions pertaining to some greater meaning. Will there still be people on our little marble in five hundred years? What about a thousand?
While Xavier’s cogs whirred Stan trudged behind him. Like a prisoner’s ball and chain, he was the reason their journey was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Despite having walked this road for as long as his friend, Stan found it eternally compelling. With the knowledge that he had all the time in the world to savour the fragrances, Stan grinned and trailed his snout through a sun-soaked patch of grass that climbed up to tickle his furry underbelly.
Suddenly, Xavier put the grip end of the lead in his mouth. The fake leather smelled like ancient socks and the dog’s fur, so his teeth gripped it firmly, separating it from his tongue. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he turned in a slow circle, scanning the sky blue dome. Today was one of those lucky days where one could see the shadow of the moon hanging out like the shy friend at a party, dwarfed by the exuberance of the sun. Just in front of it stood the wispy moustache of a cloud, a sole survivor of the summery weather. Drifting steadily past the pair was a bird devoid of grace, a jumble of mass that really didn’t belong up there, stubbornly refusing to fall.
Xavier tracked the plane across the Tasman. Why don’t we fear being flung thirty-thousand feet in the air in a thin metal tube?
Hearing chomping, he looked down at Stan and saw the stub of a discarded cutlet poking out of the dog’s mouth a millisecond before it was hastily gobbled up. Innocently, the brown marbles looked up at him, wondering what the holdup was.
Xavier tried to recall how many times he’d wrestled street scraps from Stan’s mouth as a puppy. He couldn’t. But he was sure that the dog knew he wasn’t supposed to eat that bone, as the end of his tail was raised ever so slightly as he trotted off. For Stan, Xavier realised, here and now is what matters.
The lead pulled taut, jerking Xavier out of his daze. The dog was trotting off for a reason – on the other side of the road, a bearded slab of a man emerged from a stained facade. Xavier tried hopelessly to resist – the stranger’s ink-drenched skin and shiny Harley Davidson gave him the impression that he wouldn’t be fond of Stan’s antics.
The biker turned around, alerted by the desperate wheezing Stan was making as he dragged his owner across the road.
Xavier did well to supress his wonder as biker’s menacing demeanour melted – his stubby fingers caressed the dog’s anvil-shaped head fondly. Embarrassingly, Stan decided to lie down, indicating it was time for a belly rub. His new friend obliged, having lowered himself slowly down onto his front step, so Xavier found himself having to start a conversation with the man.
“He reminds me of my dog, Lucy,” the biker confided. “I lost her a few months back.”
Stan lay dead still for a few minutes until his best friend stood up. The man breathed out airily, glancing back down at Stan.
“Sorry pup, I’ve got stuff to do.” The biker prised his eyes from the hound’s friendly stare. “See you ‘round bro,” he said to Xavier, with just a hint of emotion glinting in his voice.
Order was restored as the hound and his human continued walking, soon arriving back home.
Stan halted the procession of narrow legs and looked up the ridge of his snout into his owner’s eyes as the keys jangled on the way out of his pocket. The dog’s tongue continued to hang lazily out the side of black jowls, ready to be plunged eagerly into his familiar water bowl.
Maybe… maybe ignorance really is bliss? Stan takes life for what it is, and he’s happy as can be. He even made a new friend today, enabled by his carefree attitude. Maybe I have something to learn from my four-legged friend…
I kind of changed it a bit more than you suggested. I get what you mean with the handshake, but it would feel out of place for me on a walk, and my intention was for the discovery to be more about gaining an understanding of the dog's view rather than some personal experience but that's just me.
If it's still confusing at all please lmk. If the dialogue is no longer ambiguous, does the image of the meeting seem to "fit" in the story for you? Or does it still need something like that handshake idea? Once again thank you so much for the help :)
Hey! I really like the way you've cleared up the ambiguity. It seems so much clearer to me now and I'm really impressed with it all. I think the perspective thing comes through really well, and I don't think a handshake is necessary. You've definitely tidied this up a fair bit. Does it still read to you the way you want it too, or has it drifted too far? (I recognise this thread is locked now so you won't be able to reply). The only reason I'm asking, is I don't want this to have drifted too far from your vision, so although it's clearer now, you could still rake it back closer to your vision now that clarity has been achieved. But, you've got a solid piece for trials, so the time now might be best spent adjusting the creative to a stimulus in preparation, then take on the feedback from trials and onwards and upwards from there!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 29, 2017, 05:05:15 pm
Hi can i get my creative marked please. Thanks in advance!
Hey there! You certainly can get feedback on this :)
Spoiler
All the men and women joined together in celebration as the rain now began to pour down heavily. Withered hands flung themselves around my neck and rough faces embraced me. New line for this new dialogue :) “Big Brother, God bless you!” the people cried. Prem grasped the fingerless hands held out to him, while I joined mine together in the beautiful gesture of greeting used by the people of this community. And the cries of the children filled the night – my first night in the heart of Bombay…
***
It was five o’clock in the evening when Dr. Vijay Kumar arrived in a third-class train compartment. The red of the sinking sun was veiled in a shroud of greyish vapour and the fiery smell of small portable stoves lit to cook the evening meal permeated the village. In the narrow alleyways the air was dense with acrid fumes which seared throats and lungs, and the racket of coughing that beset innumerable chests was distinguishable above all others.
As a government operative, Dr. Kumar was deployed in the heart of the leper community, the dangerous neighbourhood of The Untouchables, pariahs and social rejects ahead of the annual monsoon season. Without proper sanitation, diseases such as cholera were imminent during this period.
“It’s not exactly like the Grand Oberoi” Prem apologised, “but just keep telling yourself that people here live twelve to fifteen in rooms half as large as this with no furniture, no electricity and no running water!”
Vijay grimaced as he inspected the room that had been allocated for him in the very heart of Bombay. Yet compared to many others, it was a princely lodging, complete with a cupboard, a table and most importantly – a comfortable bed. It even boasted a window opening onto the alleyway and its floor was raised so that it could be protected from the monsoon floods. On the wall was a calendar depicting a fine, chubby baby.
Vijay breathed in the strong scent of the bouquet of jasmine that sat in a clay vase and for a second, he forgot his surroundings; the noise, the coughing and the smoke that was stinging his eyes. The perfume was identical to that of the roses which pervaded the terrace of his house located on the city’s edge during springtime.
Outside, a crowd of cripples, blind men, and amputees waited to receive a blessing from the ‘Big Brother’ who had dared to enter their compound. Though they would give alms to lepers to improve their own karma, most Indians looked upon leprosy as a curse of the gods. What Vijay discovered was not so much a colony but a chamber of horrors. Were those skeletons consumed with disease really human beings? I feel like "consumed" is not the best word, only because it has wholesome connotations. Maybe rattled with the disease...or ridden with the disease...
“The lame, the sick and the dying…” Vijay muttered as his terror-stricken eyes gazed upon the pitted faces, the skeletal babies in their mother’s arms, the protruding chests of tuberculosis sufferers…
“Vijay Brother, come and sit over here,” Prem ordered at last, gesturing towards the courtyard.
Several lepers scrambled themselves next to him. That was when he realised he was being invited for a meal. Women brought bowls of steaming rice and vegetable curry while leper musicians performed a concert for him on flutes and drums. Vijay did his utmost to forget the fingerless hands battling with balls of rice. He hid his uneasiness as best he could and soon the warmth of the lepers’ hospitality dispelled it. His hosts seemed overwhelmed with gratitude. They were pariahs among pariahs, and never before had a foreigner shared their food.
What struck Vijay immediately was the serenity of the place. There was no horror here. In the leper community, the weak were helped, not trampled upon. No longer were the wretched people who had come to this place alone and destitute. They had found love and peace.
Because of the oppressive heat, the inhabitants of the leper community looked forward to the monsoon just as eagerly as the city dwellers. It was later that evening when Vijay saw the first drops of water fall. As soon as they hit the concrete, the heat caused them to evaporate instantaneously. For the lepers, the first drops of water were sustenance from the heavens, proof that the gods could still weep for the plight of mankind.
Instead of seeking shelter like Vijay, the people rushed out into the rain. The monsoon this year had arrived a week earlier than what was predicted by the elders. Children danced and laughed and performed somersaults. Trees that had looked like dusty old men grew shiny with freshness and youth. A whole race of people had just been resurrected in a fantastic explosion of happiness, exuberance and life.
The experience made Vijay appreciate a fundamental truth. It’s at grass roots level that gestures of solidarity are really noticed and appreciated. Only a place where men live in such close contact with death could offer such love and cohesion.
The water continued to batter the ground like the sound of drums beaten by a million fingers.
His first night in the heart of Bombay.
***
It was five o’clock in the evening when Dr. Vijay Kumar arrived in a third-class train compartment. The red of the sinking sun was veiled in a shroud of greyish vapour and the fiery smell of small portable stoves lit to cook the evening meal permeated the village. In the narrow alleyways the air was dense with acrid fumes which seared throats and lungs, and the racket of coughing that beset innumerable chests was distinguishable above all others.
As a government operative, Dr. Kumar was deployed in the heart of the leper community, the dangerous neighbourhood of The Untouchables, pariahs and social rejects ahead of the annual monsoon season. Without proper sanitation, diseases such as cholera were imminent during this period.
“It’s not exactly like the Grand Oberoi” Prem apologised, “but just keep telling yourself that people here live twelve to fifteen in rooms half as large as this with no furniture, no electricity and no running water!”
Vijay grimaced as he inspected the room that had been allocated for him in the very heart of Bombay. Yet compared to many others, it was a princely lodging, complete with a cupboard, a table and most importantly – a comfortable bed. It even boasted a window opening onto the alleyway and its floor was raised so that it could be protected from the monsoon floods. On the wall was a calendar depicting a fine, chubby baby.
Vijay breathed in the strong scent of the bouquet of jasmine that sat in a clay vase and for a second, he forgot his surroundings; the noise, the coughing and the smoke that was stinging his eyes. The perfume was identical to that of the roses which pervaded the terrace of his house located on the city’s edge during springtime.
Outside, a crowd of cripples, blind men, and amputees waited to receive a blessing from the ‘Big Brother’ who had dared to enter their compound. Though they would give alms to lepers to improve their own karma, most Indians looked upon leprosy as a curse of the gods. What Vijay discovered was not so much a colony but a chamber of horrors. Were those skeletons consumed with disease really human beings? I feel like "consumed" is not the best word, only because it has wholesome connotations. Maybe rattled with the disease...or ridden with the disease...
“The lame, the sick and the dying…” Vijay muttered as his terror-stricken eyes gazed upon the pitted faces, the skeletal babies in their mother’s arms, the protruding chests of tuberculosis sufferers…
“Vijay Brother, come and sit over here,” Prem ordered at last, gesturing towards the courtyard.
Several lepers scrambled themselves next to him. That was when he realised he was being invited for a meal. Women brought bowls of steaming rice and vegetable curry while leper musicians performed a concert for him on flutes and drums. Vijay did his utmost to forget the fingerless hands battling with balls of rice. He hid his uneasiness as best he could and soon the warmth of the lepers’ hospitality dispelled it. His hosts seemed overwhelmed with gratitude. They were pariahs among pariahs, and never before had a foreigner shared their food.
What struck Vijay immediately was the serenity of the place. There was no horror here. In the leper community, the weak were helped, not trampled upon. No longer were the wretched people who had come to this place alone and destitute. They had found love and peace.
Because of the oppressive heat, the inhabitants of the leper community looked forward to the monsoon just as eagerly as the city dwellers. It was later that evening when Vijay saw the first drops of water fall. As soon as they hit the concrete, the heat caused them to evaporate instantaneously. For the lepers, the first drops of water were sustenance from the heavens, proof that the gods could still weep for the plight of mankind.
Instead of seeking shelter like Vijay, the people rushed out into the rain. The monsoon this year had arrived a week earlier than what was predicted by the elders. Children danced and laughed and performed somersaults. Trees that had looked like dusty old men grew shiny with freshness and youth. A whole race of people had just been resurrected in a fantastic explosion of happiness, exuberance and life.
The experience made Vijay appreciate a fundamental truth. It’s at grass roots level that gestures of solidarity are really noticed and appreciated. Only a place where men live in such close contact with death could offer such love and cohesion.
The water continued to batter the ground like the sound of drums beaten by a million fingers.
His first night in the heart of Bombay.
Some things that I really like about this story:
-So much happened within a very short time, in just one night, Vijay was able to see such a diversity and richness of culture. I think it adds to the chaotic imagery of Bombay.
-The imagery is just enough: you've not taken it too far or too shallow, I think it's really lovely. I see colours, I smell flavours, I feel claustrophobic, all of it.
-I like that Vijay is a doctor, even just subtly at the beginning. This is enough to immediately establish a contrast in worlds and set the scene from which the discovery will eventuate.
I think things move too quickly and conveniently between being with the lepers and their happiness arriving in the monsoon - "Because of the oppressive heat, the inhabitants of the leper community looked forward to the monsoon just as eagerly as the city dwellers. It was later that evening when Vijay saw the first drops of water fall. As soon as they hit the concrete, the heat caused them to evaporate instantaneously. For the lepers, the first drops of water were sustenance from the heavens, proof that the gods could still weep for the plight of mankind. " I think perhaps the plot would flow better if he was attending to someone, talking with a patient, only to immediately feel the vibrancy of the room change, and everyone moved outdoors, and then the same somersaulting and everything else occurred. This way, it's not predicting that they like the monsoon, and then suddenly the monsoon comes. It's more of a shock to Vijay, adding to his discovery.
Also, the ending to me does a little bit too much telling than showing. The very last line seems to save it, for some reason, I really like that last line! But just before that, you are explicitly saying the discovery of perspective. Maybe you could show this instead, by talking about the spirits within him changed, and he felt a shift in the atmosphere from being destitute to full of vibrancy. For he was just a spectator, so he could adore the flourishing attitudes, and then maybe he could feel his own smile being pulled across his face by the exact same environment that only minutes ago seemed like a graveyard of beating hearts. Something like this kind of imagery shows that he has experienced this discovery, without explicitly saying it.
Overall, I cannot help but commend you on a stunning piece of writing. This is wonderful! I hope you're so pleased with it. :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 29, 2017, 05:23:55 pm
THE DIAGNOSIS OF THE BLIND MAN
Thanks for your patience, TheFreeMarketeer!
Spoiler
Manhattan, New York, 1976
I thought my vision was blurry because of a lack of sleep but it turns out I was going blind. That’s what the doctor said at least - he used the term inoperable. ‘An inoperable cataract’ he said verbatim, ‘seldom seen in such a young man’. Instantly there's such a voice created! Your full stop needs to go inside the quotation mark, at the end :)
I began to look out the window, as the doctor’s ramblings of how the cataract might be treatable or how sorry he was for me, I? I droned off? Missing something here...droned off. I looked at the sun and how it bounced off the water, elegantly, with poise and incredible form and with that I’m taken back to a different time, a time of no blindness. In fact, I’m taken back to a time of profound vision.
Coney Island, New York City, 1962
I had just graduated from the New York Academy of Arts and had found a job as a Coney Island boardwalk painter, painting caricatures and portraits of the people that’d pass by.
I’d sit by the ferris wheel, a camel If you're referring to the brand Camel, it needs capitalisation :) cigarette dangling in the corner of my mouth while flailing my button up shirt as the sun kissed me with an intense heat.
Sometimes I’d have a couple people show up to have their picture painted. Sometimes it was an elderly woman who would spend her time walking the pier, sometimes it was a pair of lovers spending the afternoon together, sometimes it was an excited child fidgeting and waiting for me to finish.
But most of the time there was no one at all. Most of the time I was by myself, occupied with my thoughts. I’d look out at the ocean and think to myself. Watching the tides crash against the shore, I thought about my life and where it was headed, I thought about who I was going to be and all the places that I’d see.
When I suspected no one was going to show for the rest of the day, I’d paint the boardwalk. I’d paint the people walking across it and while I did, I wondered who they were and how they lived their lives. I’d paint the carousel and the man with the red-striped blazer selling balloons. I’d paint the mariachi band and the women, in one-piece swimsuits, sunbathing under green and yellow parasols.
Most importantly though, I’d try and capture Coney Island, in all its fantasy and beauty. I’d try and capture the spectrum of colours it housed. Here I was, twenty-two years old, trying to capture the vivacity in this beautiful life; this life of colour. What a stunning, old school image you've created.
Manhattan, New York, 1976
My wife seemed angry. Whether she was angry at me, angry at God, angry at the doctors, I don’t know. Usually, at the pictures, No need for the two commas in this sentence. you’d see blind men coddled and given sympathetic sighs when they’d pass down the streets but I guess that’s just it; everything I know about blind people is from the movies.
I couldn’t blame her though. She was now married to a man who was losing his vision. She was now married to a man who could not complement her every day, a man who could no longer appreciate the crevices that formed around her mouth when she smiled.
She was married to a man whose eyes she would come to not see herself in.
I tried to catch up with her and just talk things out but she just kept going faster and faster. I guess she saw her future as one riddled with learning braille, and feeding the guide-dog and picking up fucking eye-drops every week. There was a care-free time in our lives; a time when we were both happy. I suppose it started when she sat on the stool adjacent to me, flashed her pearly whites and asked for a painting. I love the way this is coming together!!!
Coney Island, New York City, 1965
We bought an apartment overlooking the amusement park. Sometimes, late at night, we’d sit in the balcony on our foldable chairs, drinking cheap beer and watching the lights; lights that watched us sleep.
We had eloped a year ago; not because we were some Beatniks who ran away from home but just because we couldn’t be fussed with the reception, and the bouquets and the formalities. We just wanted to be married and have it be done.
Since then, life was going pretty good. I wasn’t doing the whole boardwalk painting thing and was earning well working at some gallery. Everything was OK, except for that little incident a month back - the whole miscarriage blunder.
I had made the mistake of bringing up the possibility of re-trying that night but she just wept. It wasn’t that she didn’t want a kid; in fact, she’d give her life up for one but it was that she never wanted to get so close and fall short again.
I tried to console her as best I could, held her in my arms as she fell asleep. I flamed a Camel cigarette and had my eyes drift towards the portrait I had painted her the day we met. Looking at that, and then the lights that pervaded through our open curtains and then the tear-stained puddle on my shirt, I knew shades of black and white were as dangerous as all the colours of the rainbow.
Coney Island, New York City, 1977
I hopped off the Subway and made my way for the amusement park. I had to see it before I completely lost my sight but things weren’t so good now, as my vision became increasingly blurry.
It was forecasted to rain and so no one was on the pier or the beach. I held on to the railing as I strode down the aisle, looking at all the locked food trucks and closed carnival games.
As I made my way further down, I saw the area where I used to do my paintings and the place where I had won that big stuffed giraffe for my wife. I saw where the women would set up their parasols and where the man with the red-striped blazer would sell balloons. I saw where kids used to line up for cotton candy and where young, rosy-cheeked men sought to woo their women at the ring toss.
Most importantly, as I held onto the railing and slid my walking stick along the wooden floorboards, I squinted to see as the sky met the ocean in diaphanous folds and was reminded of this life of colour.
I thought my vision was blurry because of a lack of sleep but it turns out I was going blind. That’s what the doctor said at least - he used the term inoperable. ‘An inoperable cataract’ he said verbatim, ‘seldom seen in such a young man’. Instantly there's such a voice created! Your full stop needs to go inside the quotation mark, at the end :)
I began to look out the window, as the doctor’s ramblings of how the cataract might be treatable or how sorry he was for me, I? I droned off? Missing something here...droned off. I looked at the sun and how it bounced off the water, elegantly, with poise and incredible form and with that I’m taken back to a different time, a time of no blindness. In fact, I’m taken back to a time of profound vision.
Coney Island, New York City, 1962
I had just graduated from the New York Academy of Arts and had found a job as a Coney Island boardwalk painter, painting caricatures and portraits of the people that’d pass by.
I’d sit by the ferris wheel, a camel If you're referring to the brand Camel, it needs capitalisation :) cigarette dangling in the corner of my mouth while flailing my button up shirt as the sun kissed me with an intense heat.
Sometimes I’d have a couple people show up to have their picture painted. Sometimes it was an elderly woman who would spend her time walking the pier, sometimes it was a pair of lovers spending the afternoon together, sometimes it was an excited child fidgeting and waiting for me to finish.
But most of the time there was no one at all. Most of the time I was by myself, occupied with my thoughts. I’d look out at the ocean and think to myself. Watching the tides crash against the shore, I thought about my life and where it was headed, I thought about who I was going to be and all the places that I’d see.
When I suspected no one was going to show for the rest of the day, I’d paint the boardwalk. I’d paint the people walking across it and while I did, I wondered who they were and how they lived their lives. I’d paint the carousel and the man with the red-striped blazer selling balloons. I’d paint the mariachi band and the women, in one-piece swimsuits, sunbathing under green and yellow parasols.
Most importantly though, I’d try and capture Coney Island, in all its fantasy and beauty. I’d try and capture the spectrum of colours it housed. Here I was, twenty-two years old, trying to capture the vivacity in this beautiful life; this life of colour. What a stunning, old school image you've created.
Manhattan, New York, 1976
My wife seemed angry. Whether she was angry at me, angry at God, angry at the doctors, I don’t know. Usually, at the pictures, No need for the two commas in this sentence. you’d see blind men coddled and given sympathetic sighs when they’d pass down the streets but I guess that’s just it; everything I know about blind people is from the movies.
I couldn’t blame her though. She was now married to a man who was losing his vision. She was now married to a man who could not complement her every day, a man who could no longer appreciate the crevices that formed around her mouth when she smiled.
She was married to a man whose eyes she would come to not see herself in.
I tried to catch up with her and just talk things out but she just kept going faster and faster. I guess she saw her future as one riddled with learning braille, and feeding the guide-dog and picking up fucking eye-drops every week. There was a care-free time in our lives; a time when we were both happy. I suppose it started when she sat on the stool adjacent to me, flashed her pearly whites and asked for a painting. I love the way this is coming together!!!
Coney Island, New York City, 1965
We bought an apartment overlooking the amusement park. Sometimes, late at night, we’d sit in the balcony on our foldable chairs, drinking cheap beer and watching the lights; lights that watched us sleep.
We had eloped a year ago; not because we were some Beatniks who ran away from home but just because we couldn’t be fussed with the reception, and the bouquets and the formalities. We just wanted to be married and have it be done.
Since then, life was going pretty good. I wasn’t doing the whole boardwalk painting thing and was earning well working at some gallery. Everything was OK, except for that little incident a month back - the whole miscarriage blunder.
I had made the mistake of bringing up the possibility of re-trying that night but she just wept. It wasn’t that she didn’t want a kid; in fact, she’d give her life up for one but it was that she never wanted to get so close and fall short again.
I tried to console her as best I could, held her in my arms as she fell asleep. I flamed a Camel cigarette and had my eyes drift towards the portrait I had painted her the day we met. Looking at that, and then the lights that pervaded through our open curtains and then the tear-stained puddle on my shirt, I knew shades of black and white were as dangerous as all the colours of the rainbow.
Coney Island, New York City, 1977
I hopped off the Subway and made my way for the amusement park. I had to see it before I completely lost my sight but things weren’t so good now, as my vision became increasingly blurry.
It was forecasted to rain and so no one was on the pier or the beach. I held on to the railing as I strode down the aisle, looking at all the locked food trucks and closed carnival games.
As I made my way further down, I saw the area where I used to do my paintings and the place where I had won that big stuffed giraffe for my wife. I saw where the women would set up their parasols and where the man with the red-striped blazer would sell balloons. I saw where kids used to line up for cotton candy and where young, rosy-cheeked men sought to woo their women at the ring toss.
Most importantly, as I held onto the railing and slid my walking stick along the wooden floorboards, I squinted to see as the sky met the ocean in diaphanous folds and was reminded of this life of colour.
What an absolute joy to read. I read it out loud, actually. I felt like I wanted to stop at every full stop and pause at the commas and be taken along like that. You've done an excellent job of capturing both the scenery of this period but also the spirit. How impressive! I think you've done a stellar job in all things mechanical in the poem - the way the characters come together, the settings, it's wonderful. And you pulled off swearing powerfully.
When it comes to discovery though, I want to point out that I don't get stronggggg discovery vibes. They exist, don't get me wrong. But it's not like he adopted a new perspective at the end, because he had always been aware of this life of colour, so the ending line isn't a "wow" in terms of discovery, but a "wow" because of the circular nature of the story. You used "reminded" - which I think is how the discovery manages to sneak in. You see, remembering what is lost, concealed, or forgotten, is a discovery in itself. But I didn't really get the vibe that he lost or forgot about it. I seemed to think the way he managed to somehow deflect and cool mindedly response to his wife's concerns made me think he was in control the entire time. Perhaps if he lost control a little more in that time, then the discovery would be stronger at the end there, because I can see the way he discovered the ability to control his life, to admire the beautiful, etc. Alternatively, in that moment on the pier at the end, he could tap into his other senses. He could find the colour in the sound of the ocean, and he could remember the sound of the fair surrounding him, or he could remember the salty ketchup on his sausage roll in his break, and the way the brush felt so natural in his hand. This is another easy, still eloquent, way of adding that other discovery layer to your work.
I hope this gives you a little something to think about before your trial. You are a very talented writer - I've seen it in the way you critique other people's works and I see it in your own work now. I hope you have confidence to tackle the stimulus! You deserve great marks for this. :)
Post by: Mathew587 on August 28, 2017, 11:37:46 pm
Can someone please review my creative. I got 7/15 in the trials for this mainly due to a lack of cohesiveness and convulated story line.
Thanks :)
Post by: dancing phalanges on August 28, 2017, 11:54:57 pm
Hi,
Can someone please review my creative. I got 7/15 in the trials for this mainly due to a lack of cohesiveness and convulated story line.
Thanks :)
Hey I'm sure someone better will have a look and they'll probably be more refreshed because I am exhausted but my feedback is:
A) Waaaaaay too much dialogue. It detracts from the story and makes it seem more tell than show (I'm sure you've heard that expression before from your teachers)
B) Simple grammatical errors eg. of instead of off - simple things which look bad if you don't get them right.
C) I feel as if it's all too sudden for this too happen all in the space of one night at the soup kitchen. I feel like you need the persona to walk out onto the streets home and see something and then witness the discovery.
D) Watch out for lazy description eg. pathetic, poverty-empathising event
My main criticisms would be the overuse of dialogue (which makes it sound a bit too colloquial at times)
And also I don't feel a sense of development in the story - that the character undergoes a discovery which is authentic and believable. I feel he needs to go on more of a journey towards understanding - whether he meets one of the homeless men and after a couple of days of seeing him or experiencing his life he recognises their hardships. Something like that. Once again, hopefully someone with more experience can offer assistance but that's just my thoughts! :)
Post by: marcorabbitolol on August 31, 2017, 03:01:49 pm
Hello, can I get some feedback on my creative!
out of interest is this creative from personal experience?.... i feel like something this personal couldn't be written in this way other than from experience.
Post by: 12070 on September 01, 2017, 03:17:49 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 01, 2017, 09:28:13 pm
I really want to get my creative writing marked but I'm concerned that it will be plagiarised. It's not that I don't trust the AN community, it's more the 'free riders' (as they would be referred to in economics.) I remember reading something about their being measures to avoid plagiarism this year. If my narrative is being read for the 3rd time, it most likely won't score well even if they give 0 to the people who copied, I feel like my story will have lost its originality and I will consequently lose marks. Is there anything I can do to avoid this?
Hey! We can only mark creatives in this thread, which is publicly viewable - Think of it this way though, in the top left we've got a Notes tab with 15/15 exemplar responses. If someone is going to plagiarise, they'll go there, not to a thread where the creatives are posted specifically to get feedback and improve them. Like, no one should be cheating, but this is not the most efficient/effective place to cheat from anyway if that makes sense? :)
That's all the assurance I can offer unfortunately my friend - If you feel like posting we'd love to give you some feedback :)
Post by: pikachu975 on September 01, 2017, 10:03:43 pm
Hey! We can only mark creatives in this thread, which is publicly viewable - Think of it this way though, in the top left we've got a Notes tab with 15/15 exemplar responses. If someone is going to plagiarise, they'll go there, not to a thread where the creatives are posted specifically to get feedback and improve them. Like, no one should be cheating, but this is not the most efficient/effective place to cheat from anyway if that makes sense? :)
That's all the assurance I can offer unfortunately my friend - If you feel like posting we'd love to give you some feedback :)
True no one should be cheating but I heard like even a lot of people from selective schools plagiarise too and get away with it in their school, but in HSC what if this year they decide to use bots to detect plagiarism? Bots can already read captchas so surely they can read writing but as you said, no one should be cheating but the fact of the matter is a lot of people cheat!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 01, 2017, 10:38:14 pm
True no one should be cheating but I heard like even a lot of people from selective schools plagiarise too and get away with it in their school, but in HSC what if this year they decide to use bots to detect plagiarism? Bots can already read captchas so surely they can read writing but as you said, no one should be cheating but the fact of the matter is a lot of people cheat!
I've heard stories of people being instructed to cheat by teachers, to rote learn a 15/15 essay and take that into the room. It's really sad, a side effect of the ATAR being stressed as so important that it is more important to score well than actually learn. A little sad. But that's a rant for another thread ;)
Incidentally, if NESA had infinite time and resources, they could catch everyone who copied an essay or creative off the internet easily. But optical character recognition is computationally and financially expensive, and that only catches verbatim/paraphrased plagiarism anyway. So there's only so much they can do. It's unlikely they'd cross reference in such a way because it would just take too long and cost too much money - They'd rely on the intuition of experienced markers to catch it. They are good at it - It is easy to tell when someone isn't using their own words :)
Plagiarism is just cheating yourself, for multiple reasons. You aren't equipping yourself for similar situations in the workforce (how can you work a 9:00-5:00 if you can't be bothered to write an essay lol), you are locking yourself into a perspective you don't understand meaning you can't adapt to the question, and you are leaving yourself open to get caught. And if you get caught (rightfully), you get zero and lose your HSC, and that's being generous. If you copy in the real world you get fined thousands and thousands of dollars, or get sent to jail, depending on what you steal. Do it at university, you lose your degree (even if they catch you AFTER you've graduated, which has happened before). These are real consequences you open yourself up for, to maybe get an extra mark in one less hour than it would take yourself? Can't think of anything more stupid myself ;D
Post by: 12070 on September 02, 2017, 10:28:40 am
It was during Leanne’s 75th year that she first discovered age. Age unexpectedly became a buzzing fly, landing on each bone consecutively, draining her already deteriorating memories. Age whispered in Leanne’s ears, probing the complexity of every frown line on her forehead, not allowing her to forget about her pale hair. Maturity was a map, with an abundance of empty land, full of opportunities, desperately waiting to be explored; yet age was the compass. Age inexplicably decided on direction and would not unveil its implication.
It was during Leanne’s 78th year that Wilbur fell victim to age as the compass revealed itself in a south direction. At first, age trickled against his right hand, causing an uncontainable tremble. Next, it planted seeds in his spine. Wilbur’s right hand soon instinctively shared its tremble with the left. Age moved his balance from side to side, ensuring that stability would not correlate with his steps. Leanne watched it spread through him; a twitch in his finger, an involuntary grimace. Eventually, age froze Wilbur, holding him hostage, forcing his movements to be restricted to his sturdy wooden framed bed. The weeds along his spine had produced a vine, clinching his body. Finally, consuming Wilbur.
Leanne was beginning to discover the nature of age. In her mirror, she saw an old body, with an aging shadow. Her body would soon crumble and mould would grow through her organs. Once Wilbur was gone, she sat silently in her house, ignoring age’s constant taunting, creeping up behind her, waiting to pounce. It ensured her of a dwindling and descending decay, echoing in each corner of the cluttered, yet unfulfilled house, becoming more of a home to the many ancient photo frames (now void of meaning) than it was to Leanne.
Leanne spent her days lingering, pondering whether age’s power would inevitably overrule her own free will. She wandered through the park alongside her house and observed the benches of old men with faded jeans and plain shirts. She wondered if age was yet to visit them. Was it yet to crawl upon their doorsteps? Was it vigilantly keeping a watchful eye, planning its approach? Age quickly warned her of the perilous danger of the crowds and noise, compelling Leanne back to her empty house.
Leanne found it odd that even though age was indicative of maturity, it was forcing her back to her infancy. She was no longer able to tend for herself. She felt as though she was four years old again, with adults talking to her slowly and carefully, watching her eyes to show a glimpse of understanding or a reassuring nod of the head.
Leanne closed her eyes and felt her body finally giving in. Her throat became thick with dust and she stared age straight in the eyes. She smelt age’s fragrant, yet stale scent and experienced its constricting brace, a little too tight for comfort.
Age whispered memories that felt as though they were from a lifetime ago. Leanne reminisced blowing out candles, discovering the delicious taste of her mother’s carrot cake on her ninth birthday. At twenty-three, she discovered love through Wilbur, a man just a few years older than herself. At twenty-six, she discovered a lifelong relationship with Wilbur. She watched him nervously adjust his tie before lowering himself to one knee. At thirty-one, a doctor bleakly told her that the only babies she would ever name would be the ones she wrote stories about. At forty-nine, she ate her last slice of her mother’s luscious carrot cake. Year sixty-eight, she discovered the beginning of many years of pain as Wilbur’s shaky hand was not temporary. At seventy-five, she discovered the implications of age. At seventy-eight, she discovered the harsh reality that compasses eventually point south, no matter what the extent of north is.
Age took back.
Post by: Mathew587 on September 02, 2017, 05:38:49 pm
Spoiler
Creative v3
David didn’t want to be here. He felt like Joe Hockey at an anti-budget protest, misplaced into an ideology which he couldn't accept.
“Honey, I need your help. I know you don’t understand these people but they need our help and so do I. There’s no way I’ll be able to carry the soup.” said Angie, his girlfriend and the leader of the soup kitchen.
“Why didn’t you just ask someone else? You know very well that these people are fake. They’re not refugees. It’s their fault that a war happened in their country and all they bring to our shore is trouble.” David spat back. “They don’t deserve to be here.”
Angie looked deep into David’s eyes and he knew that he had hurt her.
“What about me? I’m the daughter of refugees. Don’t I deserve to be here?” she whispered quietly before picking up 3 packets of whole meal bread and walking to the hall.
“But Angie, you’re different...” he proclaimed as he tried to mend a broken situation but he knew he had gone to her. Lately his work had been getting to him and had deeply impacted his relationship. The only reason why he had agreed to come was to attempt to fix their broken relationship and so far he hadn’t done a good job of that.
---
He ladled into a plastic bowl a rich stew of leeks, potatoes and carrots before handing it to the old lady in front of him. It was a temperate and mild day but the old woman donned several layers of thick, cheap and unbranded clothing, hiding her decaying and dying soul within.
“Thank you very much son!” she proclaimed before scuttling to Angie who placed a piece of Lebanese bread before starting small talk with her.
In many ways, they were polar opposites. She was notably more kind and compassionate whereas David was known to be much more moody.
He looked around with a fresh set of eyes. Many huddled around the seats and ate quietly whispering amongst themselves. Others were notably raucous and noisier. But they all seemed to appreciate the opportunity given to them. They lined neatly behind each other, the line extending through the hall and out the door, like a small ant march.
“Are these people really good?” David thought “Or are they no better than ants that come at night and eat out of pantry, leaving only a trail of destruction behind?”
Suddenly, he looked around to the raucous music which bad escalated to a scuffle near the end of the line.
He saw Angie rushing off and quietly followed her.
---
Fists flew violently as five men set upon each other. Apparently, they seemed to be fighting over their location in the line and the argument had progressed to a scuffle.
“Get out… I was here first”, yelled a man only to receive a solid thus to the left of his face before returning it to the man.
“Oi! Calm down!” David yelled as he tried to calm the situation. Two other men who worked in the soup kitchen assisted David by trying to calm the situation.
After a while, all that remained were bloodied faces and a broken arm. However from amongst the growing crowd, David heard a cry from a girl.
“Hey what happened? Where’s your mom?” David asked out of concern. Angie appeared and attempted to console the girl who had fallen.
“I don’t have a mum. I don’t know where my dad is.” she cried incessantly so much that she gasped after each word.
David was taken back. No mother? For such a young girl? What horrors must she have faced to be in such a situation?
He looked at the girl. She was young but had the eyed seen one those who had seen a lot.
“Leila, there you are!” shouted a man who came running.
“Thank you so much Angie. I don’t know what I would have done without her. I thought I lost her too.” the man said as he began to sob. Leila clung tightly to her father’s leg and began to calm down.
He looked at Angie who was smiling and saw David looking at her. She smiled back, knowing that he understood why she worked here. She worked for the children in this situation. She used to be in a similar situation to them. And she had felt a responsibility to help them. These people deserved a second chance and that’s all that mattered.
David didn’t want to be here. He felt like Joe Hockey at an anti-budget protest, misplaced into an ideology which he couldn't accept.
“Honey, I need your help. I know you don’t understand these people but they need our help and so do I. There’s no way I’ll be able to carry the soup.” said Angie, his girlfriend and the leader of the soup kitchen.
“Why didn’t you just ask someone else? You know very well that these people are fake. They’re not refugees. It’s their fault that a war happened in their country and all they bring to our shore is trouble.” David spat back. “They don’t deserve to be here.”
Angie looked deep into David’s eyes and he knew that he had hurt her.
“What about me? I’m the daughter of refugees. Don’t I deserve to be here?” she whispered quietly before picking up 3 packets of whole meal bread and walking to the hall.
“But Angie, you’re different...” he proclaimed as he tried to mend a broken situation but he knew he had gone to her. Lately his work had been getting to him and had deeply impacted his relationship. The only reason why he had agreed to come was to attempt to fix their broken relationship and so far he hadn’t done a good job of that.
---
He ladled into a plastic bowl a rich stew of leeks, potatoes and carrots before handing it to the old lady in front of him. It was a temperate and mild day but the old woman donned several layers of thick, cheap and unbranded clothing, hiding her decaying and dying soul within.
“Thank you very much son!” she proclaimed before scuttling to Angie who placed a piece of Lebanese bread before starting small talk with her.
In many ways, they were polar opposites. She was notably more kind and compassionate whereas David was known to be much more moody.
He looked around with a fresh set of eyes. Many huddled around the seats and ate quietly whispering amongst themselves. Others were notably raucous and noisier. But they all seemed to appreciate the opportunity given to them. They lined neatly behind each other, the line extending through the hall and out the door, like a small ant march.
“Are these people really good?” David thought “Or are they no better than ants that come at night and eat out of pantry, leaving only a trail of destruction behind?”
Suddenly, he looked around to the raucous music which bad escalated to a scuffle near the end of the line.
He saw Angie rushing off and quietly followed her.
---
Fists flew violently as five men set upon each other. Apparently, they seemed to be fighting over their location in the line and the argument had progressed to a scuffle.
“Get out… I was here first”, yelled a man only to receive a solid thus to the left of his face before returning it to the man.
“Oi! Calm down!” David yelled as he tried to calm the situation. Two other men who worked in the soup kitchen assisted David by trying to calm the situation.
After a while, all that remained were bloodied faces and a broken arm. However from amongst the growing crowd, David heard a cry from a girl.
“Hey what happened? Where’s your mom?” David asked out of concern. Angie appeared and attempted to console the girl who had fallen.
“I don’t have a mum. I don’t know where my dad is.” she cried incessantly so much that she gasped after each word.
David was taken back. No mother? For such a young girl? What horrors must she have faced to be in such a situation?
He looked at the girl. She was young but had the eyed seen one those who had seen a lot.
“Leila, there you are!” shouted a man who came running.
“Thank you so much Angie. I don’t know what I would have done without her. I thought I lost her too.” the man said as he began to sob. Leila clung tightly to her father’s leg and began to calm down.
He looked at Angie who was smiling and saw David looking at her. She smiled back, knowing that he understood why she worked here. She worked for the children in this situation. She used to be in a similar situation to them. And she had felt a responsibility to help them. These people deserved a second chance and that’s all that mattered.
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 03, 2017, 10:48:03 am
Okay, here is my creative writing. The stimulus for this piece is a compass from the 2015 HSC. Also, it is really short (about 650 words) so if you think I can add anything that would enhance my piece, I would really appreciate it. I was thinking that maybe Leanne could rediscover an old skill that shows a joy or will to live at the park to make my story more versatile.
Hey 12070, I'll have a look at this :) I remember the compass too well, possibly it's the stimulus I chose for my HSC, but I can't remember.
Spoiler
It was during Leanne’s 75th year that she first discovered age. Age unexpectedly became a buzzing fly, landing on each bone consecutively, draining her already deteriorating memories. I love the first sentence - it's unique, a little peculiar, I like it. The second sentence is nice, but I think it can be better.
As much as I like the imagery of a bone draining one at a time - I'm not sure why a fly is doing it? A fly doesn't drain, really. And then when I think back to the first part about age unexpectedly becoming a fly, I'm confused again. I hope what I'm saying makes sense to you. It's only because it's after such
a great sentence, so early on in the piece, that I want to make it smoother. Age whispered in Leanne’s ears, probing the complexity of every frown line on her forehead, not allowing her to forget about her pale hair. Maturity was a map, with an abundance of empty land, full of opportunities, desperately waiting to be explored; yet age was the compass. Age inexplicably decided on direction and would not unveil its implication. The rest of this paragraph -
I LIVE FOR. The integration of the stimulus is SEAMLESS. The metaphor here is really strong.
It was during Leanne’s 78th year that Wilbur fell victim to age as the compass revealed itself in a south direction. At first, age trickled against his right hand, causing an uncontainable tremble. Next, it planted seeds in his spine. Wilbur’s right hand soon instinctively shared its tremble with the left. Age moved his balance from side to side, ensuring that stability would not correlate with his steps. Leanne watched it spread through him; a twitch in his finger, an involuntary grimace. Eventually, age froze Wilbur, holding him hostage, forcing his movements to be restricted to his sturdy wooden framed bed. The weeds along his spine had produced a vine, clinching his body. Finally, consuming Wilbur.
Leanne was beginning to discover the nature of age. In her mirror, she saw an old body, with an aging shadow. Her body would soon crumble and mould would grow through her organs. Once Wilbur was gone, she sat silently in her house, ignoring age’s constant taunting, creeping up behind her, waiting to pounce. It ensured her of a dwindling and descending decay, echoing in each corner of the cluttered, yet unfulfilled house, becoming more of a home to the many ancient photo frames (now void of meaning) than it was to Leanne. I'm feeling a real personification of Age when I read this, which is great. I do wonder - should you capitalise the A in age? Does that allow age to have it's own persona? At the moment I feel like age is sitting pretty but is demanding a little more. What do you think? Also, the part in the brackets doesn't really do anything for me. I know why you've put it there, but when I take it out I make this assumption anyway. I suggest taking it out because it jars, and also doesn't add to the work, but instead adds words.
Leanne spent her days lingering, pondering whether age’s power would inevitably overrule her own free will. She wandered through the park alongside her house and observed the benches of old men with faded jeans and plain shirts. She wondered if age was yet to visit them. Was it yet to crawl upon their doorsteps? Was it vigilantly keeping a watchful eye, planning its approach? Age quickly warned her of the perilous danger of the crowds and noise, compelling Leanne back to her empty house.
Leanne found it odd that even though age was indicative of maturity, it was forcing her back to her infancy. Love this! She was no longer able to tend for herself. She felt as though she was four years old again, with adults talking to her slowly and carefully, watching her eyes to show a glimpse of understanding or a reassuring nod of the head.
Leanne closed her eyes and felt her body finally giving in. Her throat became thick with dust and she stared age straight in the eyes. She smelt age’s fragrant, yet stale scent and experienced its constricting brace, a little too tight for comfort.
Age whispered memories that felt as though they were from a lifetime ago. Leanne reminisced blowing out candles, discovering the delicious taste of her mother’s carrot cake on her ninth birthday. At twenty-three, she discovered love through Wilbur, a man just a few years older than herself. At twenty-six, she discovered a lifelong relationship with Wilbur. She watched him nervously adjust his tie before lowering himself to one knee. At thirty-one, a doctor bleakly told her that the only babies she would ever name would be the ones she wrote stories about. At forty-nine, she ate her last slice of her mother’s luscious carrot cake. Year sixty-eight, she discovered the beginning of many years of pain as Wilbur’s shaky hand was not temporary. At seventy-five, she discovered the implications of age. At seventy-eight, she discovered the harsh reality that compasses eventually point south, no matter what the extent of north is. No matter what the extent of north is...I'm not sure about this? I don't know exactly what you're trying to say. No matter how much better the Northern climate is? Are you trying to say the North is better, but the pull to the South is strongest?
Age took back.
I like this story. It maps a lot of important life moments in a way that isn't too jumpy at all - I'm following it through well. What I'd like to see further developed is the persona of "age" - age is personified in the way it crawls and lingers, but I'd like an address to its attitude - is age forgiving, or relentless? Or is age indiscriminate, or well selected? I know it's not much - but something to add to this could be really powerful. It's almost like introducing a new character to the story. I'm thinking towards the end that maybe the protagonist could have this revelation that age is a force to be reckoned with.
To address the thing you mentioned outside of the story, about maybe giving the protagonist a joy. Maybe in this last paragraph we could do something like this? So the last paragraph is full of melancholy - with the recording of all of the "lasts" of things - what if there is the protagonist placidly fighting back here?
"At forty-nine, she ate her last slice of her mother's luscious carrot cake. At fifty, she learned to bake. Year sixty-eight, she discovered the beginning of many years of pain as Wilbur's shaky hand was not temporary. In year sixty-nine, she learned new strength." Something like this to say that despite Age being this untamable, indiscriminate cursed blessing of life, she never ever stopped learning - and paradoxically, she couldn't have done that without age. This might be putting my own spin on it too much, it's just the way I see this working best from my own perspective.
What do you think? :)
Post by: Lollzza on September 03, 2017, 01:03:34 pm
Also is it still 25 posts for a piece of work or not? I'm rather confused since I read it was for trials but the rules say the number is going to be increased? is this a permanent thing now?
Post by: prickles on September 03, 2017, 04:34:41 pm
Hi, I'm in year 11 and I'm wondering if I'm allowed to post a creative here for marking? I understand priority being given to HSC students (obvs) but would it be okay if I dropped one in preparation for my preliminaries? Thanks for having this service either way!Yep I believe it is 25 posts now, keep posting around and someone will be happy to mark it for you :)
Also is it still 25 posts for a piece of work or not? I'm rather confused since I read it was for trials but the rules say the number is going to be increased? is this a permanent thing now?
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 03, 2017, 04:42:09 pm
Hi, I'm in year 11 and I'm wondering if I'm allowed to post a creative here for marking? I understand priority being given to HSC students (obvs) but would it be okay if I dropped one in preparation for my preliminaries? Thanks for having this service either way!
As above, it has moved up to 25 posts now - But you can definitely post a Prelim Creative here once you've met the post count! ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 03, 2017, 08:57:47 pm
Hi :) Can someone please review my creative?
Hey there! I really apologise for having let this slip through. Not on my a-game, but hopefully this is handy for you! :)
Spoiler
Creative v3
David didn’t want to be here. He felt like Joe Hockey at an anti-budget protest, misplaced into an ideology which he couldn't accept. hahahahaha
“Honey, I need your help. I know you don’t understand these people but they need our help and so do I. There’s no way I’ll be able to carry the soup.” said Angie, his girlfriend and the leader of the soup kitchen.
They need our help and so do I"...is this supposed to be, "they need your help and so do I?"
“Why didn’t you just ask someone else? You know very well that these people are fake. They’re not refugees. It’s their fault that a war happened in their country and all they bring to our shore is trouble.” David spat back. “They don’t deserve to be here.”
Angie looked deep into David’s eyes and he knew that he had hurt her.
“What about me? I’m the daughter of refugees. Don’t I deserve to be here?” she whispered quietly before picking up 3 packets of whole meal bread and walking to the hall.
“But Angie, you’re different...” he proclaimed as he tried to mend a broken situation but he knew he had gone to her. "He knew he had gone to her." Doesn't sound like it makes sense to me. Lately his work had been getting to him and had deeply impacted his relationship. The only reason why he had agreed to come was to attempt to fix their broken relationship and so far he hadn’t done a good job of that.
---
He ladled into a plastic bowl a rich stew of leeks, potatoes and carrots before handing it to the old lady in front of him. It was a temperate and mild day but the old woman donned several layers of thick, cheap and unbranded clothing, hiding her decaying and dying soul within.
“Thank you very much son!” she proclaimed before scuttling to Angie who placed a piece of Lebanese bread before starting small talk with her. After dialogue, this is a very long instruction of action. I'd consider breaking this up so it can all be processed. It just changes the balance of the sentence, and the dialogue no longer is prominent because the end is so heavy. Also, placed a piece of Lebanese bread before... placed it where? on what?
In many ways, they were polar opposites. She was notably more kind and compassionate whereas David was known to be much more moody.
He looked around with a fresh set of eyes. Many huddled around the seats and ate quietly whispering amongst themselves. Others were notably raucous and noisier. But they all seemed to appreciate the opportunity given to them. They lined neatly behind each other, the line extending through the hall and out the door, like a small ant march.
“Are these people really good?” David thought “Or are they no better than ants that come at night and eat out of pantry, leaving only a trail of destruction behind?”
Suddenly, he looked around to the raucous music which bad had* escalated to a scuffle near the end of the line.
He saw Angie rushing off and quietly followed her.
---
Fists flew violently as five men set upon each other. Apparently, they seemed Choose apparently, or seemed. Apparently and seemed together doesn't make sense unless it is of the view of someone else that something seemed something. "Apparently it seemed to me that..." doesn't work, but "apparently,
it seemed to Jamie like..." to be fighting over their location in the line and the argument had progressed to a scuffle.
“Get out… I was here first”, yelled a man only to receive a solid thus thud*? to the left of his face before returning it to the man. I like this: returning it to the man.
“Oi! Calm down!” David yelled as he tried to calm the situation. Two other men who worked in the soup kitchen assisted David by trying to calm the situation.
After a while, all that remained were bloodied faces and a broken arm. However from amongst the growing crowd, David heard a cry from a girl.
“Hey what happened? Where’s your mom?” David asked out of concern. Angie appeared and attempted to console the girl who had fallen.
“I don’t have a mum. I don’t know where my dad is.” she cried incessantly so much that she gasped after each word.
David was taken back. No mother? For such a young girl? What horrors must she have faced to be in such a situation?
He looked at the girl. She was young but had the eyed seen one those who had seen a lot.
“Leila, there you are!” shouted a man who came running.
“Thank you so much Angie. I don’t know what I would have done without her. I thought I lost her too.” the man said as he began to sob. Leila clung tightly to her father’s leg and began to calm down.
He looked at Angie who was smiling and saw David looking at her. She smiled back, knowing that he understood why she worked here. She worked for the children in this situation. She used to be in a similar situation to them. And she had felt a responsibility to help them. These people deserved a second chance and that’s all that mattered.
David didn’t want to be here. He felt like Joe Hockey at an anti-budget protest, misplaced into an ideology which he couldn't accept. hahahahaha
“Honey, I need your help. I know you don’t understand these people but they need our help and so do I. There’s no way I’ll be able to carry the soup.” said Angie, his girlfriend and the leader of the soup kitchen.
They need our help and so do I"...is this supposed to be, "they need your help and so do I?"
“Why didn’t you just ask someone else? You know very well that these people are fake. They’re not refugees. It’s their fault that a war happened in their country and all they bring to our shore is trouble.” David spat back. “They don’t deserve to be here.”
Angie looked deep into David’s eyes and he knew that he had hurt her.
“What about me? I’m the daughter of refugees. Don’t I deserve to be here?” she whispered quietly before picking up 3 packets of whole meal bread and walking to the hall.
“But Angie, you’re different...” he proclaimed as he tried to mend a broken situation but he knew he had gone to her. "He knew he had gone to her." Doesn't sound like it makes sense to me. Lately his work had been getting to him and had deeply impacted his relationship. The only reason why he had agreed to come was to attempt to fix their broken relationship and so far he hadn’t done a good job of that.
---
He ladled into a plastic bowl a rich stew of leeks, potatoes and carrots before handing it to the old lady in front of him. It was a temperate and mild day but the old woman donned several layers of thick, cheap and unbranded clothing, hiding her decaying and dying soul within.
“Thank you very much son!” she proclaimed before scuttling to Angie who placed a piece of Lebanese bread before starting small talk with her. After dialogue, this is a very long instruction of action. I'd consider breaking this up so it can all be processed. It just changes the balance of the sentence, and the dialogue no longer is prominent because the end is so heavy. Also, placed a piece of Lebanese bread before... placed it where? on what?
In many ways, they were polar opposites. She was notably more kind and compassionate whereas David was known to be much more moody.
He looked around with a fresh set of eyes. Many huddled around the seats and ate quietly whispering amongst themselves. Others were notably raucous and noisier. But they all seemed to appreciate the opportunity given to them. They lined neatly behind each other, the line extending through the hall and out the door, like a small ant march.
“Are these people really good?” David thought “Or are they no better than ants that come at night and eat out of pantry, leaving only a trail of destruction behind?”
Suddenly, he looked around to the raucous music which bad had* escalated to a scuffle near the end of the line.
He saw Angie rushing off and quietly followed her.
---
Fists flew violently as five men set upon each other. Apparently, they seemed Choose apparently, or seemed. Apparently and seemed together doesn't make sense unless it is of the view of someone else that something seemed something. "Apparently it seemed to me that..." doesn't work, but "apparently,
it seemed to Jamie like..." to be fighting over their location in the line and the argument had progressed to a scuffle.
“Get out… I was here first”, yelled a man only to receive a solid thus thud*? to the left of his face before returning it to the man. I like this: returning it to the man.
“Oi! Calm down!” David yelled as he tried to calm the situation. Two other men who worked in the soup kitchen assisted David by trying to calm the situation.
After a while, all that remained were bloodied faces and a broken arm. However from amongst the growing crowd, David heard a cry from a girl.
“Hey what happened? Where’s your mom?” David asked out of concern. Angie appeared and attempted to console the girl who had fallen.
“I don’t have a mum. I don’t know where my dad is.” she cried incessantly so much that she gasped after each word.
David was taken back. No mother? For such a young girl? What horrors must she have faced to be in such a situation?
He looked at the girl. She was young but had the eyed seen one those who had seen a lot.
“Leila, there you are!” shouted a man who came running.
“Thank you so much Angie. I don’t know what I would have done without her. I thought I lost her too.” the man said as he began to sob. Leila clung tightly to her father’s leg and began to calm down.
He looked at Angie who was smiling and saw David looking at her. She smiled back, knowing that he understood why she worked here. She worked for the children in this situation. She used to be in a similar situation to them. And she had felt a responsibility to help them. These people deserved a second chance and that’s all that mattered.
There are a few technical things in there that I think I've adjusted throughout so they should be good to go with adjustments :) The discovery is there and the discovery is strong, which is great. I can see it in a lot of ways. There's a few little things that leave me, a skeptical reader, not buying it 100%. For example, the part where he says something so insensitive about refugees at the beginning. He says they aren't real refugees, and the woman who is of the parents of a real refugee is offended - when if anything, he was saying that these people are not of the same deserving calibre as her parents. And she spells it back to him obviously. I think instead, he might say something like, "You go through a hard time and just show up and get five star treatment? What makes them deserve that?" Then maybe the woman's reaction would be more justified and the entire thing less spelled out. The other part for me is that David seems to be incredibly naive - he's surprised a refugee doesn't have a mum? I like the humour at the start about Morrison, and maybe you could use this as a lead in for David's own ideologies. Perhaps we could focus more on him refusing to give in to humanity, and only wants to focus on the economics of it all, but in the end he can't bear to ignore the human empathy that this situation clearly evokes? I think the piece of the plot that's missing is that layer of motive for David in his beliefs - what makes him this way?
I hope this doesn't sound too harsh - and I'd be really happy to hear back from you what you think. The story is one that I would give a low band 5 to, I think. so it's not by any means crappy, I just think to elevate it there could be that extra layer, plus an extra layer of believability that will come with it - so I,
as a reader, can have empathy for David's discovery. :)
Post by: fantasticbeasts3 on September 03, 2017, 10:54:06 pm
It's actually so nerve-wracking to submit something that everyone can see. I'm not a very good writer (I'm a creative thinker, but find it hard to put stuff into words) and am much better at essays. Constructive criticism is always good :-) and this is totally unedited.
Questions/statements about this:
1. Bit of a heads up - I don’t have enough to make this piece a set of journal entries, so it was formed into a narrative.
2. How do I make this flow better? I reckon everything is very inconsistent and it stops and starts in places.
3. As this is a personal discovery, I feel like I’m just saying what happened as it happened, how do I do show, not tell? I don't think I've made the discovery very obvious - how do I fix that?
4. Sometimes I change perspective, i.e. first to second person. I do this because that’s my thought process on how I would tell someone how something happens. How do I stop doing this?
5. If I resubmit this, is that another 25 posts? (and how many other things can I submit? I think it's 5 if I'm counting correctly, because I've been hoarding all my posts for stuff to be marked closer to the hsc)
story here
Australia.
Year 10 Geography taught me that urban decline is the deterioration of the inner city, most of the time, seen in buildings.
Year 10 Geography had a compulsory excursion (something I definitely didn’t look foward to), which required the year to look at the local area, and examine places that had urban decline.
I don’t know what I was expecting - ruins? Buildings that were half up, half down, like the Parthenon, or even the Colosseum? What I did see, however, were buildings that were still standing. Across the back of these buildings was black, slowly creeping around the edges of some buildings, showing evidence of some sort of decay. Brick buildings were not exactly red, but washed out, as a result of many years of use.
Urban decline? Nothing but a concept.
*****
Indonesia.
Stepping off the plane, I could feel the density of the air, constantly thickening, another layer on top of my skin, constantly thickening as I walked through the airport. Not even the numerous air conditioners could remove the sticky feeling from my skin.
Outside, the gravelly sky blanketed the almost non-existent blue sky. The dreariness of the outside didn’t seem to worry anyone, with yells coming left, right and centre, from people wishing to help with placing luggage in cars.
Smarttraveller.com.au told me to ‘travel with caution’ in this country, and to appeal to surroundings to be safe. Was there reason to let these people help? Nah, my subconscious said, who knows they’d want to steal your stuff?
I was frustrated enough with the weather, I was tired, hungry, and just wanted to go home. My excitement had faded.
*****
Driving was a different experience. Any concept of ‘urban decline’ was far from what could be seen in Australia. Metal squares, arranged into something far from stable, was considered a house. Fragile wooden structures, covered by flimsy plastic, which could easily fly away? That could be a restaurant. Everything contradicted Australia, and I didn’t like it.
Bendungan Jago was a walk through a mismatched puzzle. Small houses, big houses. Shops. Balconies without a barrier or ledge. Cars were scarce, and instead, the street was filled with motorcycles, wedging between small gaps. Although I’d been to the house before, it was still a sight to see. It towered over me, looming over the street, balconies opening far and wide. It was painted the colour of a washed out sunset, which contradicted the rest of the street as the only uniform building which had a solid structure, unlike the rest.
Running up and down the stairs, standing on the balcony, looking out, the inconsistency of the city revealed itself to me, backed by the grainy, blended colours of pink-ish orange, which didn’t shimmer, but was just dull. By this time, fatigue had caught up to me, and all I wanted to do was sleep and be alone.
The main difference between Indonesia and Australia was that I was surrounded by noise, everyday. There were suddenly 5 more people in a household, which led to a whole lot of noise everywhere and it was just so annoying I wanted to get out.
However, getting out in Indonesia called for approximately 251 shopping trips in 2 weeks, where these shopping centres had been meticulously manufactured to separate itself from the rest of the city. There was nothing to do, except for roam around shopping centres, heightening my intense boredom which just wouldn’t go away.
*****
People in Indonesia don’t have what one would call a ‘regular shower.’ Assuming there’s (clean) running water, that goes into a huge container thing, then this water goes into a smaller bucket, which you then pour over yourself. At best, this method of ‘showering’ was inconvenient, but there was an issue with this - you had to have the water keep running so the bucket didn’t get too empty, because waiting for the bucket to refill took time and effort.
Not going to lie, this method of showering was so unusual at first, but gradually turned into something fun - except for having to wait for the water to refill.
The one day, the water stopped running, and everyone had to use a substitute tap, where the water took so bloody long to get out. What I didn’t know was here, water was sourced from the ground, and passing of a couple of decades could mean that there would be a total shortage of water. There was the possibility of the ground shrinking as the water was slowly taken out of the ground, but the scientific specifics were lost on me by that point.
*****
Tourist spots were carefully groomed. I can only remember two places: Lembang and Monas.
Lembang was a small town about 2-3 hours from Jakarta. I had never been outside of Jakarta, except for a couple of places on another island, within my many trips to Indonesia. This was very exciting, but upon arrival at the accommodation, any bright, positive thoughts were out the window.
It looked, felt, and smelt like absolute crap. Nothing was clean, there was barely any electricity, leaking taps… the list went on.
For the huge family that had come, it was a downer, with most of us having to sleep in the living room to avoid the scattered mould in one bedroom. Despite the disappointing situation, they were all happily walking around, making the best of what was there. I could see the complaints being held back, but at that time, being with each other was more important.
Monas, on the other hand, was a small tower, with a couple of hectares for a tiny tower in the middle, flowers gardens, and displays of traditional art. The inside had several levels, one of which was a dioramic timeline, showing the history of Indonesia. Another level showed the various stages of achieving independence.
Independence could be seen through the two sections of Jakarta, viewed from level 2 of the outside of Monas. Two clearly different sections of the city. The foreground showed newly-built high rise buildings, neatly arranged, with fresh trees between gaps in separating each building. There was a fine line between this set of buildings, and the background, where various stages of half collapsed buildings blended into each other, shaded by the dreary clouds, as they blended into the horizon.
If urban decline wasn’t evident then, it was now. The equator, the invisible line, clearly separated two sections of the city, and a gasp of ‘wow, look at the view’ was not in admiration, but bitterness, where there could be nothing less enjoyable than looking out, only to see gradual dilapidation of a city.
Year 10 Geography taught me that urban decline is the deterioration of the inner city, most of the time, seen in buildings.
Year 10 Geography had a compulsory excursion (something I definitely didn’t look foward to), which required the year to look at the local area, and examine places that had urban decline.
I don’t know what I was expecting - ruins? Buildings that were half up, half down, like the Parthenon, or even the Colosseum? What I did see, however, were buildings that were still standing. Across the back of these buildings was black, slowly creeping around the edges of some buildings, showing evidence of some sort of decay. Brick buildings were not exactly red, but washed out, as a result of many years of use.
Urban decline? Nothing but a concept.
*****
Indonesia.
Stepping off the plane, I could feel the density of the air, constantly thickening, another layer on top of my skin, constantly thickening as I walked through the airport. Not even the numerous air conditioners could remove the sticky feeling from my skin.
Outside, the gravelly sky blanketed the almost non-existent blue sky. The dreariness of the outside didn’t seem to worry anyone, with yells coming left, right and centre, from people wishing to help with placing luggage in cars.
Smarttraveller.com.au told me to ‘travel with caution’ in this country, and to appeal to surroundings to be safe. Was there reason to let these people help? Nah, my subconscious said, who knows they’d want to steal your stuff?
I was frustrated enough with the weather, I was tired, hungry, and just wanted to go home. My excitement had faded.
*****
Driving was a different experience. Any concept of ‘urban decline’ was far from what could be seen in Australia. Metal squares, arranged into something far from stable, was considered a house. Fragile wooden structures, covered by flimsy plastic, which could easily fly away? That could be a restaurant. Everything contradicted Australia, and I didn’t like it.
Bendungan Jago was a walk through a mismatched puzzle. Small houses, big houses. Shops. Balconies without a barrier or ledge. Cars were scarce, and instead, the street was filled with motorcycles, wedging between small gaps. Although I’d been to the house before, it was still a sight to see. It towered over me, looming over the street, balconies opening far and wide. It was painted the colour of a washed out sunset, which contradicted the rest of the street as the only uniform building which had a solid structure, unlike the rest.
Running up and down the stairs, standing on the balcony, looking out, the inconsistency of the city revealed itself to me, backed by the grainy, blended colours of pink-ish orange, which didn’t shimmer, but was just dull. By this time, fatigue had caught up to me, and all I wanted to do was sleep and be alone.
The main difference between Indonesia and Australia was that I was surrounded by noise, everyday. There were suddenly 5 more people in a household, which led to a whole lot of noise everywhere and it was just so annoying I wanted to get out.
However, getting out in Indonesia called for approximately 251 shopping trips in 2 weeks, where these shopping centres had been meticulously manufactured to separate itself from the rest of the city. There was nothing to do, except for roam around shopping centres, heightening my intense boredom which just wouldn’t go away.
*****
People in Indonesia don’t have what one would call a ‘regular shower.’ Assuming there’s (clean) running water, that goes into a huge container thing, then this water goes into a smaller bucket, which you then pour over yourself. At best, this method of ‘showering’ was inconvenient, but there was an issue with this - you had to have the water keep running so the bucket didn’t get too empty, because waiting for the bucket to refill took time and effort.
Not going to lie, this method of showering was so unusual at first, but gradually turned into something fun - except for having to wait for the water to refill.
The one day, the water stopped running, and everyone had to use a substitute tap, where the water took so bloody long to get out. What I didn’t know was here, water was sourced from the ground, and passing of a couple of decades could mean that there would be a total shortage of water. There was the possibility of the ground shrinking as the water was slowly taken out of the ground, but the scientific specifics were lost on me by that point.
*****
Tourist spots were carefully groomed. I can only remember two places: Lembang and Monas.
Lembang was a small town about 2-3 hours from Jakarta. I had never been outside of Jakarta, except for a couple of places on another island, within my many trips to Indonesia. This was very exciting, but upon arrival at the accommodation, any bright, positive thoughts were out the window.
It looked, felt, and smelt like absolute crap. Nothing was clean, there was barely any electricity, leaking taps… the list went on.
For the huge family that had come, it was a downer, with most of us having to sleep in the living room to avoid the scattered mould in one bedroom. Despite the disappointing situation, they were all happily walking around, making the best of what was there. I could see the complaints being held back, but at that time, being with each other was more important.
Monas, on the other hand, was a small tower, with a couple of hectares for a tiny tower in the middle, flowers gardens, and displays of traditional art. The inside had several levels, one of which was a dioramic timeline, showing the history of Indonesia. Another level showed the various stages of achieving independence.
Independence could be seen through the two sections of Jakarta, viewed from level 2 of the outside of Monas. Two clearly different sections of the city. The foreground showed newly-built high rise buildings, neatly arranged, with fresh trees between gaps in separating each building. There was a fine line between this set of buildings, and the background, where various stages of half collapsed buildings blended into each other, shaded by the dreary clouds, as they blended into the horizon.
If urban decline wasn’t evident then, it was now. The equator, the invisible line, clearly separated two sections of the city, and a gasp of ‘wow, look at the view’ was not in admiration, but bitterness, where there could be nothing less enjoyable than looking out, only to see gradual dilapidation of a city.
Post by: kaut2061 on September 03, 2017, 11:06:05 pm
Post by: fantasticbeasts3 on September 03, 2017, 11:17:24 pm
Im new to this site and I have no idea how this works, but I put my essay attachment below, hoping that someone can mark it and send me feed back, my trials mark for english were so disappointing and my teacher hasn't been marking my essays well so I'm in desperate need.
hi, i don't want to rain on your parade, but you need to have 25 posts before having something marked! i know it seems like a lot, but your posts build up quickly, and before you know it, you'll have an essay marked! maybe someone else will look at it for you - i would, but i'm no good at english myself.
Post by: Mathew587 on September 03, 2017, 11:38:09 pm
Hey there! I really apologise for having let this slip through. Not on my a-game, but hopefully this is handy for you! :)SpoilerCreative v3
David didn’t want to be here. He felt like Joe Hockey at an anti-budget protest, misplaced into an ideology which he couldn't accept. hahahahaha
“Honey, I need your help. I know you don’t understand these people but they need our help and so do I. There’s no way I’ll be able to carry the soup.” said Angie, his girlfriend and the leader of the soup kitchen.
They need our help and so do I"...is this supposed to be, "they need your help and so do I?"
“Why didn’t you just ask someone else? You know very well that these people are fake. They’re not refugees. It’s their fault that a war happened in their country and all they bring to our shore is trouble.” David spat back. “They don’t deserve to be here.”
Angie looked deep into David’s eyes and he knew that he had hurt her.
“What about me? I’m the daughter of refugees. Don’t I deserve to be here?” she whispered quietly before picking up 3 packets of whole meal bread and walking to the hall.
“But Angie, you’re different...” he proclaimed as he tried to mend a broken situation but he knew he had gone to her. "He knew he had gone to her." Doesn't sound like it makes sense to me. Lately his work had been getting to him and had deeply impacted his relationship. The only reason why he had agreed to come was to attempt to fix their broken relationship and so far he hadn’t done a good job of that.
---
He ladled into a plastic bowl a rich stew of leeks, potatoes and carrots before handing it to the old lady in front of him. It was a temperate and mild day but the old woman donned several layers of thick, cheap and unbranded clothing, hiding her decaying and dying soul within.
“Thank you very much son!” she proclaimed before scuttling to Angie who placed a piece of Lebanese bread before starting small talk with her. After dialogue, this is a very long instruction of action. I'd consider breaking this up so it can all be processed. It just changes the balance of the sentence, and the dialogue no longer is prominent because the end is so heavy. Also, placed a piece of Lebanese bread before... placed it where? on what?
In many ways, they were polar opposites. She was notably more kind and compassionate whereas David was known to be much more moody.
He looked around with a fresh set of eyes. Many huddled around the seats and ate quietly whispering amongst themselves. Others were notably raucous and noisier. But they all seemed to appreciate the opportunity given to them. They lined neatly behind each other, the line extending through the hall and out the door, like a small ant march.
“Are these people really good?” David thought “Or are they no better than ants that come at night and eat out of pantry, leaving only a trail of destruction behind?”
Suddenly, he looked around to the raucous music which bad had* escalated to a scuffle near the end of the line.
He saw Angie rushing off and quietly followed her.
---
Fists flew violently as five men set upon each other. Apparently, they seemed Choose apparently, or seemed. Apparently and seemed together doesn't make sense unless it is of the view of someone else that something seemed something. "Apparently it seemed to me that..." doesn't work, but "apparently,
it seemed to Jamie like..." to be fighting over their location in the line and the argument had progressed to a scuffle.
“Get out… I was here first”, yelled a man only to receive a solid thus thud*? to the left of his face before returning it to the man. I like this: returning it to the man.
“Oi! Calm down!” David yelled as he tried to calm the situation. Two other men who worked in the soup kitchen assisted David by trying to calm the situation.
After a while, all that remained were bloodied faces and a broken arm. However from amongst the growing crowd, David heard a cry from a girl.
“Hey what happened? Where’s your mom?” David asked out of concern. Angie appeared and attempted to console the girl who had fallen.
“I don’t have a mum. I don’t know where my dad is.” she cried incessantly so much that she gasped after each word.
David was taken back. No mother? For such a young girl? What horrors must she have faced to be in such a situation?
He looked at the girl. She was young but had the eyed seen one those who had seen a lot.
“Leila, there you are!” shouted a man who came running.
“Thank you so much Angie. I don’t know what I would have done without her. I thought I lost her too.” the man said as he began to sob. Leila clung tightly to her father’s leg and began to calm down.
He looked at Angie who was smiling and saw David looking at her. She smiled back, knowing that he understood why she worked here. She worked for the children in this situation. She used to be in a similar situation to them. And she had felt a responsibility to help them. These people deserved a second chance and that’s all that mattered.
There are a few technical things in there that I think I've adjusted throughout so they should be good to go with adjustments :) The discovery is there and the discovery is strong, which is great. I can see it in a lot of ways. There's a few little things that leave me, a skeptical reader, not buying it 100%. For example, the part where he says something so insensitive about refugees at the beginning. He says they aren't real refugees, and the woman who is of the parents of a real refugee is offended - when if anything, he was saying that these people are not of the same deserving calibre as her parents. And she spells it back to him obviously. I think instead, he might say something like, "You go through a hard time and just show up and get five star treatment? What makes them deserve that?" Then maybe the woman's reaction would be more justified and the entire thing less spelled out. The other part for me is that David seems to be incredibly naive - he's surprised a refugee doesn't have a mum? I like the humour at the start about Morrison, and maybe you could use this as a lead in for David's own ideologies. Perhaps we could focus more on him refusing to give in to humanity, and only wants to focus on the economics of it all, but in the end he can't bear to ignore the human empathy that this situation clearly evokes? I think the piece of the plot that's missing is that layer of motive for David in his beliefs - what makes him this way?
I hope this doesn't sound too harsh - and I'd be really happy to hear back from you what you think. The story is one that I would give a low band 5 to, I think. so it's not by any means crappy, I just think to elevate it there could be that extra layer, plus an extra layer of believability that will come with it - so I,
as a reader, can have empathy for David's discovery. :)
Hey Elyse :),
"He says they aren't real refugees, and the woman who is of the parents of a real refugee is offended - when if anything, he was saying that these people are not of the same deserving calibre as her parents. And she spells it back to him obviously. I think instead, he might say something like, "You go through a hard time and just show up and get five star treatment? What makes them deserve that?" Then maybe the woman's reaction would be more justified and the entire thing less spelled out."
For that part, his girlfriend is meant to be Vietnamese thus alluding to the Vietnam War and how her parents had to escape for a better life which he can't see being reflected in these refugees. I totally understand what you meant there and I'll defs fix that up :)
"The other part for me is that David seems to be incredibly naive - he's surprised a refugee doesn't have a mum?"
This part is meant to highlight the surprising and challenging part to a discovery i.e. how he realises how tough life must be for the child without a mother and its meant to lead David into a realization of the troubles they face.
“I like the humor at the start about Morrison, and maybe you could use this as a lead in for David's own ideologies. Perhaps we could focus more on him refusing to give in to humanity, and only wants to focus on the economics of it all, but in the end he can't bear to ignore the human empathy that this situation clearly evokes"
yay haha. Greaat idea btw on how to build David's character ^^)
Wow no it's not harsh I was hoping for such criticism!! Yeah i totally see how that low b5 is justified.
Thanks again for the help Elyse ^-^
Post by: 12070 on September 04, 2017, 04:23:28 pm
Hey 12070, I'll have a look at this :) I remember the compass too well, possibly it's the stimulus I chose for my HSC, but I can't remember.
What do you think? :)
Hey Elyse, this feedback is exceptional (as always). I don't know why I chose a fly but I can't really think of anything that fits. Also, for the second last sentence, I was thinking that if you were to walk directly to the North pole, after you passed, you would be walking South? So life can't be positive forever basically. I don't think I've ever used a compass but I assume that's what would happen. Although, I doubt we will get another compass stimulus so I won't stress about it. I'll work on Age's character now and I do like your idea at the end so that has given me a bit add in.
Thank you!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 06, 2017, 12:33:47 am
Finished before the end of the week, as promised (although I was really cutting it close not going to lie)
It's actually so nerve-wracking to submit something that everyone can see. I'm not a very good writer (I'm a creative thinker, but find it hard to put stuff into words) and am much better at essays. Constructive criticism is always good :-) and this is totally unedited.
Hey hey! I'd love to give you some feedback ;D I'll pop comments throughout then I'll answer your questions below ;)
story here
Australia.
Year 10 Geography taught me that urban decline is the deterioration of the inner city, most of the time, seen in buildings.
Year 10 Geography had a compulsory excursion (something I definitely didn’t look forward to), which required the year to look at the local area, and examine places that had urban decline. I like this introduction! Establishes an academic, insightful voice quite quickly.
I don’t know what I was expecting - ruins? Buildings that were half up, half down, like the Parthenon, or even the Colosseum? What I did see, however, were buildings that were still standing. I think the expression needs a tiny bit of work - This is reading like a monologue, a train of thought. When you are thinking things in your head, do you add "however" to it? Nope, it is much more freeform! Try and loosen up your expression a tad to make it a tad more realistic. Across the back of these buildings was black, slowly creeping around the edges of some buildings, showing evidence of some sort of decay. Brick buildings were not exactly red, but washed out, as a result of many years of use.
Urban decline? Nothing but a concept. Interesting introduction! Interested to see why this voice is rejecting the idea of urban decline.
*****
Indonesia.
Stepping off the plane, I could feel the density of the air, constantly thickening, another layer on top of my skin, constantly thickening as I walked through the airport. Repetition of descriptors in this way can work but it feels a little clunky here in my opinion - I'm always told (and I agree) that writers use too many adjectives - I don't think this last sentence is necessary! Not even the numerous air conditioners could remove the sticky feeling from my skin.
Outside, the gravelly sky blanketed the almost non-existent blue sky. Slightly awkward phrasing here - The sky blanketed the sky. Being precise with your expression and word choice will be important because you are adopting quite an intellectual voice. Small issues of syntax can wreck the immersion. The dreariness of the outside didn’t seem to worry anyone, with yells coming left, right and centre, from people wishing to help with placing luggage in cars.
Smarttraveller.com.au told me to ‘travel with caution’ in this country, and to appeal to surroundings to be safe. Was there reason to let these people help? Nah, my subconscious said, who knows they’d want to steal your stuff? Be sure to use quote marks for direct speech like this! I know it is still subconscious, but still needs speech marks. I like this! Breaking up the flow of thought with a nice short "Nah," is nice breath of realism, and it gives the character a bit more life.
I was frustrated enough with the weather, I was tired, hungry, and just wanted to go home. My excitement had faded.
*****
Driving was a different experience. Any concept of ‘urban decline’ was far from what could be seen in Australia. Metal squares, arranged into something far from stable, was considered a house. Fragile wooden structures, covered by flimsy plastic, which could easily fly away? That could be a restaurant. Everything contradicted Australia, and I didn’t like it. This is a nice contrast painted, and I'm seeing the significance of the opening now. Good stuff.
Bendungan Jago was a walk through a mismatched puzzle. LOVE that metaphor. Really clever, and suits the intellectual voice really well. Small houses, big houses. Shops. Balconies without a barrier or ledge. Cars were scarce, and instead, the street was filled with motorcycles, wedging between small gaps. Although I’d been to the house before, it was still a sight to see. It towered over me, looming over the street, balconies opening far and wide. It was painted the colour of a washed out sunset, which contradicted the rest of the street as the only uniform building which had a solid structure, unlike the rest. Watch for redundant wording here! Those two last phrases, "only uniform building...," and "unlike the rest." Both say the same - Try to minimise this sort of thing as much as possible to save yourself the word count!
Running up and down the stairs, standing on the balcony, looking out, the inconsistency of the city revealed itself to me, backed by the grainy, blended colours of pink-ish orange, which didn’t shimmer, but was just dull. Sentence slightly too long there I think. By this time, fatigue had caught up to me, and all I wanted to do was sleep and be alone.
The main difference between Indonesia and Australia was that I was surrounded by noise, everyday. Again, I think the wording is perhaps a tad unnatural for the voice you creating, Here, for example, I'd just say it like, "Indonesia was much louder than Australia," and make sure you then delve into the idea from there. Think about how you think about stuff (lol) :) There were suddenly 5 more people in a household, which led to a whole lot of noise everywhere and it was just so annoying I wanted to get out.
However, getting out in Indonesia called for approximately 251 shopping trips in 2 weeks, where these shopping centres had been meticulously manufactured to separate itself from the rest of the city. There was nothing to do, except for roam around shopping centres, heightening my intense boredom which just wouldn’t go away.
*****
People in Indonesia don’t have what one would call a ‘regular shower.’ Assuming there’s (clean) running water, that goes into a huge container thing, then this water goes into a smaller bucket, which you then pour over yourself. Small as it sounds, calling it a "huge container thing" is excellent. Very genuine! At best, this method of ‘showering’ was inconvenient, but there was an issue with this - you had to have the water keep running so the bucket didn’t get too empty, because waiting for the bucket to refill took time and effort.
Not going to lie, this method of showering was so unusual at first, but gradually turned into something fun - except for having to wait for the water to refill.
The one day, the water stopped running, and everyone had to use a substitute tap, where the water took so bloody long to get out. You could add a line break after "the water stopped running for a bit of impact, if you want it! What I didn’t know was here, water was sourced from the ground, and passing of a couple of decades could mean that there would be a total shortage of water. There was the possibility of the ground shrinking as the water was slowly taken out of the ground, but the scientific specifics were lost on me by that point.
*****
Tourist spots were carefully groomed. I can only remember two places: Lembang and Monas.
Lembang was a small town about 2-3 hours from Jakarta. I had never been outside of Jakarta, except for a couple of places on another island, within my many trips to Indonesia. This was very exciting, but upon arrival at the accommodation, any bright, positive thoughts were out the window.
It looked, felt, and smelt like absolute crap. Nothing was clean, there was barely any electricity, leaking taps… the list went on. Voice is very genuine in this section, very believable and suits my vision of the persona nicely.
For the huge family that had come, it was a downer, with most of us having to sleep in the living room to avoid the scattered mould in one bedroom. Despite the disappointing situation, they were all happily walking around, making the best of what was there. I could see the complaints being held back, but at that time, being with each other was more important.
Monas, on the other hand, was a small tower, with a couple of hectares for a tiny tower in the middle, flowers gardens, and displays of traditional art. The inside had several levels, one of which was a dioramic timeline, showing the history of Indonesia. Another level showed the various stages of achieving independence.
Independence could be seen through the two sections of Jakarta, viewed from level 2 of the outside of Monas. Two clearly different sections of the city. The foreground showed newly-built high rise buildings, neatly arranged, with fresh trees between gaps in separating each building. There was a fine line between this set of buildings, and the background, where various stages of half collapsed buildings blended into each other, shaded by the dreary clouds, as they blended into the horizon.
If urban decline wasn’t evident then, it was now. The equator, the invisible line, clearly separated two sections of the city, and a gasp of ‘wow, look at the view’ was not in admiration, but bitterness, where there could be nothing less enjoyable than looking out, only to see gradual dilapidation of a city.
Year 10 Geography taught me that urban decline is the deterioration of the inner city, most of the time, seen in buildings.
Year 10 Geography had a compulsory excursion (something I definitely didn’t look forward to), which required the year to look at the local area, and examine places that had urban decline. I like this introduction! Establishes an academic, insightful voice quite quickly.
I don’t know what I was expecting - ruins? Buildings that were half up, half down, like the Parthenon, or even the Colosseum? What I did see, however, were buildings that were still standing. I think the expression needs a tiny bit of work - This is reading like a monologue, a train of thought. When you are thinking things in your head, do you add "however" to it? Nope, it is much more freeform! Try and loosen up your expression a tad to make it a tad more realistic. Across the back of these buildings was black, slowly creeping around the edges of some buildings, showing evidence of some sort of decay. Brick buildings were not exactly red, but washed out, as a result of many years of use.
Urban decline? Nothing but a concept. Interesting introduction! Interested to see why this voice is rejecting the idea of urban decline.
*****
Indonesia.
Stepping off the plane, I could feel the density of the air, constantly thickening, another layer on top of my skin, constantly thickening as I walked through the airport. Repetition of descriptors in this way can work but it feels a little clunky here in my opinion - I'm always told (and I agree) that writers use too many adjectives - I don't think this last sentence is necessary! Not even the numerous air conditioners could remove the sticky feeling from my skin.
Outside, the gravelly sky blanketed the almost non-existent blue sky. Slightly awkward phrasing here - The sky blanketed the sky. Being precise with your expression and word choice will be important because you are adopting quite an intellectual voice. Small issues of syntax can wreck the immersion. The dreariness of the outside didn’t seem to worry anyone, with yells coming left, right and centre, from people wishing to help with placing luggage in cars.
Smarttraveller.com.au told me to ‘travel with caution’ in this country, and to appeal to surroundings to be safe. Was there reason to let these people help? Nah, my subconscious said, who knows they’d want to steal your stuff? Be sure to use quote marks for direct speech like this! I know it is still subconscious, but still needs speech marks. I like this! Breaking up the flow of thought with a nice short "Nah," is nice breath of realism, and it gives the character a bit more life.
I was frustrated enough with the weather, I was tired, hungry, and just wanted to go home. My excitement had faded.
*****
Driving was a different experience. Any concept of ‘urban decline’ was far from what could be seen in Australia. Metal squares, arranged into something far from stable, was considered a house. Fragile wooden structures, covered by flimsy plastic, which could easily fly away? That could be a restaurant. Everything contradicted Australia, and I didn’t like it. This is a nice contrast painted, and I'm seeing the significance of the opening now. Good stuff.
Bendungan Jago was a walk through a mismatched puzzle. LOVE that metaphor. Really clever, and suits the intellectual voice really well. Small houses, big houses. Shops. Balconies without a barrier or ledge. Cars were scarce, and instead, the street was filled with motorcycles, wedging between small gaps. Although I’d been to the house before, it was still a sight to see. It towered over me, looming over the street, balconies opening far and wide. It was painted the colour of a washed out sunset, which contradicted the rest of the street as the only uniform building which had a solid structure, unlike the rest. Watch for redundant wording here! Those two last phrases, "only uniform building...," and "unlike the rest." Both say the same - Try to minimise this sort of thing as much as possible to save yourself the word count!
Running up and down the stairs, standing on the balcony, looking out, the inconsistency of the city revealed itself to me, backed by the grainy, blended colours of pink-ish orange, which didn’t shimmer, but was just dull. Sentence slightly too long there I think. By this time, fatigue had caught up to me, and all I wanted to do was sleep and be alone.
The main difference between Indonesia and Australia was that I was surrounded by noise, everyday. Again, I think the wording is perhaps a tad unnatural for the voice you creating, Here, for example, I'd just say it like, "Indonesia was much louder than Australia," and make sure you then delve into the idea from there. Think about how you think about stuff (lol) :) There were suddenly 5 more people in a household, which led to a whole lot of noise everywhere and it was just so annoying I wanted to get out.
However, getting out in Indonesia called for approximately 251 shopping trips in 2 weeks, where these shopping centres had been meticulously manufactured to separate itself from the rest of the city. There was nothing to do, except for roam around shopping centres, heightening my intense boredom which just wouldn’t go away.
*****
People in Indonesia don’t have what one would call a ‘regular shower.’ Assuming there’s (clean) running water, that goes into a huge container thing, then this water goes into a smaller bucket, which you then pour over yourself. Small as it sounds, calling it a "huge container thing" is excellent. Very genuine! At best, this method of ‘showering’ was inconvenient, but there was an issue with this - you had to have the water keep running so the bucket didn’t get too empty, because waiting for the bucket to refill took time and effort.
Not going to lie, this method of showering was so unusual at first, but gradually turned into something fun - except for having to wait for the water to refill.
The one day, the water stopped running, and everyone had to use a substitute tap, where the water took so bloody long to get out. You could add a line break after "the water stopped running for a bit of impact, if you want it! What I didn’t know was here, water was sourced from the ground, and passing of a couple of decades could mean that there would be a total shortage of water. There was the possibility of the ground shrinking as the water was slowly taken out of the ground, but the scientific specifics were lost on me by that point.
*****
Tourist spots were carefully groomed. I can only remember two places: Lembang and Monas.
Lembang was a small town about 2-3 hours from Jakarta. I had never been outside of Jakarta, except for a couple of places on another island, within my many trips to Indonesia. This was very exciting, but upon arrival at the accommodation, any bright, positive thoughts were out the window.
It looked, felt, and smelt like absolute crap. Nothing was clean, there was barely any electricity, leaking taps… the list went on. Voice is very genuine in this section, very believable and suits my vision of the persona nicely.
For the huge family that had come, it was a downer, with most of us having to sleep in the living room to avoid the scattered mould in one bedroom. Despite the disappointing situation, they were all happily walking around, making the best of what was there. I could see the complaints being held back, but at that time, being with each other was more important.
Monas, on the other hand, was a small tower, with a couple of hectares for a tiny tower in the middle, flowers gardens, and displays of traditional art. The inside had several levels, one of which was a dioramic timeline, showing the history of Indonesia. Another level showed the various stages of achieving independence.
Independence could be seen through the two sections of Jakarta, viewed from level 2 of the outside of Monas. Two clearly different sections of the city. The foreground showed newly-built high rise buildings, neatly arranged, with fresh trees between gaps in separating each building. There was a fine line between this set of buildings, and the background, where various stages of half collapsed buildings blended into each other, shaded by the dreary clouds, as they blended into the horizon.
If urban decline wasn’t evident then, it was now. The equator, the invisible line, clearly separated two sections of the city, and a gasp of ‘wow, look at the view’ was not in admiration, but bitterness, where there could be nothing less enjoyable than looking out, only to see gradual dilapidation of a city.
On the contrary, I think this is quite well written indeed! A few minor things of course which I'm sure you'll pick up when you edit, but I didn't make many comments throughout! Holistically, I think you do a great job making the stream-of-consciousness sound genuine (hard to do!), with a voice that carries through the piece naturally. I think it is interesting for the reader too. I think the issues are primarily in structure, making it a little more clear where all these things sit chronologically (if that is important), as well as pushing the links to Discovery a little more obviously. Depending on the stimulus/question, I don't think it is quite strong enough conceptually just yet - You've got a few things floating around! If you were to summarise the concept of your Creative in a single sentence, what would it be? :)
Questions/statements about this:
1. Bit of a heads up - I don’t have enough to make this piece a set of journal entries, so it was formed into a narrative.
Cool! I think it is natural, works well!
2. How do I make this flow better? I reckon everything is very inconsistent and it stops and starts in places.
Yep, I agree - Perhaps you need to frame the scenarios as flashbacks, and have them occur one after another with brief reflections as your persona walks through a supposed "urban decline" area. So, have them be following their class around talking about urban decline somewhere in Sydney, and have little things inspire flashbacks to Indonesia as a juxtaposition. This links everything together a little bit :)
3. As this is a personal discovery, I feel like I’m just saying what happened as it happened, how do I do show, not tell? I don't think I've made the discovery very obvious - how do I fix that?
I also agree, though I think your balance of show versus tell works here. It's stream of consciousness, and consciousness tells things a lot. It works. In terms of Discovery, I think you need to start by figuring out exactly what you are trying to say! Defining that will help lead you forward :)
4. Sometimes I change perspective, i.e. first to second person. I do this because that’s my thought process on how I would tell someone how something happens. How do I stop doing this?
I didn't notice anything that raised an eyebrow in the Creative, so maybe it is okay as it is! Any bits you are concerned about specifically?
5. If I resubmit this, is that another 25 posts? (and how many other things can I submit? I think it's 5 if I'm counting correctly, because I've been hoarding all my posts for stuff to be marked closer to the hsc)
It is indeed, 25 posts for another set of feedback on this. Don't worry though, you can post another eight responses with your current post count, and at the rate you are going you'll have more very quickly. You shouldn't run out ;D
Post by: fantasticbeasts3 on September 06, 2017, 05:39:37 pm
Hey hey! I'd love to give you some feedback ;D I'll pop comments throughout then I'll answer your questions below ;)
On the contrary, I think this is quite well written indeed! A few minor things of course which I'm sure you'll pick up when you edit, but I didn't make many comments throughout! Holistically, I think you do a great job making the stream-of-consciousness sound genuine (hard to do!), with a voice that carries through the piece naturally. I think it is interesting for the reader too. I think the issues are primarily in structure, making it a little more clear where all these things sit chronologically (if that is important), as well as pushing the links to Discovery a little more obviously. Depending on the stimulus/question, I don't think it is quite strong enough conceptually just yet - You've got a few things floating around! If you were to summarise the concept of your Creative in a single sentence, what would it be? :)
wow hi thank you so much for marking this!
i threw out my planning sheet for this (whoops) but from what i can remember, the piece was largely centred around my personal discovery of the divisions in society, and that despite how people don't have everything they want in their lives, they have family, and that's what's important. (that would be my one sentence summary i guess?)
how would i make my links to discovery more obvious? i tried to be elusive with it but that obviously didn't work out hahahah
2. How do I make this flow better? I reckon everything is very inconsistent and it stops and starts in places.
Yep, I agree - Perhaps you need to frame the scenarios as flashbacks, and have them occur one after another with brief reflections as your persona walks through a supposed "urban decline" area. So, have them be following their class around talking about urban decline somewhere in Sydney, and have little things inspire flashbacks to Indonesia as a juxtaposition. This links everything together a little bit :)
ooooh okay i didn't even think of this! the only problem is that the scenarios i've used are from my trip to indonesia early this year, so if i did this, the geography excursion would be the flashbacks (and i don't have many poignant memories of it, just that it was super boring). i'll definitely try this out and see if it works :-)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 06, 2017, 06:38:21 pm
wow hi thank you so much for marking this!
i threw out my planning sheet for this (whoops) but from what i can remember, the piece was largely centred around my personal discovery of the divisions in society, and that despite how people don't have everything they want in their lives, they have family, and that's what's important. (that would be my one sentence summary i guess?)
how would i make my links to discovery more obvious? i tried to be elusive with it but that obviously didn't work out hahahah
ooooh okay i didn't even think of this! the only problem is that the scenarios i've used are from my trip to indonesia early this year, so if i did this, the geography excursion would be the flashbacks (and i don't have many poignant memories of it, just that it was super boring). i'll definitely try this out and see if it works :-)
You can always bend the truth a little! I think it would be a cool play off, have classmates examining urban decline and the character getting angry inside their own head, "You have no idea," etc. Doesn't have to match your timeline exactly
I think the structural fixes will do a lot of the Discovery work for you, having a unified plot will make the Discovery concepts much clearer I think!
Post by: gilliesb18 on September 08, 2017, 02:57:06 pm
I can't believe that you people do this free marking- you're incredible.
Just wondering- would this apply for a yr 11 person?? Cause we have our prelim exams on monday, and english is first but my teacher is too busy to mark my creative!! Is there any chance I could put mine up here? Or is that against the rules....
Thanks :)
Post by: Natasha.97 on September 08, 2017, 04:02:45 pm
Hello :) :)
I can't believe that you people do this free marking- you're incredible.
Just wondering- would this apply for a yr 11 person?? Cause we have our prelim exams on monday, and english is first but my teacher is too busy to mark my creative!! Is there any chance I could put mine up here? Or is that against the rules....
Thanks :)
Hey!
I've seen someone's prelim work marked before (not sure where otherwise I would link it :P) Besides, you've met the marking requirements anyway (25 posts/essay)! All the best for your prelims :)
Post by: gilliesb18 on September 08, 2017, 04:57:49 pm
Also Im not real creative sooo you will probably all think this is rather poor :-[ :)
Post by: left right gn on September 08, 2017, 08:22:16 pm
Can I get my creative checked please!
Thanks.
Post by: kaut2061 on September 08, 2017, 10:32:36 pm
hi, i don't want to rain on your parade, but you need to have 25 posts before having something marked! i know it seems like a lot, but your posts build up quickly, and before you know it, you'll have an essay marked! maybe someone else will look at it for you - i would, but i'm no good at english myself.
Thats okay, thanks for letting me know how this works, but to post 25 posts what exactly can I post?
Post by: gilliesb18 on September 08, 2017, 11:10:51 pm
Thats okay, thanks for letting me know how this works, but to post 25 posts what exactly can I post?You need to post relavent questions and not just random comments such as thanks etc.
I think this was explained, if you check out the very first post on here, it should tell you the rules for getting it marked...
Post by: Zainbow on September 09, 2017, 01:25:36 pm
The problem is that it's too long, imo. It's currently at 1024 words and takes me about 35 minutes to write. I want to cut it down by some 300 words or so. Where can I cut out words? Also, would cutting out the first perspective entirely change the story too much, or should I keep both perspectives?
One other thing, the teacher feedback I received suggested I explore the discovery more deeply. How can I do that?
Thanks!
Spoiler
The baby slept.
His soft features delicately moving with each breath. His eyelids fluttered, and his hands innocently fisted on his stomach.
From above, I watched.
Gently bubbling in his slumber, the baby slept soundlessly. He lay in the centre of the room, where the drawn curtains blanketed any light.
He let out a soft, short cry, mewing like a kitten.
Mindfully I looked over, searching for any sources of discomfort. He quickly fell asleep again. His posture expressing his innocence; ignorant of the quiet world immediately around him, too invested in his doze to care.
Gently stirring the air from above, I hung from the ceiling rotating, simply fulfilling my duties of ventilation and observation.
She lingered at the door, watching him like me, a smile tugging at her lips. Gracefully she made her way beside him and looked down in admiration. Behind her, a photo of his similarly peaceful face stood on the shelf.
He too entered the room, standing at her side and mimicking the radiation of love.
The baby unconsciously basked in his parents’ awe. There they stood, watching over their baby as I watched over all of them, bestowing them with gentle zephyrs of air.
She averted her eyes and looked at him, quietly uttering her words.
He shifts on his feet and rests his hands on the cot. The baby responded with a soft hum.
He muttered a reply and she, in her confusion, turned to him. Returning to admiring the innocent child that slept oblivious to his parents, I busily went on my merry way atop the room, genially fanning the air.
He turned towards the door but a firm grasp on his arm hindered him, pulling him back to the baby and the room and her persistent questioning.
His sighed reply provoked her staggered astonishment. Behind her I watched the baby continue his nonchalant nap, his arms and legs stretched all comfortably without a care to his surroundings. His small hands, his small lips, his small nose, all resting emotionless in peaceful slumber. I watch as a brief flutter of his nose disrupts his resting face, his peaceful state a capture of innocence, now distinct to his mother’s frustration as her newfound shock transformed the softness of her eyes to disbelief. I huffed in annoyance at the disturbance of this tranquillity and continued my spin - a pirouetting dancer to the tune of my own labour.
She watched him as he left the room and, with a glance towards her sleeping baby, followed in barely concealed irritation.
The room returned to its rhythmic peace, the baby once again consuming it with his soundlessness.
His photo on the shelf offered a past replication of this moment.
And, I continued to watch.
----------------------------------------------------------------
The baby slept.
His repetitive breathing evoked a synchronised movement of his features. Laying there lazily, his hands fisted on his stomach, the baby offered no reason for excitement.
In my boredom, I watched from the side of the room.
Except for an occasional drool in his mindless state, the baby slept quietly in the centre, the drawn curtains keeping any light out.
A whine escaped his lips.
Uninterested in him I looked about the room, resting upon the monotonously spinning blade at the ceiling.
She stopped at the door watching him, barely relieving to the ever-so exciting scene before me. In unnecessary awe she made her way to him, this meaningless moment reminding me of the similar occasion of his sleep framed and placed on me.
And just when I thought no one could possibly wish to join this boring enclose, he entered, joining her side and contributing to this endless and mind-numbing encounter.
And all the baby did was lay there, absorbing his parents’ awe effortlessly.
In my quiet disgruntlement at this scene, I noticed her mention the money, did something happen and why did she receive another phone call today, and faced him expecting a reply.
He shifted on his feet and rested his hands on the cot.
He looked at the baby as she awaited his answer.
Finally, after another interjection from her, he muttered a brief reply that failed to resolve her frustration. She turned her full attention to him, demanding a clarification to his response. How is it gone? At sight of this my interest perked. Something other than a sleeping baby!
Hesitantly he looked at her and sucked in his lips, his prolonged contemplation driving me mad in anticipation.
As if reading my mind, she reaffirmed her need for an explanation.
With frustration, he raked his hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at her, though she continued to persist, her tone getting louder and my excitement growing. I wonder at the consequences of what may be ahead, but in my momentary desire for a spectacle, I dismiss these thoughts.
He aimed for the door in attempted escape, but, in last-minute reflex, she gripped his arm and pulled him back to her persistent questioning.
With a strained expression, he lets out a fleeting remark. He lost it, don’t ask why or how. But she already knows, and he knows she knows, and I know that he knows that she knows.
She stood unmoving, looking at him, looking at her baby, renewed uncertainties now flashing in her eyes. I wonder how she will react to this newfound provocation. Will she get angry? No, that’ll wake her baby up. Will she let it go? No, I can see it in her eyes she won’t. I looked at the two and the situation that now confronted them, or more so, challenged them.
But alas, the gripping scene ended too quickly as he swiftly exits and she, too, at his heel.
I feel my interest slip away as I am left with the dull room, the indolent baby, the droning fan. Once again I find myself facing a monotonous existence, any exhilaration short-lived. My surroundings mock me, reminding me I hold a frame of a similar situation to this.
But in my aimless observation of this inaction, I ponder the excitement of before, wondering if it will ripple this quiet again.
His soft features delicately moving with each breath. His eyelids fluttered, and his hands innocently fisted on his stomach.
From above, I watched.
Gently bubbling in his slumber, the baby slept soundlessly. He lay in the centre of the room, where the drawn curtains blanketed any light.
He let out a soft, short cry, mewing like a kitten.
Mindfully I looked over, searching for any sources of discomfort. He quickly fell asleep again. His posture expressing his innocence; ignorant of the quiet world immediately around him, too invested in his doze to care.
Gently stirring the air from above, I hung from the ceiling rotating, simply fulfilling my duties of ventilation and observation.
She lingered at the door, watching him like me, a smile tugging at her lips. Gracefully she made her way beside him and looked down in admiration. Behind her, a photo of his similarly peaceful face stood on the shelf.
He too entered the room, standing at her side and mimicking the radiation of love.
The baby unconsciously basked in his parents’ awe. There they stood, watching over their baby as I watched over all of them, bestowing them with gentle zephyrs of air.
She averted her eyes and looked at him, quietly uttering her words.
He shifts on his feet and rests his hands on the cot. The baby responded with a soft hum.
He muttered a reply and she, in her confusion, turned to him. Returning to admiring the innocent child that slept oblivious to his parents, I busily went on my merry way atop the room, genially fanning the air.
He turned towards the door but a firm grasp on his arm hindered him, pulling him back to the baby and the room and her persistent questioning.
His sighed reply provoked her staggered astonishment. Behind her I watched the baby continue his nonchalant nap, his arms and legs stretched all comfortably without a care to his surroundings. His small hands, his small lips, his small nose, all resting emotionless in peaceful slumber. I watch as a brief flutter of his nose disrupts his resting face, his peaceful state a capture of innocence, now distinct to his mother’s frustration as her newfound shock transformed the softness of her eyes to disbelief. I huffed in annoyance at the disturbance of this tranquillity and continued my spin - a pirouetting dancer to the tune of my own labour.
She watched him as he left the room and, with a glance towards her sleeping baby, followed in barely concealed irritation.
The room returned to its rhythmic peace, the baby once again consuming it with his soundlessness.
His photo on the shelf offered a past replication of this moment.
And, I continued to watch.
----------------------------------------------------------------
The baby slept.
His repetitive breathing evoked a synchronised movement of his features. Laying there lazily, his hands fisted on his stomach, the baby offered no reason for excitement.
In my boredom, I watched from the side of the room.
Except for an occasional drool in his mindless state, the baby slept quietly in the centre, the drawn curtains keeping any light out.
A whine escaped his lips.
Uninterested in him I looked about the room, resting upon the monotonously spinning blade at the ceiling.
She stopped at the door watching him, barely relieving to the ever-so exciting scene before me. In unnecessary awe she made her way to him, this meaningless moment reminding me of the similar occasion of his sleep framed and placed on me.
And just when I thought no one could possibly wish to join this boring enclose, he entered, joining her side and contributing to this endless and mind-numbing encounter.
And all the baby did was lay there, absorbing his parents’ awe effortlessly.
In my quiet disgruntlement at this scene, I noticed her mention the money, did something happen and why did she receive another phone call today, and faced him expecting a reply.
He shifted on his feet and rested his hands on the cot.
He looked at the baby as she awaited his answer.
Finally, after another interjection from her, he muttered a brief reply that failed to resolve her frustration. She turned her full attention to him, demanding a clarification to his response. How is it gone? At sight of this my interest perked. Something other than a sleeping baby!
Hesitantly he looked at her and sucked in his lips, his prolonged contemplation driving me mad in anticipation.
As if reading my mind, she reaffirmed her need for an explanation.
With frustration, he raked his hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at her, though she continued to persist, her tone getting louder and my excitement growing. I wonder at the consequences of what may be ahead, but in my momentary desire for a spectacle, I dismiss these thoughts.
He aimed for the door in attempted escape, but, in last-minute reflex, she gripped his arm and pulled him back to her persistent questioning.
With a strained expression, he lets out a fleeting remark. He lost it, don’t ask why or how. But she already knows, and he knows she knows, and I know that he knows that she knows.
She stood unmoving, looking at him, looking at her baby, renewed uncertainties now flashing in her eyes. I wonder how she will react to this newfound provocation. Will she get angry? No, that’ll wake her baby up. Will she let it go? No, I can see it in her eyes she won’t. I looked at the two and the situation that now confronted them, or more so, challenged them.
But alas, the gripping scene ended too quickly as he swiftly exits and she, too, at his heel.
I feel my interest slip away as I am left with the dull room, the indolent baby, the droning fan. Once again I find myself facing a monotonous existence, any exhilaration short-lived. My surroundings mock me, reminding me I hold a frame of a similar situation to this.
But in my aimless observation of this inaction, I ponder the excitement of before, wondering if it will ripple this quiet again.
Post by: kaut2061 on September 09, 2017, 01:30:05 pm
You need to post relavent questions and not just random comments such as thanks etc.Thanks so much
I think this was explained, if you check out the very first post on here, it should tell you the rules for getting it marked...
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 09, 2017, 01:55:32 pm
Hey! I've posted my creative here before, and I want more feedback if that's possible (thanks so much for the previous feedback btw, I got 14/15 in the trial by implementing the changes you suggested!)
Hey Zainbow! Thanks for posting, glad the previous feedback was useful! You haven't quite met the new post count requirement (note the post count requirement is now 25 posts), my spreadsheet says you'll need to reach 40 posts to get feedback :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 09, 2017, 11:56:38 pm
Ok well heres my creative piece then. The requirements was that it was about an 'Inner Journey'.
Also Im not real creative sooo you will probably all think this is rather poor :-[ :)
Hey!! Thanks for posting my friend - I've attached your Creative in the spoiler, comments are in bold ;D
Spoiler
The Golden Key
Staring down at his shining, new black leather shoes, William had no idea where he was. Like this opening - Establishes intrigue nicely. A dirty restaurant full of low down second-class people, glass braking, and now a bottle of beer was thrown at him, smashing it into a million un-repairable fragments of glass. Slightly iffy on the wording there, needs to be "glass brEaking," and it should be "was BEING thrown at him" to maintain present tense. It was a whirlwind of events and all he wanted to do was run away from the scene and relax. As he started to run, his feet caught onto the leg of a table, pulling it and all the contents on it over. He picked himself back up and tried again. Slow down a little, describe what is happening! Everything in a short story needs to have a purpose, so it is important to take time to describe scenes probably/ This time he got out the smashed doors. Just in time to hear a gold ‘something’ hit the ground in front of him. What did it sound like? Try to paint the picture a little bit better, take the time to describe sights, sounds, smells. He looked up to see where it had come from, but all he could see was levels of damaged, broken-down apartments with nothing but ruined inhabitants inside looking out the windows.
As he bent down to pick up the gold ‘something’ that had dropped at his feet, he realized it was a key. On one side of it, he realized there was some indentation on it, and the other side had some initials. Both sides were too faded to read anything. But he stilled picked it up and decided to see if he could find its owner. I'd be taking a little longer to describe this object too - It's the key element of the piece, so let the audience have a super clear picture in their minds of what exactly it looks like.
As he leaped up the stairs two at a time, all he could think of was the golden key which lay in his cut and bruised hand from the restaurant just a few seconds ago. This seems a little awkward since it JUST happened, it seems unnecessary to reflect on it so soon I feel? As he approached the first level of apartment rooms, he thought of what he could say to each person. ‘Knock, knock!’ went his fist against the shabby door. He waited patiently outside the door, but no response came. Again, he knocked, and this time got a rather hasty response. The old man came to the door and yelled, “Who are you and what do you want anyway?” Be sure that your dialogue is realistic - Would someone actually say this to a stranger knocking on their door? It feels a little robotic right now. Shorten it a little, even just a single word, "WHAT?" could work well!
William quickly told him who he was and explained without delay why this key was in his red and swollen hand, and asked the man if it was his key. But the man just slammed the door in his face, leaving a confused and annoyed William Cooper standing at the door. But he went on trying, door after door, level after level, until he reached an elderly lady on level 6, door 7 who could only speak scattered English in amongst her abundance of German. Good - This chunk is quite well written!!
“Dat key, ist de one I dropped out de vindow. Do you vant it?” Be careful incorporating the accent into how you actually write the dialogue. It can be construed in a negative light - You can still mention the fact that it is scattered English and perhaps have one or two words affected. But in general it is better to just have primarily normal dialogue!
William was speechless. Why would he want it? Why did she drop it out the window?
“Oh, Madame, is that key not yours? Replied William.
“Son, dat key ist for you. Check de initials, den it ist yours, forever.”
He promptly checked the initials, only to find out it had his exact initials on it, W.R.C.
It was his key. The door to which it opened, he had no clue where to find. But he had the key. And he was going to find that door. As he ran to his house to clean the key, he wondered what the writing might say. Would it be a little proverb for him? Was it some word that he had to cling onto for the rest of his life? What could it be? This seems like a bit of a forced response - I get being curious about the key's origins and the engraving, but this is an object that the character has not had any interaction with before this point. It feels unnatural for them to react in this urgent way, if that makes sense?
Then finally he was home. He ran inside, scrubbed the key, but still couldn’t read it. Again, he worked away at it until finally he could make out what it read. “Life isn’t about finding yourself, it’s about creating yourself.” Again, and again, he read it to himself, until finally it made sense. You can’t just find yourself, you must create yourself. ‘I cannot just simply run somewhere in my new shoes in the hopes I will find myself’, thought William to himself, ‘I must create who I want to be.’ This ending is something a lot of people have trouble with, and it's concept conclusion, a name I totally made up but I like it.
Basically, it's putting everything about your key theme/concept at the end and laying it out clearly for the audience. This is actually not a good thing,
because the theme should be more subtle - Imbued in the response in small ways that make it gradually obvious to the reader.
Staring down at his shining, new black leather shoes, William had no idea where he was. Like this opening - Establishes intrigue nicely. A dirty restaurant full of low down second-class people, glass braking, and now a bottle of beer was thrown at him, smashing it into a million un-repairable fragments of glass. Slightly iffy on the wording there, needs to be "glass brEaking," and it should be "was BEING thrown at him" to maintain present tense. It was a whirlwind of events and all he wanted to do was run away from the scene and relax. As he started to run, his feet caught onto the leg of a table, pulling it and all the contents on it over. He picked himself back up and tried again. Slow down a little, describe what is happening! Everything in a short story needs to have a purpose, so it is important to take time to describe scenes probably/ This time he got out the smashed doors. Just in time to hear a gold ‘something’ hit the ground in front of him. What did it sound like? Try to paint the picture a little bit better, take the time to describe sights, sounds, smells. He looked up to see where it had come from, but all he could see was levels of damaged, broken-down apartments with nothing but ruined inhabitants inside looking out the windows.
As he bent down to pick up the gold ‘something’ that had dropped at his feet, he realized it was a key. On one side of it, he realized there was some indentation on it, and the other side had some initials. Both sides were too faded to read anything. But he stilled picked it up and decided to see if he could find its owner. I'd be taking a little longer to describe this object too - It's the key element of the piece, so let the audience have a super clear picture in their minds of what exactly it looks like.
As he leaped up the stairs two at a time, all he could think of was the golden key which lay in his cut and bruised hand from the restaurant just a few seconds ago. This seems a little awkward since it JUST happened, it seems unnecessary to reflect on it so soon I feel? As he approached the first level of apartment rooms, he thought of what he could say to each person. ‘Knock, knock!’ went his fist against the shabby door. He waited patiently outside the door, but no response came. Again, he knocked, and this time got a rather hasty response. The old man came to the door and yelled, “Who are you and what do you want anyway?” Be sure that your dialogue is realistic - Would someone actually say this to a stranger knocking on their door? It feels a little robotic right now. Shorten it a little, even just a single word, "WHAT?" could work well!
William quickly told him who he was and explained without delay why this key was in his red and swollen hand, and asked the man if it was his key. But the man just slammed the door in his face, leaving a confused and annoyed William Cooper standing at the door. But he went on trying, door after door, level after level, until he reached an elderly lady on level 6, door 7 who could only speak scattered English in amongst her abundance of German. Good - This chunk is quite well written!!
“Dat key, ist de one I dropped out de vindow. Do you vant it?” Be careful incorporating the accent into how you actually write the dialogue. It can be construed in a negative light - You can still mention the fact that it is scattered English and perhaps have one or two words affected. But in general it is better to just have primarily normal dialogue!
William was speechless. Why would he want it? Why did she drop it out the window?
“Oh, Madame, is that key not yours? Replied William.
“Son, dat key ist for you. Check de initials, den it ist yours, forever.”
He promptly checked the initials, only to find out it had his exact initials on it, W.R.C.
It was his key. The door to which it opened, he had no clue where to find. But he had the key. And he was going to find that door. As he ran to his house to clean the key, he wondered what the writing might say. Would it be a little proverb for him? Was it some word that he had to cling onto for the rest of his life? What could it be? This seems like a bit of a forced response - I get being curious about the key's origins and the engraving, but this is an object that the character has not had any interaction with before this point. It feels unnatural for them to react in this urgent way, if that makes sense?
Then finally he was home. He ran inside, scrubbed the key, but still couldn’t read it. Again, he worked away at it until finally he could make out what it read. “Life isn’t about finding yourself, it’s about creating yourself.” Again, and again, he read it to himself, until finally it made sense. You can’t just find yourself, you must create yourself. ‘I cannot just simply run somewhere in my new shoes in the hopes I will find myself’, thought William to himself, ‘I must create who I want to be.’ This ending is something a lot of people have trouble with, and it's concept conclusion, a name I totally made up but I like it.
Basically, it's putting everything about your key theme/concept at the end and laying it out clearly for the audience. This is actually not a good thing,
because the theme should be more subtle - Imbued in the response in small ways that make it gradually obvious to the reader.
I like what you are doing in parts of this Creative! Some clever bits of writing shining through, and a cool concept. I'd have two main criticisms:
1- The plot feels quite forced. There is not really a logical flow from one event to the next, and responses of the character don't feel natural, and things sometimes don't feel they have a purpose. Why does the key need to exist to convey the message? Why did we have the first grumpy old man, what purpose did it serve for the story?
2- The concept is very end loaded and too blatant - There needs to be a little more subtlety. Think about when you watch a movie with a hidden message - They never actually say what that message is! They just link it to the events of the story in a natural way so that the audience knows without being told. You need to try and adjust your plot and how it is presented to do the same thing ;D
Try and rework the story with these two things in mind - Natural responses by characters, give them a reason to do the things they do in a way that a regular person would do them (EG - Would a regular person go look for the owner of the key, or maybe pocket it and go about their business). And try and put the message into the story in less obvious ways throughout, be subtle! :)
Post by: gilliesb18 on September 10, 2017, 08:23:03 pm
I will be changing a lot of it now that I know where exactly I went wrong.
Thanks again, incredible service you do on here and I'm very grateful for it :) :) :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 11, 2017, 01:50:46 pm
Hey!
Can I get my creative checked please!
Thanks.
Hi there :) I'll check it out for you :)
Spoiler
Another morning at church… praying to someone or something we don’t even know exists. This initial opening is the perfect stage to establish a very personal voice in the protagonist. I'd use grammar here to convey the way this sentence should be received. For example, "Another morning at Church.
Why? Praying to someone, or something, we don't even know exists?" Play around with it - read your sentence and then read mine. Find some kind of half way point there. I don't know if your voice is placidly going along with it, or frustrated, or....
"Praying to someone, or even something, that we don't even know exists..."
My mother answers each response loudly, confidently. When she sings the hymns, her face virtually glows. She hits each note perfectly. They’re out of my range. Nice metaphor. In the sea of voices, I’m a piece of plastic, drifting aimlessly. Katy Perry? ;) I wonder what beach I’ll be thrown up on.
In contrast to Mum, my father is sombre during the service. Afterwards, however, he’s overly gregarious, greeting everyone with an unyielding handshake and a “God bless you”. As a reader, I'm trying to visualise this. Is he big and smiley now? Or macho and sincere?
I stand, waiting by the car, watching their happiness from a distance. They’ve found something here, something solid and certain; something they can hold on to. But the whole experience makes me dizzy, as though my feet aren’t on firm ground.
In the car, on the way home, “Family dinner tonight?” says Dad. I grimace. He catches my expression in the rear vision mirror.
“You could ask Sally?” he continues. That’s a first. Mum gives Dad a sideways glance. She’s always telling me I don’t have to hurry. There’s plenty of time for that sort of thing later, she says. She never explains exactly what that sort of thing is.
Dad is waiting for a response. He’s looking at me in the mirror. The car jolts as it hits another pothole. I wish he’d look where he’s going. New line for this dialogue. “I can’t. I need to catch up with Mark tonight. We’ve already bought the tickets for the game.”
Silence…
Then:
Silence. And then,
“There’s no hurry. Do what you think is right,” Mum says. Her tone is gentle, but so certain; as though it was that easy.
* * *
Mark whispers something to me. The crowd is loud and raucous, a wild sea of people, and so I lean in closer. Mark whispers again. It’s almost intimate. I like him.
“Who do you think’s the hottest?” he says.
I know what he's talking about, I'd use a full stop here instead of a comma. Otherwise, I believe a semi colon is more correct than a commaI do not want to acknowledge what he is talking about. So, I focus on the game, eyes forward. Sport narrows the world, simplifies it down to rules and times. Predictable, safe.
"The blond, the one on the end, for me," he grins, pointing at the lucky cheerleader who has caught his eye. My cheeks burn, I feel the heat.
"I have a girlfriend," I reply, hoping it sounded confident rather than forced. I am looking straight at him, directly at him. I should be watching the game.
Mark laughs. “And where is Sally?” His laugh is glorious, carefree. Maybe I don’t like him, maybe I envy him. “Sally’s not here. Nothing wrong with looking...”
I turn away from him, feeling hot and nauseous, my mouth too dry to swallow. New line for this dialogue "Water," I mutter, making my way towards the kiosk and the lines of impatient patrons. I felt seasick as if I was tossed violently on frenzied waves, helpless as the sea dragged me along in directions I didn't want to go. Nice link back to the plastic earlier, connecting that ocean scenery.
When I reach the bar the woman before me says something to the guy she is with, it must be funny as he rewards it with a laugh. He reminds me of Mark. They're holding hands and look comfortable with each other. At this point I want to tell you how much I'm enjoying your writing. It's quite frank,
and I empathise with the character. I'm still left wondering about their level of complacence with Church at the beginning, but otherwise it's developed really well.
* * *
Sally tries to take my hand. I’m uncomfortable. She is sitting next to me on the couch, she is too close. New line. "The game with Mark, how was it"
I wouldn't leave a gap here, I'd bring it all together so that we know the next quote is from the same speaker.
I edge slightly away. "Were you with another girl?" she asks, and I’m not sure if she is serious.
Her accusation is ridiculous. I’m here, aren’t I? I get up and begin to pace the room. "Of course I was with Mark. Ask him!"
I'm being honest, trying to keep my voice steady, and I all I feel is guilt. "Can we just have a night without fighting?"
I've hurt her, as her eyes glisten with tears. I’m confused. I never wanted to hurt her, I'm sure of that. I love her, I think I do. I sit down next to her again. That’s what lovers do, isn’t it? They sit close. I try to do what’s expected.
She takes this as a peace offering and slides closer. She embraces me and I let her. We sit in silence. I want the silence to do the work, as I’m lost for words. Gradually, she relaxes, her weight settles into me, as though she’s increasingly at rest, secure.
I feel a sense of suspense, as though I've been dared to wade back into the unpredictable sea. The feeling of seasickness returns and I move away from the encroaching waves. She turns to face me, leaning in and attempts to kiss me. She’s playing at desire, I know; I’ve done it myself, many times, in this room. What she wants is safety. So do I, but I realise I can’t give it to her.
Her safety is the sea crashing on the shore. Great continuation of this motif.
* * *
“Family dinner tonight?” probes Mum. She seems surprised at my assent. She shouldn’t be. I’ve been at home a lot recently. Four walls to contain the confusion.
“Ask Sally,” says Dad. He says it calmly, but it feels like a command. He’s grabbing at normalcy. He must sense my awkwardness because he adds, "She seems a nice girl."
When I don’t comment, I’m sure mum is about to say we shouldn’t hurry them. And suddenly I want to tell them I’ve always felt hurried, pushed, always felt as though the place they’ve found is not for me, that the ground has always felt insecure. And then I say it.
It’s as though an earthquake has occurred.
Dad wants to argue. Mum just cries, stinging tears, raw like Sally’s. It’s as though I’m looking at them from a distance. It’s like an enormous fault line has opened up between us. A plunging abyss and they’re so, so scared.
But I’m not. For the first time, I feel as though I’m standing with my two feet on the ground. Certain. Secure. So I say it again.
“Mum, Dad, I’m gay.”
Why? Praying to someone, or something, we don't even know exists?" Play around with it - read your sentence and then read mine. Find some kind of half way point there. I don't know if your voice is placidly going along with it, or frustrated, or....
"Praying to someone, or even something, that we don't even know exists..."
My mother answers each response loudly, confidently. When she sings the hymns, her face virtually glows. She hits each note perfectly. They’re out of my range. Nice metaphor. In the sea of voices, I’m a piece of plastic, drifting aimlessly. Katy Perry? ;) I wonder what beach I’ll be thrown up on.
In contrast to Mum, my father is sombre during the service. Afterwards, however, he’s overly gregarious, greeting everyone with an unyielding handshake and a “God bless you”. As a reader, I'm trying to visualise this. Is he big and smiley now? Or macho and sincere?
I stand, waiting by the car, watching their happiness from a distance. They’ve found something here, something solid and certain; something they can hold on to. But the whole experience makes me dizzy, as though my feet aren’t on firm ground.
In the car, on the way home, “Family dinner tonight?” says Dad. I grimace. He catches my expression in the rear vision mirror.
“You could ask Sally?” he continues. That’s a first. Mum gives Dad a sideways glance. She’s always telling me I don’t have to hurry. There’s plenty of time for that sort of thing later, she says. She never explains exactly what that sort of thing is.
Dad is waiting for a response. He’s looking at me in the mirror. The car jolts as it hits another pothole. I wish he’d look where he’s going. New line for this dialogue. “I can’t. I need to catch up with Mark tonight. We’ve already bought the tickets for the game.”
Silence…
Then:
Silence. And then,
“There’s no hurry. Do what you think is right,” Mum says. Her tone is gentle, but so certain; as though it was that easy.
* * *
Mark whispers something to me. The crowd is loud and raucous, a wild sea of people, and so I lean in closer. Mark whispers again. It’s almost intimate. I like him.
“Who do you think’s the hottest?” he says.
I know what he's talking about, I'd use a full stop here instead of a comma. Otherwise, I believe a semi colon is more correct than a commaI do not want to acknowledge what he is talking about. So, I focus on the game, eyes forward. Sport narrows the world, simplifies it down to rules and times. Predictable, safe.
"The blond, the one on the end, for me," he grins, pointing at the lucky cheerleader who has caught his eye. My cheeks burn, I feel the heat.
"I have a girlfriend," I reply, hoping it sounded confident rather than forced. I am looking straight at him, directly at him. I should be watching the game.
Mark laughs. “And where is Sally?” His laugh is glorious, carefree. Maybe I don’t like him, maybe I envy him. “Sally’s not here. Nothing wrong with looking...”
I turn away from him, feeling hot and nauseous, my mouth too dry to swallow. New line for this dialogue "Water," I mutter, making my way towards the kiosk and the lines of impatient patrons. I felt seasick as if I was tossed violently on frenzied waves, helpless as the sea dragged me along in directions I didn't want to go. Nice link back to the plastic earlier, connecting that ocean scenery.
When I reach the bar the woman before me says something to the guy she is with, it must be funny as he rewards it with a laugh. He reminds me of Mark. They're holding hands and look comfortable with each other. At this point I want to tell you how much I'm enjoying your writing. It's quite frank,
and I empathise with the character. I'm still left wondering about their level of complacence with Church at the beginning, but otherwise it's developed really well.
* * *
Sally tries to take my hand. I’m uncomfortable. She is sitting next to me on the couch, she is too close. New line. "The game with Mark, how was it"
I wouldn't leave a gap here, I'd bring it all together so that we know the next quote is from the same speaker.
I edge slightly away. "Were you with another girl?" she asks, and I’m not sure if she is serious.
Her accusation is ridiculous. I’m here, aren’t I? I get up and begin to pace the room. "Of course I was with Mark. Ask him!"
I'm being honest, trying to keep my voice steady, and I all I feel is guilt. "Can we just have a night without fighting?"
I've hurt her, as her eyes glisten with tears. I’m confused. I never wanted to hurt her, I'm sure of that. I love her, I think I do. I sit down next to her again. That’s what lovers do, isn’t it? They sit close. I try to do what’s expected.
She takes this as a peace offering and slides closer. She embraces me and I let her. We sit in silence. I want the silence to do the work, as I’m lost for words. Gradually, she relaxes, her weight settles into me, as though she’s increasingly at rest, secure.
I feel a sense of suspense, as though I've been dared to wade back into the unpredictable sea. The feeling of seasickness returns and I move away from the encroaching waves. She turns to face me, leaning in and attempts to kiss me. She’s playing at desire, I know; I’ve done it myself, many times, in this room. What she wants is safety. So do I, but I realise I can’t give it to her.
Her safety is the sea crashing on the shore. Great continuation of this motif.
* * *
“Family dinner tonight?” probes Mum. She seems surprised at my assent. She shouldn’t be. I’ve been at home a lot recently. Four walls to contain the confusion.
“Ask Sally,” says Dad. He says it calmly, but it feels like a command. He’s grabbing at normalcy. He must sense my awkwardness because he adds, "She seems a nice girl."
When I don’t comment, I’m sure mum is about to say we shouldn’t hurry them. And suddenly I want to tell them I’ve always felt hurried, pushed, always felt as though the place they’ve found is not for me, that the ground has always felt insecure. And then I say it.
It’s as though an earthquake has occurred.
Dad wants to argue. Mum just cries, stinging tears, raw like Sally’s. It’s as though I’m looking at them from a distance. It’s like an enormous fault line has opened up between us. A plunging abyss and they’re so, so scared.
But I’m not. For the first time, I feel as though I’m standing with my two feet on the ground. Certain. Secure. So I say it again.
“Mum, Dad, I’m gay.”
I really, reallllly like this story. There are some technical confusions for me but overall it's great.
Starting with some positives - the writing style is very fluid for me to read, I can digest it all really well. I can sense the extreme confusion the protagonist is feeling, it's very well displayed as an experience that's turbulent with a few brief stages of stability. I also like the way you've approached the entire subject manner - by going from a friend, relationship, and family, point of view.
Some things that need to improvement, next. I will say though, even though I got to the end and realised I don't even know the protagonist's gender, it works for me. So I thought the protagonist was a female. I thought the protagonist is openly gay to her friends, and one of her friends is Mark. So this is why Mark is probing to talk about the hottest cheerleaders, because the protagonist and Mark both fancy girls. Then when she comes home to Sally, her girlfriend, Sally is jealous that the protagonist was hanging out with other girls, and given that she's a lesbian, this causes concern for Sally. But actually, Mark is just a friend. So the way I read the confusion about Mark and his moments of cuteness - is the protagonist exploring the waves of being bisexual and trying to find identity amongst it, trying to work it all out. And the parents were trying to bring Sally over for dinner as a way of showing they support her being gay.
Then I realised, I don't know the protagonist is a girl. Mark could be a mate that the male protagonist fancies, and the protagonist is in a heterosexual relationship despite being a homosexual. And then this means the parents are trying to force Sally over as a sense of bringing heteronormativity to the household when in fact the protagonist is feeling this pressure to reveal that they don't fit into this narrative.
So, I went through your entire story understanding an entirely different narrative to the one you meant (I think!). :P
It's up to you if you want to change this or leave it as a dual narrative. I'd get more people to read it and see how they interpret the protagonist.
Also, the Church at the beginning. I think we should either revisit it, exploring it more, or delete it from the story. I expect a more religious vein throughout, and it doesn't really come. It does a good job of grounding the parents in their respective roles, but maybe we could have more of this? Maybe they say grace before a meal later? Or maybe before he or she goes to the game the mums says "I'll pray they'll win!" or something...I don't know for sure, but I forget about the Christian thing at the beginning, and I think it's an opportunity to expand your story, even if just on a subtle level.
So, what do you think? Ultimately - great writing, interesting incidental dual narrative, it's just about adjusting the plot so slightly that your reader is engaged with the way you intend them to be :)
Post by: mjorfian on September 13, 2017, 11:35:26 am
Ps. the line about the birds not "paying attention" was inspired off a creative I read here because I thought I could twist it in a cool way to turn nature / the world against him and it just fit. I hope that comes through and is okay!
Spoiler
Terra Nullius was the universe flipped on its axis.
Here, the late afternoon held a borderless flow of clarity with the vast sky stretched out for infinity. A smattering of low level milky cotton ball clouds obstructed potions of the endless sky that showed off its infinite beauty. And as the sky’s hue darkens, the sun settles slowly in a magnificent flourish of ribbon-like fire.
When the sun settles, it’s as if a paint brush dipped in white was flicked at the bristles, with the sky as its victimised canvas. The stars feared to be lone, clinging to one another in clusters. Wide eyed in wonder, Greyson held his gaze upon the silver disk that rested upon them, a mother of some sort, bleaching the atmosphere into a ghost-like replica of day time. It’s a protective blanket, one could say. It hugs. It loves. It nurtures.
The creatures though, were the most baffling to him. Them? They strode as adults in their natural state, free of prickling fabric dangling off their thin sticks for legs - but lean, nonetheless. Their skin was chocolate, and oddly enough, reflected the sun that soaked it; something he’d never witnessed before. It illuminated skin that was smeared with ivory strokes resembling the harsh pressing drag of five finger tips.
“Be off!’, They had mimicked the British men once, all the way across the river. “Be off!”
They were too dark to be human, and too human to be dark, which was something he struggled to understand.
********
Coast of Sydney, 1788, April 12th
“Men who preach war are ones who suffer least by it.” is the mantra that quite perfectly emulates the dilemma I’m entrapped within. I’ve been questioning if my father’s words were only applicable to war with men, or if they apply to men at war with non-men resembling men?
Jackson, and another 4 men or so, are planning to raid an area for land. I’m promised a share, so long as I partake. It’s most likely it’ll involve the creatures. I asked if we’d be frightening them so they’d abandon the vicinity, but they spoke of the beings like they were dark spirits risen from beneath our feet. Such an exchange took forth:
“My God, Grey. Have you lost your mind? They’ve no decency. No worth. Their feet are stuck in time, yet they run with spears as weapons.”
Which I responded to, “They haven’t harmed us.”
“They’re dark by nature and so by spirit. Cursed to be mutants. Have you not seen them? They’re far behind the rest of civilisation. You shan’t feel sorry for them. Sentiment that hinders profit is of little value. I don’t want to hear it.”
Thing is, I do want a life here. I know I am imprisoned on an island far from home, but the wind that sweeps the vast lands sure does reek of freedom.
I’ve yet to decide.
Greyson Clifford.
******
20th April 1788
Cruel though it sounds, once the light dimmed out in their eyes, they became yet another soul-less carcass to bury.
The task left at hand would conventionally be referred to as burial, though with the large numbers, it is more akin to disposal. Their limbs, long passed the stage of rigor mortis, lolled against one another beside the pits, ready to be pushed, ready to be tumbled inside. Their eyes stared blankly at the skies, certain that they’ll never see them again. The sky wasn’t protecting him, this time. Just cold. Dim. Even the sun was struggling to break through the huddled clouds that watched over them.
Now, with the company of a chilly morning, it was just Greyson, the bodies and a flock of birds that crowded the arms of a lone tree stood amongst the landscape. Captivated as the birds fluttered their feathers, he wondered why he’d ever caged them. They tended to one another, bickering and beating their wings like the whip of an angry belt.
Greyson’s mouth formed the shape of an O, blowing an off key whistle, attempting to join the absent minded crowd that seemed way too content amongst themselves. Amused, a weak force tugged up the corner of his thin lips. But his conscious was stronger.
And they paid him no attention.
Somehow, that sunk a pit in his stomach that resembled the one in front of him, actually. The similarities were daunting. Convincing himself that he was just hungry, the guilt that clawed at him said otherwise.
Crack.
Startled, beneath his feet was a stray fragile stick snapped in half, and as the birds flew, no longer able to tolerate his company, his eyes chased their movement. North, north-east, east, south-east, south.
At south-south-west was a bent dark figure that stared dully above the body covered in a fluid of some sort. Vomit.
“Hey!” Greyson called.
When the man lifted his head, the clouds parted to allow a sharp stream of sunlight shine on a track of wetness on his cheeks. The sky was like a mother who had dragged wrist of her child to the door of the cruel neighbour, confronting him about his wrong doings.
‘What have you done? Why have you done this?’ She was telling him.
They were human, too.
*****
21st April
Men who preach war are indeed the ones who suffer the least by it.
Greyson Clifford.
*****
Here, the late afternoon held a borderless flow of clarity with the vast sky stretched out for infinity. A smattering of low level milky cotton ball clouds obstructed potions of the endless sky that showed off its infinite beauty. And as the sky’s hue darkens, the sun settles slowly in a magnificent flourish of ribbon-like fire.
When the sun settles, it’s as if a paint brush dipped in white was flicked at the bristles, with the sky as its victimised canvas. The stars feared to be lone, clinging to one another in clusters. Wide eyed in wonder, Greyson held his gaze upon the silver disk that rested upon them, a mother of some sort, bleaching the atmosphere into a ghost-like replica of day time. It’s a protective blanket, one could say. It hugs. It loves. It nurtures.
The creatures though, were the most baffling to him. Them? They strode as adults in their natural state, free of prickling fabric dangling off their thin sticks for legs - but lean, nonetheless. Their skin was chocolate, and oddly enough, reflected the sun that soaked it; something he’d never witnessed before. It illuminated skin that was smeared with ivory strokes resembling the harsh pressing drag of five finger tips.
“Be off!’, They had mimicked the British men once, all the way across the river. “Be off!”
They were too dark to be human, and too human to be dark, which was something he struggled to understand.
********
Coast of Sydney, 1788, April 12th
“Men who preach war are ones who suffer least by it.” is the mantra that quite perfectly emulates the dilemma I’m entrapped within. I’ve been questioning if my father’s words were only applicable to war with men, or if they apply to men at war with non-men resembling men?
Jackson, and another 4 men or so, are planning to raid an area for land. I’m promised a share, so long as I partake. It’s most likely it’ll involve the creatures. I asked if we’d be frightening them so they’d abandon the vicinity, but they spoke of the beings like they were dark spirits risen from beneath our feet. Such an exchange took forth:
“My God, Grey. Have you lost your mind? They’ve no decency. No worth. Their feet are stuck in time, yet they run with spears as weapons.”
Which I responded to, “They haven’t harmed us.”
“They’re dark by nature and so by spirit. Cursed to be mutants. Have you not seen them? They’re far behind the rest of civilisation. You shan’t feel sorry for them. Sentiment that hinders profit is of little value. I don’t want to hear it.”
Thing is, I do want a life here. I know I am imprisoned on an island far from home, but the wind that sweeps the vast lands sure does reek of freedom.
I’ve yet to decide.
Greyson Clifford.
******
20th April 1788
Cruel though it sounds, once the light dimmed out in their eyes, they became yet another soul-less carcass to bury.
The task left at hand would conventionally be referred to as burial, though with the large numbers, it is more akin to disposal. Their limbs, long passed the stage of rigor mortis, lolled against one another beside the pits, ready to be pushed, ready to be tumbled inside. Their eyes stared blankly at the skies, certain that they’ll never see them again. The sky wasn’t protecting him, this time. Just cold. Dim. Even the sun was struggling to break through the huddled clouds that watched over them.
Now, with the company of a chilly morning, it was just Greyson, the bodies and a flock of birds that crowded the arms of a lone tree stood amongst the landscape. Captivated as the birds fluttered their feathers, he wondered why he’d ever caged them. They tended to one another, bickering and beating their wings like the whip of an angry belt.
Greyson’s mouth formed the shape of an O, blowing an off key whistle, attempting to join the absent minded crowd that seemed way too content amongst themselves. Amused, a weak force tugged up the corner of his thin lips. But his conscious was stronger.
And they paid him no attention.
Somehow, that sunk a pit in his stomach that resembled the one in front of him, actually. The similarities were daunting. Convincing himself that he was just hungry, the guilt that clawed at him said otherwise.
Crack.
Startled, beneath his feet was a stray fragile stick snapped in half, and as the birds flew, no longer able to tolerate his company, his eyes chased their movement. North, north-east, east, south-east, south.
At south-south-west was a bent dark figure that stared dully above the body covered in a fluid of some sort. Vomit.
“Hey!” Greyson called.
When the man lifted his head, the clouds parted to allow a sharp stream of sunlight shine on a track of wetness on his cheeks. The sky was like a mother who had dragged wrist of her child to the door of the cruel neighbour, confronting him about his wrong doings.
‘What have you done? Why have you done this?’ She was telling him.
They were human, too.
*****
21st April
Men who preach war are indeed the ones who suffer the least by it.
Greyson Clifford.
*****
Post by: fantasticbeasts3 on September 13, 2017, 01:23:28 pm
Post by: left right gn on September 13, 2017, 04:11:11 pm
Hi there :) I'll check it out for you :)Thanks Elyse.SpoilerAnother morning at church… praying to someone or something we don’t even know exists. This initial opening is the perfect stage to establish a very personal voice in the protagonist. I'd use grammar here to convey the way this sentence should be received. For example, "Another morning at Church.
Why? Praying to someone, or something, we don't even know exists?" Play around with it - read your sentence and then read mine. Find some kind of half way point there. I don't know if your voice is placidly going along with it, or frustrated, or....
"Praying to someone, or even something, that we don't even know exists..."
My mother answers each response loudly, confidently. When she sings the hymns, her face virtually glows. She hits each note perfectly. They’re out of my range. Nice metaphor. In the sea of voices, I’m a piece of plastic, drifting aimlessly. Katy Perry? ;) I wonder what beach I’ll be thrown up on.
In contrast to Mum, my father is sombre during the service. Afterwards, however, he’s overly gregarious, greeting everyone with an unyielding handshake and a “God bless you”. As a reader, I'm trying to visualise this. Is he big and smiley now? Or macho and sincere?
I stand, waiting by the car, watching their happiness from a distance. They’ve found something here, something solid and certain; something they can hold on to. But the whole experience makes me dizzy, as though my feet aren’t on firm ground.
In the car, on the way home, “Family dinner tonight?” says Dad. I grimace. He catches my expression in the rear vision mirror.
“You could ask Sally?” he continues. That’s a first. Mum gives Dad a sideways glance. She’s always telling me I don’t have to hurry. There’s plenty of time for that sort of thing later, she says. She never explains exactly what that sort of thing is.
Dad is waiting for a response. He’s looking at me in the mirror. The car jolts as it hits another pothole. I wish he’d look where he’s going. New line for this dialogue. “I can’t. I need to catch up with Mark tonight. We’ve already bought the tickets for the game.”
Silence…
Then:
Silence. And then,
“There’s no hurry. Do what you think is right,” Mum says. Her tone is gentle, but so certain; as though it was that easy.
* * *
Mark whispers something to me. The crowd is loud and raucous, a wild sea of people, and so I lean in closer. Mark whispers again. It’s almost intimate. I like him.
“Who do you think’s the hottest?” he says.
I know what he's talking about, I'd use a full stop here instead of a comma. Otherwise, I believe a semi colon is more correct than a commaI do not want to acknowledge what he is talking about. So, I focus on the game, eyes forward. Sport narrows the world, simplifies it down to rules and times. Predictable, safe.
"The blond, the one on the end, for me," he grins, pointing at the lucky cheerleader who has caught his eye. My cheeks burn, I feel the heat.
"I have a girlfriend," I reply, hoping it sounded confident rather than forced. I am looking straight at him, directly at him. I should be watching the game.
Mark laughs. “And where is Sally?” His laugh is glorious, carefree. Maybe I don’t like him, maybe I envy him. “Sally’s not here. Nothing wrong with looking...”
I turn away from him, feeling hot and nauseous, my mouth too dry to swallow. New line for this dialogue "Water," I mutter, making my way towards the kiosk and the lines of impatient patrons. I felt seasick as if I was tossed violently on frenzied waves, helpless as the sea dragged me along in directions I didn't want to go. Nice link back to the plastic earlier, connecting that ocean scenery.
When I reach the bar the woman before me says something to the guy she is with, it must be funny as he rewards it with a laugh. He reminds me of Mark. They're holding hands and look comfortable with each other. At this point I want to tell you how much I'm enjoying your writing. It's quite frank,
and I empathise with the character. I'm still left wondering about their level of complacence with Church at the beginning, but otherwise it's developed really well.
* * *
Sally tries to take my hand. I’m uncomfortable. She is sitting next to me on the couch, she is too close. New line. "The game with Mark, how was it"
I wouldn't leave a gap here, I'd bring it all together so that we know the next quote is from the same speaker.
I edge slightly away. "Were you with another girl?" she asks, and I’m not sure if she is serious.
Her accusation is ridiculous. I’m here, aren’t I? I get up and begin to pace the room. "Of course I was with Mark. Ask him!"
I'm being honest, trying to keep my voice steady, and I all I feel is guilt. "Can we just have a night without fighting?"
I've hurt her, as her eyes glisten with tears. I’m confused. I never wanted to hurt her, I'm sure of that. I love her, I think I do. I sit down next to her again. That’s what lovers do, isn’t it? They sit close. I try to do what’s expected.
She takes this as a peace offering and slides closer. She embraces me and I let her. We sit in silence. I want the silence to do the work, as I’m lost for words. Gradually, she relaxes, her weight settles into me, as though she’s increasingly at rest, secure.
I feel a sense of suspense, as though I've been dared to wade back into the unpredictable sea. The feeling of seasickness returns and I move away from the encroaching waves. She turns to face me, leaning in and attempts to kiss me. She’s playing at desire, I know; I’ve done it myself, many times, in this room. What she wants is safety. So do I, but I realise I can’t give it to her.
Her safety is the sea crashing on the shore. Great continuation of this motif.
* * *
“Family dinner tonight?” probes Mum. She seems surprised at my assent. She shouldn’t be. I’ve been at home a lot recently. Four walls to contain the confusion.
“Ask Sally,” says Dad. He says it calmly, but it feels like a command. He’s grabbing at normalcy. He must sense my awkwardness because he adds, "She seems a nice girl."
When I don’t comment, I’m sure mum is about to say we shouldn’t hurry them. And suddenly I want to tell them I’ve always felt hurried, pushed, always felt as though the place they’ve found is not for me, that the ground has always felt insecure. And then I say it.
It’s as though an earthquake has occurred.
Dad wants to argue. Mum just cries, stinging tears, raw like Sally’s. It’s as though I’m looking at them from a distance. It’s like an enormous fault line has opened up between us. A plunging abyss and they’re so, so scared.
But I’m not. For the first time, I feel as though I’m standing with my two feet on the ground. Certain. Secure. So I say it again.
“Mum, Dad, I’m gay.”
I really, reallllly like this story. There are some technical confusions for me but overall it's great.
Starting with some positives - the writing style is very fluid for me to read, I can digest it all really well. I can sense the extreme confusion the protagonist is feeling, it's very well displayed as an experience that's turbulent with a few brief stages of stability. I also like the way you've approached the entire subject manner - by going from a friend, relationship, and family, point of view.
Some things that need to improvement, next. I will say though, even though I got to the end and realised I don't even know the protagonist's gender, it works for me. So I thought the protagonist was a female. I thought the protagonist is openly gay to her friends, and one of her friends is Mark. So this is why Mark is probing to talk about the hottest cheerleaders, because the protagonist and Mark both fancy girls. Then when she comes home to Sally, her girlfriend, Sally is jealous that the protagonist was hanging out with other girls, and given that she's a lesbian, this causes concern for Sally. But actually, Mark is just a friend. So the way I read the confusion about Mark and his moments of cuteness - is the protagonist exploring the waves of being bisexual and trying to find identity amongst it, trying to work it all out. And the parents were trying to bring Sally over for dinner as a way of showing they support her being gay.
Then I realised, I don't know the protagonist is a girl. Mark could be a mate that the male protagonist fancies, and the protagonist is in a heterosexual relationship despite being a homosexual. And then this means the parents are trying to force Sally over as a sense of bringing heteronormativity to the household when in fact the protagonist is feeling this pressure to reveal that they don't fit into this narrative.
So, I went through your entire story understanding an entirely different narrative to the one you meant (I think!). :P
It's up to you if you want to change this or leave it as a dual narrative. I'd get more people to read it and see how they interpret the protagonist.
Also, the Church at the beginning. I think we should either revisit it, exploring it more, or delete it from the story. I expect a more religious vein throughout, and it doesn't really come. It does a good job of grounding the parents in their respective roles, but maybe we could have more of this? Maybe they say grace before a meal later? Or maybe before he or she goes to the game the mums says "I'll pray they'll win!" or something...I don't know for sure, but I forget about the Christian thing at the beginning, and I think it's an opportunity to expand your story, even if just on a subtle level.
So, what do you think? Ultimately - great writing, interesting incidental dual narrative, it's just about adjusting the plot so slightly that your reader is engaged with the way you intend them to be :)
That's awkward, I intended the character to be a male but reading over it myself, I didn't really specify...
Post by: Mounica on September 13, 2017, 06:02:04 pm
so if i send in my creative today, how long do you think itll take to get feedback
Thank youu
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 13, 2017, 06:14:22 pm
Hey guys,
so if i send in my creative today, how long do you think itll take to get feedback
Thank youu
At the moment it's taking us 2-3 days, so probably similar to that ;D
Post by: Mounica on September 13, 2017, 06:43:44 pm
At the moment it's taking us 2-3 days, so probably similar to that ;Dokay, thanks Jamon!
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 15, 2017, 10:40:01 am
Thanks Elyse.
That's awkward, I intended the character to be a male but reading over it myself, I didn't really specify...
That's ok - no stress! It works as a very interesting dual narrative. Which is something a lot of people would try to pull off and you've managed to do it without trying :P If you want to make the narrative clearer, I'd head back and approach it by editing it so we know it's a man, and then we can view the story in the light you intend it :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 17, 2017, 11:54:16 am
i gave the creative i submitted here to the english marking box, and got a 7/15 because, and i quote, "you have described a setting, not a story." what should i do? put action into the story, or make up a new plot?
Sorry this got missed fantastic!! I'm bummed that they've given you that feedback, I don't really agree with it. Buuut I do see its merit as well, and I think it primarily comes back to that lack of structure. As a reader, because it is difficult to understand where these situations sit chronologically, it is harder to empathise with the "story" you are telling through the reflection. I think implementing the changes I suggested last time, namely perhaps implementing a small story with flashbacks forming the bulk and pushing Discovery more clearly, should get you back into the teens pretty easily (fingers crossed) :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 17, 2017, 12:27:07 pm
Hey! This was something I wrote and based off my year 11 creative that had to have the same setting as The Secret River (that was our prescribed, if anyone's read it..) Could I get it looked out? I'm not sure where to go with this or what to exactly fix and I'd really appreciate it :)
Ps. the line about the birds not "paying attention" was inspired off a creative I read here because I thought I could twist it in a cool way to turn nature / the world against him and it just fit. I hope that comes through and is okay!
Sure thing! Attached with feedback in bold :)
Spoiler
Terra Nullius was the universe flipped on its axis.
Here, the late afternoon held a borderless flow of clarity with the vast sky stretched out for infinity. A smattering of low level milky cotton ball clouds obstructed potions of the endless sky that showed off its infinite beauty. And as the sky’s hue darkens, the sun settles slowly in a magnificent flourish of ribbon-like fire. Great use of descriptive language here - Be careful it isn't overdone, you've told me the sky is endless in about three different ways!
When the sun settles, it’s as if a paint brush dipped in white was flicked at the bristles, with the sky as its victimised canvas. Cool use of figurative language. The stars feared to be lone, clinging to one another in clusters. Wide eyed in wonder, Greyson held his gaze upon the silver disk that rested upon them, a mother of some sort, bleaching the atmosphere into a ghost-like replica of day time. It’s a protective blanket, one could say. It hugs. It loves. It nurtures. This transition to the characters perspective is smooth and natural, nicely done.
The creatures though, were the most baffling to him. Them? They strode as adults in their natural state, free of prickling fabric dangling off their thin sticks for legs - but lean, nonetheless. Their skin was chocolate, and oddly enough, reflected the sun that soaked it; something he’d never witnessed before. It illuminated skin that was smeared with ivory strokes resembling the harsh pressing drag of five finger tips.
“Be off!’, They had mimicked the British men once, all the way across the river. “Be off!”
They were too dark to be human, and too human to be dark, which was something he struggled to understand. Like this finishing line. Excellent use of descriptive language to set the scene in this first section, I'm expecting you to shift away from this style and push the story forward in the next.
********
Coast of Sydney, 1788, April 12th
“Men who preach war are ones who suffer least by it.” is the mantra that quite perfectly emulates the dilemma I’m entrapped within. You are being quite verbose and dancing around the point you want to make - It worked above because it was painting a scene, here it might be just a tad laborious. "is the mantra that quite perfectly emulates the dilemma I'm entrapped within" could easily be reduced to four or five words. I’ve been questioning if my father’s words were only applicable to war with men, or if they apply to men at war with non-men resembling men?
Jackson, and another 4 men or so, are planning to raid an area for land. I’m promised a share, so long as I partake. It’s most likely it’ll involve the creatures. I asked if we’d be frightening them so they’d abandon the vicinity, but they spoke of the beings like they were dark spirits risen from beneath our feet. Such an exchange took forth:
“My God, Grey. Have you lost your mind? They’ve no decency. No worth. Their feet are stuck in time, yet they run with spears as weapons.”
Which I responded to, “They haven’t harmed us.”
“They’re dark by nature and so by spirit. Cursed to be mutants. Have you not seen them? They’re far behind the rest of civilisation. You shan’t feel sorry for them. Sentiment that hinders profit is of little value. I don’t want to hear it.”
Thing is, I do want a life here. I know I am imprisoned on an island far from home, but the wind that sweeps the vast lands sure does reek of freedom.
I’ve yet to decide.
Greyson Clifford.
****** As a comment on this whole section here, I like the premise. It's clever. However, the dialogue feels a bit too rigid and unnatural - I get that it is supposed to be articulate and matching the context, but I just don't believe, as a reader, that they would actually speak in that way. If you read it aloud, it sounds manufactured, ever so slightly. I'd try to adjust it to make it a bit more natural.
20th April 1788
Cruel though it sounds, once the light dimmed out in their eyes, they became yet another soul-less carcass to bury. Very powerful opening to this section.
The task left at hand would conventionally be referred to as burial, though with the large numbers, it is more akin to disposal. Their limbs, long passed the stage of rigor mortis, lolled against one another beside the pits, ready to be pushed, ready to be tumbled inside. Their eyes stared blankly at the skies, certain that they’ll never see them again. The sky wasn’t protecting him, this time. Just cold. Dim. Even the sun was struggling to break through the huddled clouds that watched over them. Again, very powerful use of language. This is a difficult scene to do justice to, and I feel you are doing it fantastically.
Now, with the company of a chilly morning, it was just Greyson, the bodies and a flock of birds that crowded the arms of a lone tree stood amongst the landscape. Captivated as the birds fluttered their feathers, he wondered why he’d ever caged them. They tended to one another, bickering and beating their wings like the whip of an angry belt. That simile feels slightly forced/out of place.
Greyson’s mouth formed the shape of an O, blowing an off key whistle, attempting to join the absent minded crowd that seemed way too content amongst themselves. Amused, a weak force tugged up the corner of his thin lips. But his conscious was stronger.
And they paid him no attention.
Somehow, that sunk a pit in his stomach that resembled the one in front of him, actually. I'd take out the 'actually' - I think it subtracts from the tone you are trying to create. The similarities were daunting. Convincing himself that he was just hungry, the guilt that clawed at him said otherwise.
Crack.
Startled, beneath his feet was a stray fragile stick snapped in half, and as the birds flew, no longer able to tolerate his company, his eyes chased their movement. North, north-east, east, south-east, south.
At south-south-west was a bent dark figure that stared dully above the body covered in a fluid of some sort. Vomit.
“Hey!” Greyson called.
When the man lifted his head, the clouds parted to allow a sharp stream of sunlight shine on a track of wetness on his cheeks. The sky was like a mother who had dragged wrist of her child to the door of the cruel neighbour, confronting him about his wrong doings.
‘What have you done? Why have you done this?’ She was telling him. Putting this into direct dialogue perhaps makes it a little unclear that you aren't directly referring to someone in the situation, but instead the figurative scenario of the cruel neighbour. Could be misinterpreted, I'd perhaps just say the same thing but paraphrased/referenced in some way? Up to you!
They were human, too.
*****
21st April
Men who preach war are indeed the ones who suffer the least by it.
Greyson Clifford.
*****
Here, the late afternoon held a borderless flow of clarity with the vast sky stretched out for infinity. A smattering of low level milky cotton ball clouds obstructed potions of the endless sky that showed off its infinite beauty. And as the sky’s hue darkens, the sun settles slowly in a magnificent flourish of ribbon-like fire. Great use of descriptive language here - Be careful it isn't overdone, you've told me the sky is endless in about three different ways!
When the sun settles, it’s as if a paint brush dipped in white was flicked at the bristles, with the sky as its victimised canvas. Cool use of figurative language. The stars feared to be lone, clinging to one another in clusters. Wide eyed in wonder, Greyson held his gaze upon the silver disk that rested upon them, a mother of some sort, bleaching the atmosphere into a ghost-like replica of day time. It’s a protective blanket, one could say. It hugs. It loves. It nurtures. This transition to the characters perspective is smooth and natural, nicely done.
The creatures though, were the most baffling to him. Them? They strode as adults in their natural state, free of prickling fabric dangling off their thin sticks for legs - but lean, nonetheless. Their skin was chocolate, and oddly enough, reflected the sun that soaked it; something he’d never witnessed before. It illuminated skin that was smeared with ivory strokes resembling the harsh pressing drag of five finger tips.
“Be off!’, They had mimicked the British men once, all the way across the river. “Be off!”
They were too dark to be human, and too human to be dark, which was something he struggled to understand. Like this finishing line. Excellent use of descriptive language to set the scene in this first section, I'm expecting you to shift away from this style and push the story forward in the next.
********
Coast of Sydney, 1788, April 12th
“Men who preach war are ones who suffer least by it.” is the mantra that quite perfectly emulates the dilemma I’m entrapped within. You are being quite verbose and dancing around the point you want to make - It worked above because it was painting a scene, here it might be just a tad laborious. "is the mantra that quite perfectly emulates the dilemma I'm entrapped within" could easily be reduced to four or five words. I’ve been questioning if my father’s words were only applicable to war with men, or if they apply to men at war with non-men resembling men?
Jackson, and another 4 men or so, are planning to raid an area for land. I’m promised a share, so long as I partake. It’s most likely it’ll involve the creatures. I asked if we’d be frightening them so they’d abandon the vicinity, but they spoke of the beings like they were dark spirits risen from beneath our feet. Such an exchange took forth:
“My God, Grey. Have you lost your mind? They’ve no decency. No worth. Their feet are stuck in time, yet they run with spears as weapons.”
Which I responded to, “They haven’t harmed us.”
“They’re dark by nature and so by spirit. Cursed to be mutants. Have you not seen them? They’re far behind the rest of civilisation. You shan’t feel sorry for them. Sentiment that hinders profit is of little value. I don’t want to hear it.”
Thing is, I do want a life here. I know I am imprisoned on an island far from home, but the wind that sweeps the vast lands sure does reek of freedom.
I’ve yet to decide.
Greyson Clifford.
****** As a comment on this whole section here, I like the premise. It's clever. However, the dialogue feels a bit too rigid and unnatural - I get that it is supposed to be articulate and matching the context, but I just don't believe, as a reader, that they would actually speak in that way. If you read it aloud, it sounds manufactured, ever so slightly. I'd try to adjust it to make it a bit more natural.
20th April 1788
Cruel though it sounds, once the light dimmed out in their eyes, they became yet another soul-less carcass to bury. Very powerful opening to this section.
The task left at hand would conventionally be referred to as burial, though with the large numbers, it is more akin to disposal. Their limbs, long passed the stage of rigor mortis, lolled against one another beside the pits, ready to be pushed, ready to be tumbled inside. Their eyes stared blankly at the skies, certain that they’ll never see them again. The sky wasn’t protecting him, this time. Just cold. Dim. Even the sun was struggling to break through the huddled clouds that watched over them. Again, very powerful use of language. This is a difficult scene to do justice to, and I feel you are doing it fantastically.
Now, with the company of a chilly morning, it was just Greyson, the bodies and a flock of birds that crowded the arms of a lone tree stood amongst the landscape. Captivated as the birds fluttered their feathers, he wondered why he’d ever caged them. They tended to one another, bickering and beating their wings like the whip of an angry belt. That simile feels slightly forced/out of place.
Greyson’s mouth formed the shape of an O, blowing an off key whistle, attempting to join the absent minded crowd that seemed way too content amongst themselves. Amused, a weak force tugged up the corner of his thin lips. But his conscious was stronger.
And they paid him no attention.
Somehow, that sunk a pit in his stomach that resembled the one in front of him, actually. I'd take out the 'actually' - I think it subtracts from the tone you are trying to create. The similarities were daunting. Convincing himself that he was just hungry, the guilt that clawed at him said otherwise.
Crack.
Startled, beneath his feet was a stray fragile stick snapped in half, and as the birds flew, no longer able to tolerate his company, his eyes chased their movement. North, north-east, east, south-east, south.
At south-south-west was a bent dark figure that stared dully above the body covered in a fluid of some sort. Vomit.
“Hey!” Greyson called.
When the man lifted his head, the clouds parted to allow a sharp stream of sunlight shine on a track of wetness on his cheeks. The sky was like a mother who had dragged wrist of her child to the door of the cruel neighbour, confronting him about his wrong doings.
‘What have you done? Why have you done this?’ She was telling him. Putting this into direct dialogue perhaps makes it a little unclear that you aren't directly referring to someone in the situation, but instead the figurative scenario of the cruel neighbour. Could be misinterpreted, I'd perhaps just say the same thing but paraphrased/referenced in some way? Up to you!
They were human, too.
*****
21st April
Men who preach war are indeed the ones who suffer the least by it.
Greyson Clifford.
*****
I've not got many comments throughout this piece, I think it is brilliantly written! Excellent use of figurative language and imagery to set the scene and the style works excellently to establish the mood. This is a really dangerous subject matter to use, it is very easy to do poorly, but I think you handle it well.
As a structural comment, I'm not necessarily a fan of swapping between the journal entries and narration - I feel you should pick one or the other, and I think narration is going to give you more freedom to write in that incredible descriptive style you've shown. I do like the journal entry at the end and how it encompasses that final realisation though, so I think you could go either way. I think having both forms in there is perhaps just not as seamless as it could be. Personal opinion and definitely won't impact things majorly!
In terms of the conceptual strength for Discovery, I think it is quite powerful, though you could perhaps do a tad more at the end to accentuate the impact of the realisation on the persona. I think different markers place different weightings on the importance of this a tad, you've covered the lead up to the Discovery nicely. The aftermath is brief, but powerful. It might be worth getting a second opinion from a teacher on how well it reflects the concept - I'd personally say it would do the job, provided it matches the question and the stimulus ;D
Beyond this, it is mostly the few nitpicks I included in bold. You have a great piece here! Work on honing it and applying it to different stimuli/questions to tests its adaptability, I'm sure it is going to score really well :)
Post by: mjorfian on September 17, 2017, 08:41:11 pm
Sure thing! Attached with feedback in bold :)SpoilerTerra Nullius was the universe flipped on its axis.
Here, the late afternoon held a borderless flow of clarity with the vast sky stretched out for infinity. A smattering of low level milky cotton ball clouds obstructed potions of the endless sky that showed off its infinite beauty. And as the sky’s hue darkens, the sun settles slowly in a magnificent flourish of ribbon-like fire. Great use of descriptive language here - Be careful it isn't overdone, you've told me the sky is endless in about three different ways!
When the sun settles, it’s as if a paint brush dipped in white was flicked at the bristles, with the sky as its victimised canvas. Cool use of figurative language. The stars feared to be lone, clinging to one another in clusters. Wide eyed in wonder, Greyson held his gaze upon the silver disk that rested upon them, a mother of some sort, bleaching the atmosphere into a ghost-like replica of day time. It’s a protective blanket, one could say. It hugs. It loves. It nurtures. This transition to the characters perspective is smooth and natural, nicely done.
The creatures though, were the most baffling to him. Them? They strode as adults in their natural state, free of prickling fabric dangling off their thin sticks for legs - but lean, nonetheless. Their skin was chocolate, and oddly enough, reflected the sun that soaked it; something he’d never witnessed before. It illuminated skin that was smeared with ivory strokes resembling the harsh pressing drag of five finger tips.
“Be off!’, They had mimicked the British men once, all the way across the river. “Be off!”
They were too dark to be human, and too human to be dark, which was something he struggled to understand. Like this finishing line. Excellent use of descriptive language to set the scene in this first section, I'm expecting you to shift away from this style and push the story forward in the next.
********
Coast of Sydney, 1788, April 12th
“Men who preach war are ones who suffer least by it.” is the mantra that quite perfectly emulates the dilemma I’m entrapped within. You are being quite verbose and dancing around the point you want to make - It worked above because it was painting a scene, here it might be just a tad laborious. "is the mantra that quite perfectly emulates the dilemma I'm entrapped within" could easily be reduced to four or five words. I’ve been questioning if my father’s words were only applicable to war with men, or if they apply to men at war with non-men resembling men?
Jackson, and another 4 men or so, are planning to raid an area for land. I’m promised a share, so long as I partake. It’s most likely it’ll involve the creatures. I asked if we’d be frightening them so they’d abandon the vicinity, but they spoke of the beings like they were dark spirits risen from beneath our feet. Such an exchange took forth:
“My God, Grey. Have you lost your mind? They’ve no decency. No worth. Their feet are stuck in time, yet they run with spears as weapons.”
Which I responded to, “They haven’t harmed us.”
“They’re dark by nature and so by spirit. Cursed to be mutants. Have you not seen them? They’re far behind the rest of civilisation. You shan’t feel sorry for them. Sentiment that hinders profit is of little value. I don’t want to hear it.”
Thing is, I do want a life here. I know I am imprisoned on an island far from home, but the wind that sweeps the vast lands sure does reek of freedom.
I’ve yet to decide.
Greyson Clifford.
****** As a comment on this whole section here, I like the premise. It's clever. However, the dialogue feels a bit too rigid and unnatural - I get that it is supposed to be articulate and matching the context, but I just don't believe, as a reader, that they would actually speak in that way. If you read it aloud, it sounds manufactured, ever so slightly. I'd try to adjust it to make it a bit more natural.
20th April 1788
Cruel though it sounds, once the light dimmed out in their eyes, they became yet another soul-less carcass to bury. Very powerful opening to this section.
The task left at hand would conventionally be referred to as burial, though with the large numbers, it is more akin to disposal. Their limbs, long passed the stage of rigor mortis, lolled against one another beside the pits, ready to be pushed, ready to be tumbled inside. Their eyes stared blankly at the skies, certain that they’ll never see them again. The sky wasn’t protecting him, this time. Just cold. Dim. Even the sun was struggling to break through the huddled clouds that watched over them. Again, very powerful use of language. This is a difficult scene to do justice to, and I feel you are doing it fantastically.
Now, with the company of a chilly morning, it was just Greyson, the bodies and a flock of birds that crowded the arms of a lone tree stood amongst the landscape. Captivated as the birds fluttered their feathers, he wondered why he’d ever caged them. They tended to one another, bickering and beating their wings like the whip of an angry belt. That simile feels slightly forced/out of place.
Greyson’s mouth formed the shape of an O, blowing an off key whistle, attempting to join the absent minded crowd that seemed way too content amongst themselves. Amused, a weak force tugged up the corner of his thin lips. But his conscious was stronger.
And they paid him no attention.
Somehow, that sunk a pit in his stomach that resembled the one in front of him, actually. I'd take out the 'actually' - I think it subtracts from the tone you are trying to create. The similarities were daunting. Convincing himself that he was just hungry, the guilt that clawed at him said otherwise.
Crack.
Startled, beneath his feet was a stray fragile stick snapped in half, and as the birds flew, no longer able to tolerate his company, his eyes chased their movement. North, north-east, east, south-east, south.
At south-south-west was a bent dark figure that stared dully above the body covered in a fluid of some sort. Vomit.
“Hey!” Greyson called.
When the man lifted his head, the clouds parted to allow a sharp stream of sunlight shine on a track of wetness on his cheeks. The sky was like a mother who had dragged wrist of her child to the door of the cruel neighbour, confronting him about his wrong doings.
‘What have you done? Why have you done this?’ She was telling him. Putting this into direct dialogue perhaps makes it a little unclear that you aren't directly referring to someone in the situation, but instead the figurative scenario of the cruel neighbour. Could be misinterpreted, I'd perhaps just say the same thing but paraphrased/referenced in some way? Up to you!
They were human, too.
*****
21st April
Men who preach war are indeed the ones who suffer the least by it.
Greyson Clifford.
*****
I've not got many comments throughout this piece, I think it is brilliantly written! Excellent use of figurative language and imagery to set the scene and the style works excellently to establish the mood. This is a really dangerous subject matter to use, it is very easy to do poorly, but I think you handle it well.
As a structural comment, I'm not necessarily a fan of swapping between the journal entries and narration - I feel you should pick one or the other, and I think narration is going to give you more freedom to write in that incredible descriptive style you've shown. I do like the journal entry at the end and how it encompasses that final realisation though, so I think you could go either way. I think having both forms in there is perhaps just not as seamless as it could be. Personal opinion and definitely won't impact things majorly!
In terms of the conceptual strength for Discovery, I think it is quite powerful, though you could perhaps do a tad more at the end to accentuate the impact of the realisation on the persona. I think different markers place different weightings on the importance of this a tad, you've covered the lead up to the Discovery nicely. The aftermath is brief, but powerful. It might be worth getting a second opinion from a teacher on how well it reflects the concept - I'd personally say it would do the job, provided it matches the question and the stimulus ;D
Beyond this, it is mostly the few nitpicks I included in bold. You have a great piece here! Work on honing it and applying it to different stimuli/questions to tests its adaptability, I'm sure it is going to score really well :)
Thanks Jamon!! Definitely see what you mean with the dialogue, it does sound fake it's weird hahahaha. I wrote it in a rush before trials so I suppose I didn't pay as much attention as I should have in terms of authenticity in terms of that :D. As for the 1st journal entry, I think I get what you mean. I'll give normal narration a go and probably repost it later. But, just out of curiosity, what would you score this piece if the stimulus was embedded in properly? I'd love to know.
And while we're on the topic of stimuli, how often do I have to incorporate it in for it to be sufficient? I'm worried they'll throw something completely different my way and I'll get lost and have to scrap the whole thing ahhhh. And another thing. If the stimulus is say, a starry sky, do I always have to refer to the stars as well or can I use the sky as a concept as well? (I'm asking because my trials stimulus was that haha). Thanks again!!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 18, 2017, 12:56:45 am
Thanks Jamon!! Definitely see what you mean with the dialogue, it does sound fake it's weird hahahaha. I wrote it in a rush before trials so I suppose I didn't pay as much attention as I should have in terms of authenticity in terms of that :D. As for the 1st journal entry, I think I get what you mean. I'll give normal narration a go and probably repost it later. But, just out of curiosity, what would you score this piece if the stimulus was embedded in properly? I'd love to know.
I'd say, if you wrote something very similar to this that responded well to the question and stimuli, you'd definitely be in the Band 6 range :)
Quote
And while we're on the topic of stimuli, how often do I have to incorporate it in for it to be sufficient? I'm worried they'll throw something completely different my way and I'll get lost and have to scrap the whole thing ahhhh. And another thing. If the stimulus is say, a starry sky, do I always have to refer to the stars as well or can I use the sky as a concept as well? (I'm asking because my trials stimulus was that haha). Thanks again!!
The rule I go off is you need to reference it enough so that a marker who knows the stimulus can tell you've used it, but not so much that someone who doesn't know the stimulus can tell you've used it. So essentially, it should be natural. This of course depends on how they want you to include it as well - Central element, aspect, inspiration, etc :)
You can definitely just use the sky! There is a little wiggle with how your visual stimuli are interpreted ;D
Post by: HSCNewcastle2017 on September 19, 2017, 10:56:32 pm
I really need some feedback so I can amend my creative writing. I have spoken with my teacher numerous times in which I have to explore discovery in greater depth. Having moved to Newcastle from a small remote school in western NSW half way through Yr 12 am really struggling, especially with this AOS. Hoping to be at least in Band 5 range but a lot of work to be done. Thanks in advance for your time.
Spoiler
Taming fear towards creative living
[/u][/b]Happiness, envy, curiosity, eagerness, disappointment, rage, thirst, hunger, dehydration, stress, tire, bother, calm, regret, sweat, tears, pain and excitement. Cracked, dusty, arid, interior landscapes, mirages glistening and shimmering over the horizon on treeless plains where I experience a wild, vast variety of feelings and emotions.
Curious spirits blossom throughout my entire body as I wander across the productive black soil, mimosa dominated plains and broadacre cotton and wheat fields monitoring and admiring spectacular native fauna and flora. My heart beats rapidly as I observe the abundant birdlife especially the brightly coloured galahs, cockatiels and parrots feeding on the grains and seeding grassy woodland through my powerful zooming binoculars providing magical vision. Paddock by paddock filled with hundreds of hopping kangaroos and grazing livestock dominated by cattle and sheep. Proficient photography skills allow for the snapping and capturing creating sensational photographs of the flat landscape whilst thoroughly appreciating and regretting all our wildlife and exploring and learning about our natural environment.
Feelings of thirst and hunger smother through my body as joyful experiences flash before my eyes. Blistered feet, painful tiger pears attacking and spiking my legs and feet, creepy cobwebs groping my face, thick layers of dust storming spraying and absorbing in my eyes and blowing gale bitter winds create unpleasant atmospheres. My heart courageously screams when listening to abundant birdlife singing and calling their dawn, dusk and daily choruses as so the harvesting cotton pickers, rustling leaves, flowing waterways, bouncing kangaroos, spraying aero go flocks and gale blowing powerful gusty winds making noises in the bush.
Filthy dust enters my mouth making for a horrible taste unlike the crispy saltbush and fruiting fig tasting delicious when obtained from the surrounding scrubland. Lovely, magnificent natural scents of flowering and fruiting vegetation makes me burst with pleasure unlike the putrid, horrific smell of dead pigs, foxes and roos that litter the landscape in the hazy heatwave conditions.
I had a huge taste of fear when I transitioned into the city. Too many people. Bustling streets. Road infrastructure dominated by multi-laned thoroughfares with hundreds of major intersections and traffic lights. Lively neighbourhoods. Public transport plentiful and dominating the region. Much different to the drought-stricken farmland and the red and black earth landscapes around my hometown where lifestyles are slow-paced and unemployment and crime is increasing and businesses shutting down. Fear is a barren landscape where our dreams wilt in the hot sun. Creative living is a path for the brave-hearted. I will not allow it to overtake my emotional and self-discovery to find a better quality of life. I have the shocking and sudden uncovering of my aspiration for education and the desire to attain a degree at university. I have re-discovered my passion for the environment and desire to contribute to the needs of our planet. These dreams of mine are original and unique, while my fear is not. But do I feel as though I have the experience and have I uncovered my true sense of place in the world? Where the roads and traffic is busy, the people are unfriendly and the landscape is too urbanised. I am overwhelmed with intimidation, alienation, exclusion and defiance. Newcastle such a dirty grimy place like a huge coal mine. Even the rural semi-arid landscapes are less dusty.
I notice that when someone tries to kill off their fear, they unwillingly murder the creativity. So I don’t try killing my fear and instead take it with me through life. I have the long-term realisation that I must return to my birth place. The country people are friendly, roads are single-laned, the wildlife is abundant and the flat fallow landscapes are peacefully inviting. I follow this path towards creative living and know in the future that I should directly look fear in the face when getting out of my comfort zone.
Post by: fantasticbeasts3 on September 19, 2017, 11:13:08 pm
Hey guys,
I really need some feedback so I can amend my creative writing. I have spoken with my teacher numerous times in which I have to explore discovery in greater depth. Having moved to Newcastle from a small remote school in western NSW half way through Yr 12 am really struggling, especially with this AOS. Hoping to be at least in Band 5 range but a lot of work to be done. Thanks in advance for your time.SpoilerTaming fear towards creative living[/u][/b]
Happiness, envy, curiosity, eagerness, disappointment, rage, thirst, hunger, dehydration, stress, tire, bother, calm, regret, sweat, tears, pain and excitement. Cracked, dusty, arid, interior landscapes, mirages glistening and shimmering over the horizon on treeless plains where I experience a wild, vast variety of feelings and emotions.
Curious spirits blossom throughout my entire body as I wander across the productive black soil, mimosa dominated plains and broadacre cotton and wheat fields monitoring and admiring spectacular native fauna and flora. My heart beats rapidly as I observe the abundant birdlife especially the brightly coloured galahs, cockatiels and parrots feeding on the grains and seeding grassy woodland through my powerful zooming binoculars providing magical vision. Paddock by paddock filled with hundreds of hopping kangaroos and grazing livestock dominated by cattle and sheep. Proficient photography skills allow for the snapping and capturing creating sensational photographs of the flat landscape whilst thoroughly appreciating and regretting all our wildlife and exploring and learning about our natural environment.
Feelings of thirst and hunger smother through my body as joyful experiences flash before my eyes. Blistered feet, painful tiger pears attacking and spiking my legs and feet, creepy cobwebs groping my face, thick layers of dust storming spraying and absorbing in my eyes and blowing gale bitter winds create unpleasant atmospheres. My heart courageously screams when listening to abundant birdlife singing and calling their dawn, dusk and daily choruses as so the harvesting cotton pickers, rustling leaves, flowing waterways, bouncing kangaroos, spraying aero go flocks and gale blowing powerful gusty winds making noises in the bush.
Filthy dust enters my mouth making for a horrible taste unlike the crispy saltbush and fruiting fig tasting delicious when obtained from the surrounding scrubland. Lovely, magnificent natural scents of flowering and fruiting vegetation makes me burst with pleasure unlike the putrid, horrific smell of dead pigs, foxes and roos that litter the landscape in the hazy heatwave conditions.
I had a huge taste of fear when I transitioned into the city. Too many people. Bustling streets. Road infrastructure dominated by multi-laned thoroughfares with hundreds of major intersections and traffic lights. Lively neighbourhoods. Public transport plentiful and dominating the region. Much different to the drought-stricken farmland and the red and black earth landscapes around my hometown where lifestyles are slow-paced and unemployment and crime is increasing and businesses shutting down. Fear is a barren landscape where our dreams wilt in the hot sun. Creative living is a path for the brave-hearted. I will not allow it to overtake my emotional and self-discovery to find a better quality of life. I have the shocking and sudden uncovering of my aspiration for education and the desire to attain a degree at university. I have re-discovered my passion for the environment and desire to contribute to the needs of our planet. These dreams of mine are original and unique, while my fear is not. But do I feel as though I have the experience and have I uncovered my true sense of place in the world? Where the roads and traffic is busy, the people are unfriendly and the landscape is too urbanised. I am overwhelmed with intimidation, alienation, exclusion and defiance. Newcastle such a dirty grimy place like a huge coal mine. Even the rural semi-arid landscapes are less dusty.
I notice that when someone tries to kill off their fear, they unwillingly murder the creativity. So I don’t try killing my fear and instead take it with me through life. I have the long-term realisation that I must return to my birth place. The country people are friendly, roads are single-laned, the wildlife is abundant and the flat fallow landscapes are peacefully inviting. I follow this path towards creative living and know in the future that I should directly look fear in the face when getting out of my comfort zone.
hi! not to be the bringer (surprised this is an actual word hahahaha feels like saying 'brang') of bad news, but you need 25 posts to submit work to be marked by one of the markers! sounds like a lot, but your posts will accumulate in time - post questions, answer questions, and participate in heaps of the threads and you'll get there :-)
best of luck in your hsc!
Post by: HSCNewcastle2017 on September 19, 2017, 11:14:59 pm
Post by: Mounica on September 23, 2017, 10:54:31 am
So i've attached my creative writing below, its my final draft and iv already gotten it marked once by Elyse before trials, so im hoping its better than what it used to be. Initially i got 11/15 but iv fixed it up now that its been through at least 5 feedback sessions with several teachers, they all love it but noones actually determining a possible mark
so can you guys please tell me what you think i would get out of 15? is it band 6 worthy?
Thanks so much guys!
ps - how long do you think its going to take to get this marked? :)
- Daniyahasan
Post by: angelahchan on September 23, 2017, 12:25:00 pm
hopefully this post can count as my 25th post. Could you guys please mark my creative, and maybe tell me what band it sits at? during my trial the external marker gave me a 11/15 but she didn't give me much feedback, and said she could only give me marks for what she could actually read (my handwriting was illegible). I've gotten feedback before that I need to change my 2nd last paragraph and I've tried, but I still don't think it's that good. Also my ending includes a robert frost quote from my stimulus; should I change it or is it ok?
Thank you so much :)
Post by: Daniyahasan on September 23, 2017, 12:37:59 pm
Hi,you have 25 posts so you are eligible to get it marked:)
hopefully this post can count as my 25th post. Could you guys please mark my creative, and maybe tell me what band it sits at? during my trial the external marker gave me a 11/15 but she didn't give me much feedback, and said she could only give me marks for what she could actually read (my handwriting was illegible). I've gotten feedback before that I need to change my 2nd last paragraph and I've tried, but I still don't think it's that good. Also my ending includes a robert frost quote from my stimulus; should I change it or is it ok?
Thank you so much :)
Post by: Daniyahasan on September 23, 2017, 01:27:51 pm
Hey Guys,Hey, this is my creative and i just posted it from my Mounica's account because she needed her legal essay marked urgently and ddnt have enough posts so she used mine, so now she's just returning those posts by letting me post my creative from her account, is that okay with you guys?
So i've attached my creative writing below, its my final draft and iv already gotten it marked once by Elyse before trials, so im hoping its better than what it used to be. Initially i got 11/15 but iv fixed it up now that its been through at least 5 feedback sessions with several teachers, they all love it but noones actually determining a possible mark
so can you guys please tell me what you think i would get out of 15? is it band 6 worthy?
Thanks so much guys!
ps - how long do you think its going to take to get this marked? :)
Thanks:)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 23, 2017, 02:02:38 pm
Hey, this is my creative and i just posted it from my Mounica's account because she needed her legal essay marked urgently and ddnt have enough posts so she used mine, so now she's just returning those posts by letting me post my creative from her account, is that okay with you guys?
Thanks:)
Doesn't bother us - The accounts both were posted from had met requirements :)
Post by: Daniyahasan on September 23, 2017, 04:32:04 pm
Doesn't bother us - The accounts both were posted from had met requirements :)thats sweet then :)
Post by: justwannawish on September 24, 2017, 06:26:30 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 24, 2017, 08:53:04 pm
Hey, I was wondering if I could get my creative checked over. It's for both Extension One (After the Bomb) and discovery so do I just post it here? Or do I post it in the extension one marking section?
There's a dedicated marking forum for EX1 Creatives right here! :)
Post by: justwannawish on September 24, 2017, 09:29:50 pm
There's a dedicated marking forum for EX1 Creatives right here! :)
Sorry, what I meant to ask was that since I was planning to use it for both Discovery and Extension One, is there a better place to post in than just here? Sorry for the misunderstanding!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 24, 2017, 10:46:01 pm
Sorry, what I meant to ask was that since I was planning to use it for both Discovery and Extension One, is there a better place to post in than just here? Sorry for the misunderstanding!
Oh nah sorry that's me not reading your post properly ;) wherever friend, if you post it here it could be looked over by Elyse or myself, if you want to guarantee it gets looked at by an EX1 marker, probably in that other linked thread - But your call, if you post it here we'll do our best to get El to mark it anyhow ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 25, 2017, 10:44:23 pm
Hey Guys,
So i've attached my creative writing below, its my final draft and iv already gotten it marked once by Elyse before trials, so im hoping its better than what it used to be. Initially i got 11/15 but iv fixed it up now that its been through at least 5 feedback sessions with several teachers, they all love it but noones actually determining a possible mark
so can you guys please tell me what you think i would get out of 15? is it band 6 worthy?
Thanks so much guys!
ps - how long do you think its going to take to get this marked? :)
- Daniyahasan
Hello! Oooooh excited to read!
Spoiler
The wind howled into the night, causing the hair on her arms to stand on ends. Her late night walk usually enlivened her and energised her like no amount of caffeine ever could. Yet, that night, it felt like she’d run a thousand marathons. Her job being at stake, she somehow had to come up with a story, no matter what it took so she could thrust it upon her editor’s face within 48 hours’. As she walked towards the direction of home her intuition warned her. Her heart started racing faster and she clenched her jaw.
It seemed dangerous, and so, she surrendered to her thoughts and changed her direction. In hope of an edgy and uncommon story, she mustered up courage and began the walk into the other side of the town. A hint of reluctance almost stopped her. Most people preferred to keep a distance from those areas – news about precarious incidents taking place, odd and daunting noises were enough to keep the people from wandering around the threshold of this zone. Pupils oscillating, finding final reassurance in whatever slivers of light have dared to venture this far into the alley alongside her, she allowed the darkness to swallow her whole. The writing here is just BRILLIANT - so clear, so evocative. I was being swept up with the story and I loved it!
Dark shadows danced amongst the dark walls, the flickering street lamps encouraging them to do so; following her path excitedly and exhilarating her. An abandoned warehouse stretched onwards – despite her eagerness all bubbled up in her, she felt her hopes fall. A feeling of disappointment rushed up her spine, exhausting her. In this eerie silence there was no possibility of a story. Lingering around for what seemed like forever, with nothing interesting to get a hold on, she decided to find another destination. The path she had kicked and trodden along was dusty, dirtying her shoes. The weather had become chilly, and so the jeans and the flannel she had thrown on failed to keep her warm.
At some point, she bumped into a few people. A ray of optimism sparked within her, and she decided to subtly question them. Much to her frustration, she could barely get them to speak. Hindrance and fury built up in her as she kicked the rocks and pebbles within sight on the road. She stomped off in the other direction when she heard a loud noise that stunned her.
A piercing scream followed by gunfire caused her to jolt, steering her attention to a new light. Eager to see what had happened, she hoisted herself onto a crate and peered into the cracks in the wall. It came as a shock when she encountered a set of steely grey eyes staring back at her. The next few moments came as a blur, the crate collapsed at her weight and she fell at the feet of a man. She raised her gaze slowly at the towering figure in front of her, only to find him again piercing at her. The man pulled her to her feet and the strong smell of cologne hit her. Before she even had the chance to make noise, he hissed into her ear,
“Don’t even think about making a sound, you’ll regret it.”
He held onto her wrist tightly and pulled her along. Finding it difficult to keep up with this strange man’s pace, she stumbled, until they reached the warehouse. Shoving her inside, he shut the door. She couldn’t breathe through fear when she heard the sound of the lock clicking. You have elevated this story SOOOOO MUCH. The intensity is so heightened right now - the imagery is strong, the sentence structures are just right.
Sickening screams attacked her from all sides, she lay there whimpering in the dark. Not sure about this - sickening screams? But she's remaining silent or else she'll regret it? Contemplating her next action, she did the only logical thing that came to mind. Raising the camera to her face, she pulled the trigger. A brilliant light flashed throughout the room, revealing the horrifying scene laid out. She caught a glimpse of a man’s back, but it was the remarkably familiar tattoo on the man’s neck that made her heart nearly stop
“You…stop!”
Yet, her abductor walked off. As she sat baffled, flashbacks slowly reoccurred. For a while her emotions overpowered her, numbing her. Faces flashed in front of her, she shut her eyes to avoid the images. Her mind was a whirlpool of unanswered thoughts, she clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palm. The pain seemed healing. Tears rolled down her face as she recalled the tragedy. A year ago, the shocking news of her Brother Stan’s death knocked on their door. She had stood there numb, unable to grasp the news. In that moment, everything felt agonising. The last thing she did before Stan’s body was taken away was feel the outline of the tattoo on his back.
Time froze. At that moment, she decided to wipe her tears and fight her thoughts. Pulling herself up, she walked across the room in hope of finding an exit. While observing the small room around her, she discovered a door. A ray of hope lit up in her, and she pushed with all her force, which resulted in this seems a bit clinical, I don't like the "which resulted in" because it seems so mathematical. her crashing. She picked herself up and used the walls as her support to assist her. Up ahead, murmurs and people hurriedly conversing caught her ear.
Finally, a beam of light shone through. She tiptoed through the door which led to an entrance, avoiding detection. Then and there, the scene that she witnessed shook the Earth beneath her feet. In front of her, the figure held a knife, coated and dripping in deep red - he slowly raised his head. The light breeze gently blew on his messy tresses, a glow revealed his face. It was Stan. She could not be mistaken, the same Stan she saw a year ago, lifeless and dead, was in front of her in a monstrous state covered in shades of blood, with a dead body hung on hooks beside him. Tears welled up and began to stream down her face, an intense fear clouded her mind. Her escape looked ominous.
It seemed dangerous, and so, she surrendered to her thoughts and changed her direction. In hope of an edgy and uncommon story, she mustered up courage and began the walk into the other side of the town. A hint of reluctance almost stopped her. Most people preferred to keep a distance from those areas – news about precarious incidents taking place, odd and daunting noises were enough to keep the people from wandering around the threshold of this zone. Pupils oscillating, finding final reassurance in whatever slivers of light have dared to venture this far into the alley alongside her, she allowed the darkness to swallow her whole. The writing here is just BRILLIANT - so clear, so evocative. I was being swept up with the story and I loved it!
Dark shadows danced amongst the dark walls, the flickering street lamps encouraging them to do so; following her path excitedly and exhilarating her. An abandoned warehouse stretched onwards – despite her eagerness all bubbled up in her, she felt her hopes fall. A feeling of disappointment rushed up her spine, exhausting her. In this eerie silence there was no possibility of a story. Lingering around for what seemed like forever, with nothing interesting to get a hold on, she decided to find another destination. The path she had kicked and trodden along was dusty, dirtying her shoes. The weather had become chilly, and so the jeans and the flannel she had thrown on failed to keep her warm.
At some point, she bumped into a few people. A ray of optimism sparked within her, and she decided to subtly question them. Much to her frustration, she could barely get them to speak. Hindrance and fury built up in her as she kicked the rocks and pebbles within sight on the road. She stomped off in the other direction when she heard a loud noise that stunned her.
A piercing scream followed by gunfire caused her to jolt, steering her attention to a new light. Eager to see what had happened, she hoisted herself onto a crate and peered into the cracks in the wall. It came as a shock when she encountered a set of steely grey eyes staring back at her. The next few moments came as a blur, the crate collapsed at her weight and she fell at the feet of a man. She raised her gaze slowly at the towering figure in front of her, only to find him again piercing at her. The man pulled her to her feet and the strong smell of cologne hit her. Before she even had the chance to make noise, he hissed into her ear,
“Don’t even think about making a sound, you’ll regret it.”
He held onto her wrist tightly and pulled her along. Finding it difficult to keep up with this strange man’s pace, she stumbled, until they reached the warehouse. Shoving her inside, he shut the door. She couldn’t breathe through fear when she heard the sound of the lock clicking. You have elevated this story SOOOOO MUCH. The intensity is so heightened right now - the imagery is strong, the sentence structures are just right.
Sickening screams attacked her from all sides, she lay there whimpering in the dark. Not sure about this - sickening screams? But she's remaining silent or else she'll regret it? Contemplating her next action, she did the only logical thing that came to mind. Raising the camera to her face, she pulled the trigger. A brilliant light flashed throughout the room, revealing the horrifying scene laid out. She caught a glimpse of a man’s back, but it was the remarkably familiar tattoo on the man’s neck that made her heart nearly stop
“You…stop!”
Yet, her abductor walked off. As she sat baffled, flashbacks slowly reoccurred. For a while her emotions overpowered her, numbing her. Faces flashed in front of her, she shut her eyes to avoid the images. Her mind was a whirlpool of unanswered thoughts, she clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palm. The pain seemed healing. Tears rolled down her face as she recalled the tragedy. A year ago, the shocking news of her Brother Stan’s death knocked on their door. She had stood there numb, unable to grasp the news. In that moment, everything felt agonising. The last thing she did before Stan’s body was taken away was feel the outline of the tattoo on his back.
Time froze. At that moment, she decided to wipe her tears and fight her thoughts. Pulling herself up, she walked across the room in hope of finding an exit. While observing the small room around her, she discovered a door. A ray of hope lit up in her, and she pushed with all her force, which resulted in this seems a bit clinical, I don't like the "which resulted in" because it seems so mathematical. her crashing. She picked herself up and used the walls as her support to assist her. Up ahead, murmurs and people hurriedly conversing caught her ear.
Finally, a beam of light shone through. She tiptoed through the door which led to an entrance, avoiding detection. Then and there, the scene that she witnessed shook the Earth beneath her feet. In front of her, the figure held a knife, coated and dripping in deep red - he slowly raised his head. The light breeze gently blew on his messy tresses, a glow revealed his face. It was Stan. She could not be mistaken, the same Stan she saw a year ago, lifeless and dead, was in front of her in a monstrous state covered in shades of blood, with a dead body hung on hooks beside him. Tears welled up and began to stream down her face, an intense fear clouded her mind. Her escape looked ominous.
WOW!! Happy, very happy, to report I'd give this a band 6. I cannot believe what you've done with this piece. You've taken it from a borderline cliche to a story that flows like Niagra Falls. Strong, fast, natural, powerful. You've given just enough details in each part that I can understand and visualise, but at the same time you've created the neighbourhood with just enough enigma, and just enough facts. I loved navigating this! The discovery is very strong, and happens at multiple stages and not just at the end. Therefore the discovery reverberates for a while which is great.
The only thing that just sits a little too uncomfortably for me is the sudden flashback she gets to Stan. I think perhaps, the smell of the man could do something like,
"The cologne of the figure assaulted her nose and took her back to the day of her brother's funeral, where everyone sobbed to the scent of Old Spice. The cold air made her feel stagnant, and her options seemed slim." Therefore you're just dropping the brother in there so slightly, and it's a natural part of the story rather than giving it a few sentences so it says to the reader "Read this! this is important! take note or else the ending won't make sense!" But I think this way it's more subtle and leads to a greater "ohhh" moment in the reader. You don't have to take this suggestion of wording, but I do think this is the only part of your otherwise wonderful story that jars! :)
I hope you're soooo proud of this
Post by: Daniyahasan on September 26, 2017, 10:07:50 am
SpoilerThe wind howled into the night, causing the hair on her arms to stand on ends. Her late night walk usually enlivened her and energised her like no amount of caffeine ever could. Yet, that night, it felt like she’d run a thousand marathons. Her job being at stake, she somehow had to come up with a story, no matter what it took so she could thrust it upon her editor’s face within 48 hours’. As she walked towards the direction of home her intuition warned her. Her heart started racing faster and she clenched her jaw.
It seemed dangerous, and so, she surrendered to her thoughts and changed her direction. In hope of an edgy and uncommon story, she mustered up courage and began the walk into the other side of the town. A hint of reluctance almost stopped her. Most people preferred to keep a distance from those areas – news about precarious incidents taking place, odd and daunting noises were enough to keep the people from wandering around the threshold of this zone. Pupils oscillating, finding final reassurance in whatever slivers of light have dared to venture this far into the alley alongside her, she allowed the darkness to swallow her whole. The writing here is just BRILLIANT - so clear, so evocative. I was being swept up with the story and I loved it!
Dark shadows danced amongst the dark walls, the flickering street lamps encouraging them to do so; following her path excitedly and exhilarating her. An abandoned warehouse stretched onwards – despite her eagerness all bubbled up in her, she felt her hopes fall. A feeling of disappointment rushed up her spine, exhausting her. In this eerie silence there was no possibility of a story. Lingering around for what seemed like forever, with nothing interesting to get a hold on, she decided to find another destination. The path she had kicked and trodden along was dusty, dirtying her shoes. The weather had become chilly, and so the jeans and the flannel she had thrown on failed to keep her warm.
At some point, she bumped into a few people. A ray of optimism sparked within her, and she decided to subtly question them. Much to her frustration, she could barely get them to speak. Hindrance and fury built up in her as she kicked the rocks and pebbles within sight on the road. She stomped off in the other direction when she heard a loud noise that stunned her.
A piercing scream followed by gunfire caused her to jolt, steering her attention to a new light. Eager to see what had happened, she hoisted herself onto a crate and peered into the cracks in the wall. It came as a shock when she encountered a set of steely grey eyes staring back at her. The next few moments came as a blur, the crate collapsed at her weight and she fell at the feet of a man. She raised her gaze slowly at the towering figure in front of her, only to find him again piercing at her. The man pulled her to her feet and the strong smell of cologne hit her. Before she even had the chance to make noise, he hissed into her ear,
“Don’t even think about making a sound, you’ll regret it.”
He held onto her wrist tightly and pulled her along. Finding it difficult to keep up with this strange man’s pace, she stumbled, until they reached the warehouse. Shoving her inside, he shut the door. She couldn’t breathe through fear when she heard the sound of the lock clicking. You have elevated this story SOOOOO MUCH. The intensity is so heightened right now - the imagery is strong, the sentence structures are just right.
Sickening screams attacked her from all sides, she lay there whimpering in the dark. Not sure about this - sickening screams? But she's remaining silent or else she'll regret it? Contemplating her next action, she did the only logical thing that came to mind. Raising the camera to her face, she pulled the trigger. A brilliant light flashed throughout the room, revealing the horrifying scene laid out. She caught a glimpse of a man’s back, but it was the remarkably familiar tattoo on the man’s neck that made her heart nearly stop
“You…stop!”
Yet, her abductor walked off. As she sat baffled, flashbacks slowly reoccurred. For a while her emotions overpowered her, numbing her. Faces flashed in front of her, she shut her eyes to avoid the images. Her mind was a whirlpool of unanswered thoughts, she clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palm. The pain seemed healing. Tears rolled down her face as she recalled the tragedy. A year ago, the shocking news of her Brother Stan’s death knocked on their door. She had stood there numb, unable to grasp the news. In that moment, everything felt agonising. The last thing she did before Stan’s body was taken away was feel the outline of the tattoo on his back.
Time froze. At that moment, she decided to wipe her tears and fight her thoughts. Pulling herself up, she walked across the room in hope of finding an exit. While observing the small room around her, she discovered a door. A ray of hope lit up in her, and she pushed with all her force, which resulted in this seems a bit clinical, I don't like the "which resulted in" because it seems so mathematical. her crashing. She picked herself up and used the walls as her support to assist her. Up ahead, murmurs and people hurriedly conversing caught her ear.
Finally, a beam of light shone through. She tiptoed through the door which led to an entrance, avoiding detection. Then and there, the scene that she witnessed shook the Earth beneath her feet. In front of her, the figure held a knife, coated and dripping in deep red - he slowly raised his head. The light breeze gently blew on his messy tresses, a glow revealed his face. It was Stan. She could not be mistaken, the same Stan she saw a year ago, lifeless and dead, was in front of her in a monstrous state covered in shades of blood, with a dead body hung on hooks beside him. Tears welled up and began to stream down her face, an intense fear clouded her mind. Her escape looked ominous.
WOW!! Happy, very happy, to report I'd give this a band 6. I cannot believe what you've done with this piece. You've taken it from a borderline cliche to a story that flows like Niagra Falls. Strong, fast, natural, powerful. You've given just enough details in each part that I can understand and visualise, but at the same time you've created the neighbourhood with just enough enigma, and just enough facts. I loved navigating this! The discovery is very strong, and happens at multiple stages and not just at the end. Therefore the discovery reverberates for a while which is great.
The only thing that just sits a little too uncomfortably for me is the sudden flashback she gets to Stan. I think perhaps, the smell of the man could do something like,
"The cologne of the figure assaulted her nose and took her back to the day of her brother's funeral, where everyone sobbed to the scent of Old Spice. The cold air made her feel stagnant, and her options seemed slim." Therefore you're just dropping the brother in there so slightly, and it's a natural part of the story rather than giving it a few sentences so it says to the reader "Read this! this is important! take note or else the ending won't make sense!" But I think this way it's more subtle and leads to a greater "ohhh" moment in the reader. You don't have to take this suggestion of wording, but I do think this is the only part of your otherwise wonderful story that jars! :)
I hope you're soooo proud of this
OMG THANK YOU ELYSE!!!!! YOU DONT REALISE HOW HAPPY THIS MAKES ME AHAHHA
ill definately take on the advice
THANKS AGAIN
Post by: camillablome on September 26, 2017, 02:29:32 pm
Could you please give me some feedback on my creative!
Thankyou so much!!...
“Is this paperweight of any use to you?” My father grinned, holding in his hand an ornate glass bull that had sat on my grandfathers desk for as long as I can remember.
“No.” Opa replied.
It was a garage sale before the huge move from grand trees and plush sofas to the dank light of an old folk’s home.
I was eleven years old. My job was to pack books into boxes and carry them down the narrow wooden staircase to the weathered garage door that sat imperiously at the top of a steep, narrow driveway. With my grandmother’s diligent gardening surrounding us, our family sale was hidden from the road.
The space was slowly filling with old things. My brother absent-mindedly arranged my Grandfathers model boats following my grandmother’s maple tinged orders, while my dad obsessed over the lighting.
Once everything had been moved, Dad handed me the roll of round yellow stickers and a permanent marker. I began to walk around the piles of objects that worked beautifully in the context of their rooms, but were revealed as worthless when they sat crowded together. I picked up each object and waved it to my grandfather who would casually invent a price. That was until I picked up a pair a familiar emerald green earrings and brought them over to him.
“Hey Opa. Is grandma Ok if we sell these?” I asked him with genuine concern.
“Your grandmother has far too many.” He mumbled.
“$10.”
A sadness settled as I placed them back on their shelf. She had always told me about how much she loved those earrings.
Sitting like a fire in a snowstorm was my bright pink plastic barbie plate, which had held every meal I had ever eaten, or been forced to eat. But according to the yellow sticker, It was now worth only $2. Nervous that my parents would refuse to let me keep it I quickly threw my arms back and held it behind my back. I walked over to a pile of my grandmas carefully hand crafter quilts, and quickly shoved the plate underneath.
Once I had finished pricing I was given a broom and told to sweep. My brother to take the dog for a walk. My mum to check the newspaper for our ad. My dad to make coffee. My grandma to relax. My dad to take the sign out and begin the sale at ten o’clock exactly.
Then nothing. No one comes. Near silence for five, ten, twenty, thirty. A car comes past with its brake lights on. Slight excitement, heads raised. But still no sound of shut car doors. Soon dad goes down to move the sign, to make it more visible to the Sunday traffic.
Suddenly there’s someone. A middle-aged neighbour slightly older than my dad. With a bald patch that consumed the top of his head, he entered the garage with a friendly smile. “Hello,” he sang looking around at the set up. “Hey James, how are you?” Replied my grandpa. James took a look around as the small talk continued. He shuffled a few things round, as the family watched with anticipation, but the only thing he took much interest in was a deep green hard cover encyclopaedia with gold lettering on the front. “Have you got a full set of these?” He asked holding up the book with the “M-N” on the spine. “You can have it for half price.” I watched my father grimace, clearly concerned at how my Grandfather was willing to give away what little we had sold.
After he did his circuit of the garage, he apologised for having bought nothing and proceeded to walk down the driveway. My grandfather sighed to himself.
It was getting close to lunchtime and my grandma declared she would go upstairs to make us some sandwiches. My brother and I, bored by the monotonous waiting and buried frustration, followed. Twenty minutes later we came back to my grandpa talking to a couple and their young daughter over my grandmother’s fur coat.
“I noticed this woman in the dining car. I remember thinking that she must be very hot in such a thick jacket.” My Grandpa recounted.
I recognised the story instantly. He was telling them about how he and my grandma met.
My grandma piped up, “It was cold on that train!”
They were both travelling alone with no family or plans, so they stayed together.
My grandpa came beside me, asking where I had placed my Grandma’s earring. I retrieved them from the shelf and brought them to him. He presented them to the couple and the woman took them in her hands, asking for a mirror as she tried them up against her pierced ears, moving her head to find the perfect angle. “They were my mothers” My grandfather said.
‘Then why give them away,’ the thought occurred to me with the immediacy of a yell. How could a man give away something which meant so much to him?
I ran over to my dad and whispered into his ear. “Why is Opa doing this? Won’t they miss them?” “Grandma and Opa don’t need that anymore darling. They’re just earrings. They meant something to him a long time ago, but they’re of no use to him now. It’s not like he’s selling his mother!”
…
I noticed a tumble of blonde curls pulling at her mothers skirt. In her hands, my bright pink barbie plate. Giggling and stamping her feet, she begged her mum to have it. My heart sank.
I crouched down beside her, gently taking the plate out of her hand.
“Im sorry, but this isn't just any ordinary plate.”
Opa erupted in laughter and I turned to see his heavily creased happy face. It was infectious.
I felt my dad’s hand on my shoulder as he stood behind and watched over me.
All eyes were on me as my mind thundered. All except hers which were still fixed on the plate.
I sighed.
“Do you think you can take care of it for me?”
She nodded and smiled, gripping the plate tightly to her chest.
A couple more people came in that day and we closed up at 5 as the colour of the sky started to shift. There was still so much left and my grandparents were obviously disappointed. But they were always practical people so they packed everything in boxes to give away.
That night Opa and grandma drank a sherry in front of ‘Deal or No Deal’ and we got Indonesian take out for dinner: Lumpia, Gado-Gado and beef rendang. After dinner we enjoyed grandmas apple pie and ice cream while we played dominoes and then they went to bed at 9 o’clock exactly. On the car ride home, we laughed about how much of a failure it had been. I smiled, thinking of what a fun day it had been with my family.
Post by: Natasha.97 on September 26, 2017, 02:32:07 pm
Hi!
Could you please give me some feedback on my creative!
Thankyou so much!!...
Hi Camilla!
You will need 50 posts to qualify for 1 essay marked as written in the rationale here :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 26, 2017, 02:46:03 pm
Hi,
hopefully this post can count as my 25th post. Could you guys please mark my creative, and maybe tell me what band it sits at? during my trial the external marker gave me a 11/15 but she didn't give me much feedback, and said she could only give me marks for what she could actually read (my handwriting was illegible). I've gotten feedback before that I need to change my 2nd last paragraph and I've tried, but I still don't think it's that good. Also my ending includes a robert frost quote from my stimulus; should I change it or is it ok?
Thank you so much :)
Hey! Sure thing - Feedback is attached with comments in bold ;D
Spoiler
Aiko's son had a habit of frequenting convenience stores at one in the morning. Leaving after one was paramount; he had no obligation to hide in the absence of human contact. Laconic store-managers didn't count. Before she headed to sleep, Aiko plodded to his room and curled her fingers into the wooden latticework of his rice-paper door, tugging to confirm that he'd jammed the railing. He hadn't. The shoji shuddered along its tracks, rasping as it opened. A good opening! Establishes interest and tone very quickly, good job there. The fact that we are talking about Aiko but focusing heavily on her son creates some confusing use of pronouns in that middle sentence - I had to do a triple-take to follow how it was jumping from "he/his" to "she/her." Could be worth tweaking?
Acute social withdrawal, a shut in, a hikikomori, decay; just as his shoji had been immutably locked, his disintegration wouldn't cease. Daily invitations to grill fish together or to sew buttons on his shirts were declined. When he was a child, Aiko moulded faceless clay figurines so he could complete their features. One week ago, she had placed a sculpture outside his room, only to dispose of it later, blank-faced, too dry to re-use. I like that you've used relatable things to signify that the relationship has broken down, rather than just saying it. Works really well.
Stepping inside, Aiko followed the grid-like divisions of tatami mats to navigate his room. When she re-examined the floor, the divisions became fissures in barren land. Cellophane used to patch tears in the brittle shoji glinted under a fluorescent screen. While acrid vinegar festered in containers, shrivelled laundry dangled from a curtain rod to dry. Both were proclamations of autonomy from her son. Be careful you aren't overdoing it with the descriptive language - If you use it everywhere, it becomes the norm and so loses its power in your narrative. Kind of like how, say, pizza is fantastic, until you eat a pizza every night for a week. Inching past stacks of magazines, her right foot crunched onto an empty bottle. She deftly kicked the crushed plastic behind crinkled t-shirts. A drooping banner of 'Yahoo! Japan' subsequently fell off the edge of his desk, scraping against the floor. In spite of his being laid off six months ago, the banner remained. Though she had tried cultivating his interest in whatever lay outside his room, laying seeds for a new career path away from information technology, his rigidity was a drought, evaporating her well of suggestions. Really like this last line - Again, like that you are using physical cues for your plot points. It feels very natural.
Weary from the glare of his computer screen, Aiko groped for a light switch. Against the turmoil, like white paint exposed through tears in garish wallpaper, his futon was clean. Instead of inhaling the cloying reek of mould in bedsheets, she was met with the scent of fresh linen. No objects cluttered the mattress except for the laptop.
Two parallel lines stretched across the screen. A pause button. In lieu of slamming the lid down and promptly exiting the room, Aiko clicked on it to play the game. This, on the other hand, seems like a bit of a stretch. I'd perhaps spend a bit more time here. Why would she play the game, what justification is there? Heat emanating off the keyboard warmed her fingertips. Four words: created by Seiji Tamuro, her son, stopped her. Perhaps more time spent reacting to this revelation as well? As the game initialized, thickets of bamboo spiralled around a glassy lake. Splashing towards an islet within the lake, mottled a translucent orange and white, koi fish enticed Aiko to trail along.
Manoeuvring her character was uncomplicated, and as the man zig-zagged across a vermillion bridge, silvery glockenspiels chimed in the background. Apart from gardening tools, the isle was an empty stretch of grass. She harvested some bamboo, and upon returning, placed it on the island. The clouds briskly unfurled, first breathing wisps of smoke in the sky, then dispersing like dye in water. Stumps of bamboo Aiko had planted hurtled after them, shoots reaching out from the bumpy segments of stem. She didn't know how many hours Seiji had consumed building code, but now, the time spent in his room wasn't vacuous. He had a purpose. Good - I'm liking the concept of this Creative. Day evanesced to night like a fading lantern, and when the sun vaulted above her head, time returned to its normal pace.
After collecting kernels from dwarf pines, harvesting persimmons, and returning to the island to deposit laden baskets several times, Aiko abandoned exploring the entire game. Instead, she utilised the island as a canvas to fill with what she had reaped. Just as clay was forgiving, could be twisted and coiled until fired under a kiln, mistakes would yield with pressure. In an attempt to introduce Seiji to her sanctuary from destruction, she had constructed the figurines. They were unnecessary. She would prove that beyond his game, mistakes were acceptable. When repairing vases with epoxy, even if she'd sanded down the edges of individual pieces, there would still be faint fissures where the pieces didn't fit. By replacing epoxy with lacquer mixed with gold powder, she transformed the fissures into gilt veins; life-force. Breakage indicated history, rather than failure. Though it might take months for Seiji to find a second, she'd help the game slip past tears of his shoji and reach them. As Aiko's vision for the isle unrolled from the grass, she saw his game growing beyond his room, outstretching its tendrils towards those needing a reprieve from defeat. I see what you are trying to do with this paragraph, but I don't think it quite come across as clearly as it could. The overlaps between the game and reality make the reflections a little difficult to follow - There are snippets of excellence in there, but I'd simplify the expression a tad to really bring those out.
When Aiko was satisfied with her garden, she glanced at the clock. Half an hour had passed and she needed to leave. He would be home soon. But, she continued playing, and felt a spirit kindred to her own.
Acute social withdrawal, a shut in, a hikikomori, decay; just as his shoji had been immutably locked, his disintegration wouldn't cease. Daily invitations to grill fish together or to sew buttons on his shirts were declined. When he was a child, Aiko moulded faceless clay figurines so he could complete their features. One week ago, she had placed a sculpture outside his room, only to dispose of it later, blank-faced, too dry to re-use. I like that you've used relatable things to signify that the relationship has broken down, rather than just saying it. Works really well.
Stepping inside, Aiko followed the grid-like divisions of tatami mats to navigate his room. When she re-examined the floor, the divisions became fissures in barren land. Cellophane used to patch tears in the brittle shoji glinted under a fluorescent screen. While acrid vinegar festered in containers, shrivelled laundry dangled from a curtain rod to dry. Both were proclamations of autonomy from her son. Be careful you aren't overdoing it with the descriptive language - If you use it everywhere, it becomes the norm and so loses its power in your narrative. Kind of like how, say, pizza is fantastic, until you eat a pizza every night for a week. Inching past stacks of magazines, her right foot crunched onto an empty bottle. She deftly kicked the crushed plastic behind crinkled t-shirts. A drooping banner of 'Yahoo! Japan' subsequently fell off the edge of his desk, scraping against the floor. In spite of his being laid off six months ago, the banner remained. Though she had tried cultivating his interest in whatever lay outside his room, laying seeds for a new career path away from information technology, his rigidity was a drought, evaporating her well of suggestions. Really like this last line - Again, like that you are using physical cues for your plot points. It feels very natural.
Weary from the glare of his computer screen, Aiko groped for a light switch. Against the turmoil, like white paint exposed through tears in garish wallpaper, his futon was clean. Instead of inhaling the cloying reek of mould in bedsheets, she was met with the scent of fresh linen. No objects cluttered the mattress except for the laptop.
Two parallel lines stretched across the screen. A pause button. In lieu of slamming the lid down and promptly exiting the room, Aiko clicked on it to play the game. This, on the other hand, seems like a bit of a stretch. I'd perhaps spend a bit more time here. Why would she play the game, what justification is there? Heat emanating off the keyboard warmed her fingertips. Four words: created by Seiji Tamuro, her son, stopped her. Perhaps more time spent reacting to this revelation as well? As the game initialized, thickets of bamboo spiralled around a glassy lake. Splashing towards an islet within the lake, mottled a translucent orange and white, koi fish enticed Aiko to trail along.
Manoeuvring her character was uncomplicated, and as the man zig-zagged across a vermillion bridge, silvery glockenspiels chimed in the background. Apart from gardening tools, the isle was an empty stretch of grass. She harvested some bamboo, and upon returning, placed it on the island. The clouds briskly unfurled, first breathing wisps of smoke in the sky, then dispersing like dye in water. Stumps of bamboo Aiko had planted hurtled after them, shoots reaching out from the bumpy segments of stem. She didn't know how many hours Seiji had consumed building code, but now, the time spent in his room wasn't vacuous. He had a purpose. Good - I'm liking the concept of this Creative. Day evanesced to night like a fading lantern, and when the sun vaulted above her head, time returned to its normal pace.
After collecting kernels from dwarf pines, harvesting persimmons, and returning to the island to deposit laden baskets several times, Aiko abandoned exploring the entire game. Instead, she utilised the island as a canvas to fill with what she had reaped. Just as clay was forgiving, could be twisted and coiled until fired under a kiln, mistakes would yield with pressure. In an attempt to introduce Seiji to her sanctuary from destruction, she had constructed the figurines. They were unnecessary. She would prove that beyond his game, mistakes were acceptable. When repairing vases with epoxy, even if she'd sanded down the edges of individual pieces, there would still be faint fissures where the pieces didn't fit. By replacing epoxy with lacquer mixed with gold powder, she transformed the fissures into gilt veins; life-force. Breakage indicated history, rather than failure. Though it might take months for Seiji to find a second, she'd help the game slip past tears of his shoji and reach them. As Aiko's vision for the isle unrolled from the grass, she saw his game growing beyond his room, outstretching its tendrils towards those needing a reprieve from defeat. I see what you are trying to do with this paragraph, but I don't think it quite come across as clearly as it could. The overlaps between the game and reality make the reflections a little difficult to follow - There are snippets of excellence in there, but I'd simplify the expression a tad to really bring those out.
When Aiko was satisfied with her garden, she glanced at the clock. Half an hour had passed and she needed to leave. He would be home soon. But, she continued playing, and felt a spirit kindred to her own.
I've not added many comments throughout because I love your writing style! I love the story idea, I think it has a nice unique Discovery concept portrayed in a unique way, and you've presented it excellently. Well done!
A few things to consider:
- Watch for over-use of descriptive language. Using it all the time takes away its power - Sometimes, more simplistic language to break things up can be really effective.
- That long reflective paragraph definitely still needs some work I feel. It's a little convoluted - I like the ideas and I honestly think some small tweaks of expression would fix it. Simplify it a little - Use simpler words, make it shorter, explain the links you are making more clearly and more obviously to the reader. This will make the things you keep (EG - you should keep "Breakage indicated history, rather than failure.") more powerful in comparison to what surrounds it.
- A little more justification as to why Aiko plays the game would be welcome - That's the only plot-discrepancy I can see.
- Be sure to consider how this could be adapted to a strange stimulus - The concept is quite narrow so you'll need some backup plans if you want to take this in!
- Could be worth ditching the Frost quote to avoid plagiarism issues - Unless you think it is absolute central, in which case you could put quotes around it to indicate it has been used from somewhere. Don't think it is a huge issue either way tough ;D
I'd say, assuming this story matches the question/stimulus you are given, you'd be sitting high Band 5/low Band 6 with this piece, so 12-13. If you tidy that reflective paragraph (where a lot of your concepts are) and perhaps bring out the concepts just a little more as a result, you'd almost definitely go higher! Good work :)
Post by: angelahchan on September 26, 2017, 06:07:29 pm
Hey! Sure thing - Feedback is attached with comments in bold ;DSpoilerAiko's son had a habit of frequenting convenience stores at one in the morning. Leaving after one was paramount; he had no obligation to hide in the absence of human contact. Laconic store-managers didn't count. Before she headed to sleep, Aiko plodded to his room and curled her fingers into the wooden latticework of his rice-paper door, tugging to confirm that he'd jammed the railing. He hadn't. The shoji shuddered along its tracks, rasping as it opened. A good opening! Establishes interest and tone very quickly, good job there. The fact that we are talking about Aiko but focusing heavily on her son creates some confusing use of pronouns in that middle sentence - I had to do a triple-take to follow how it was jumping from "he/his" to "she/her." Could be worth tweaking?
Acute social withdrawal, a shut in, a hikikomori, decay; just as his shoji had been immutably locked, his disintegration wouldn't cease. Daily invitations to grill fish together or to sew buttons on his shirts were declined. When he was a child, Aiko moulded faceless clay figurines so he could complete their features. One week ago, she had placed a sculpture outside his room, only to dispose of it later, blank-faced, too dry to re-use. I like that you've used relatable things to signify that the relationship has broken down, rather than just saying it. Works really well.
Stepping inside, Aiko followed the grid-like divisions of tatami mats to navigate his room. When she re-examined the floor, the divisions became fissures in barren land. Cellophane used to patch tears in the brittle shoji glinted under a fluorescent screen. While acrid vinegar festered in containers, shrivelled laundry dangled from a curtain rod to dry. Both were proclamations of autonomy from her son. Be careful you aren't overdoing it with the descriptive language - If you use it everywhere, it becomes the norm and so loses its power in your narrative. Kind of like how, say, pizza is fantastic, until you eat a pizza every night for a week. Inching past stacks of magazines, her right foot crunched onto an empty bottle. She deftly kicked the crushed plastic behind crinkled t-shirts. A drooping banner of 'Yahoo! Japan' subsequently fell off the edge of his desk, scraping against the floor. In spite of his being laid off six months ago, the banner remained. Though she had tried cultivating his interest in whatever lay outside his room, laying seeds for a new career path away from information technology, his rigidity was a drought, evaporating her well of suggestions. Really like this last line - Again, like that you are using physical cues for your plot points. It feels very natural.
Weary from the glare of his computer screen, Aiko groped for a light switch. Against the turmoil, like white paint exposed through tears in garish wallpaper, his futon was clean. Instead of inhaling the cloying reek of mould in bedsheets, she was met with the scent of fresh linen. No objects cluttered the mattress except for the laptop.
Two parallel lines stretched across the screen. A pause button. In lieu of slamming the lid down and promptly exiting the room, Aiko clicked on it to play the game. This, on the other hand, seems like a bit of a stretch. I'd perhaps spend a bit more time here. Why would she play the game, what justification is there? Heat emanating off the keyboard warmed her fingertips. Four words: created by Seiji Tamuro, her son, stopped her. Perhaps more time spent reacting to this revelation as well? As the game initialized, thickets of bamboo spiralled around a glassy lake. Splashing towards an islet within the lake, mottled a translucent orange and white, koi fish enticed Aiko to trail along.
Manoeuvring her character was uncomplicated, and as the man zig-zagged across a vermillion bridge, silvery glockenspiels chimed in the background. Apart from gardening tools, the isle was an empty stretch of grass. She harvested some bamboo, and upon returning, placed it on the island. The clouds briskly unfurled, first breathing wisps of smoke in the sky, then dispersing like dye in water. Stumps of bamboo Aiko had planted hurtled after them, shoots reaching out from the bumpy segments of stem. She didn't know how many hours Seiji had consumed building code, but now, the time spent in his room wasn't vacuous. He had a purpose. Good - I'm liking the concept of this Creative. Day evanesced to night like a fading lantern, and when the sun vaulted above her head, time returned to its normal pace.
After collecting kernels from dwarf pines, harvesting persimmons, and returning to the island to deposit laden baskets several times, Aiko abandoned exploring the entire game. Instead, she utilised the island as a canvas to fill with what she had reaped. Just as clay was forgiving, could be twisted and coiled until fired under a kiln, mistakes would yield with pressure. In an attempt to introduce Seiji to her sanctuary from destruction, she had constructed the figurines. They were unnecessary. She would prove that beyond his game, mistakes were acceptable. When repairing vases with epoxy, even if she'd sanded down the edges of individual pieces, there would still be faint fissures where the pieces didn't fit. By replacing epoxy with lacquer mixed with gold powder, she transformed the fissures into gilt veins; life-force. Breakage indicated history, rather than failure. Though it might take months for Seiji to find a second, she'd help the game slip past tears of his shoji and reach them. As Aiko's vision for the isle unrolled from the grass, she saw his game growing beyond his room, outstretching its tendrils towards those needing a reprieve from defeat. I see what you are trying to do with this paragraph, but I don't think it quite come across as clearly as it could. The overlaps between the game and reality make the reflections a little difficult to follow - There are snippets of excellence in there, but I'd simplify the expression a tad to really bring those out.
When Aiko was satisfied with her garden, she glanced at the clock. Half an hour had passed and she needed to leave. He would be home soon. But, she continued playing, and felt a spirit kindred to her own.
I've not added many comments throughout because I love your writing style! I love the story idea, I think it has a nice unique Discovery concept portrayed in a unique way, and you've presented it excellently. Well done!
A few things to consider:
- Watch for over-use of descriptive language. Using it all the time takes away its power - Sometimes, more simplistic language to break things up can be really effective.
- That long reflective paragraph definitely still needs some work I feel. It's a little convoluted - I like the ideas and I honestly think some small tweaks of expression would fix it. Simplify it a little - Use simpler words, make it shorter, explain the links you are making more clearly and more obviously to the reader. This will make the things you keep (EG - you should keep "Breakage indicated history, rather than failure.") more powerful in comparison to what surrounds it.
- A little more justification as to why Aiko plays the game would be welcome - That's the only plot-discrepancy I can see.
- Be sure to consider how this could be adapted to a strange stimulus - The concept is quite narrow so you'll need some backup plans if you want to take this in!
- Could be worth ditching the Frost quote to avoid plagiarism issues - Unless you think it is absolute central, in which case you could put quotes around it to indicate it has been used from somewhere. Don't think it is a huge issue either way tough ;D
I'd say, assuming this story matches the question/stimulus you are given, you'd be sitting high Band 5/low Band 6 with this piece, so 12-13. If you tidy that reflective paragraph (where a lot of your concepts are) and perhaps bring out the concepts just a little more as a result, you'd almost definitely go higher! Good work :)
Thank you so much for the feedback! As for your comments on overly descriptive/convoluted sentences, would you suggest replacing the description with something else, in addition to simplifying (i.e. is there too much description in general)?
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 26, 2017, 06:23:44 pm
Thank you so much for the feedback! As for your comments on overly descriptive/convoluted sentences, would you suggest replacing the description with something else, in addition to simplifying (i.e. is there too much description in general)?
Maybe!! It probably would streamline the whole thing, but don't cut a heap of it! Your descriptive sections are really powerful, so definitely keep some of it in there ;D
Post by: Mounica on September 26, 2017, 09:49:55 pm
can someone tell me how many posts i need to have in order to get my creative marked
thanks
Post by: Daniyahasan on September 26, 2017, 09:52:39 pm
hey, guysCurrently you need 50 posts to get it marked,there tryna prioritise it for the hsc period
can someone tell me how many posts i need to have in order to get my creative marked
thanks
Post by: Mounica on September 26, 2017, 10:18:06 pm
Currently you need 50 posts to get it marked,there tryna prioritise it for the hsc periodOK thanks
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 26, 2017, 11:56:00 pm
hey, guys
can someone tell me how many posts i need to have in order to get my creative marked
thanks
You've had one piece marked (the Creative above) for 25 posts already so you will need to hit 75 posts total :) I know it sounds like a lot, but you'd be surprised how quickly it goes up - Posting a little over half a dozen times a day gets it done in a week, and half a dozen is totally reasonable if you are asking a question or two, answering one here and there, having a chat, saying thanks to people who are helpful, etc ;D
Post by: Mounica on September 27, 2017, 08:31:27 am
You've had one piece marked (the Creative above) for 25 posts already so you will need to hit 75 posts total :) I know it sounds like a lot, but you'd be surprised how quickly it goes up - Posting a little over half a dozen times a day gets it done in a week, and half a dozen is totally reasonable if you are asking a question or two, answering one here and there, having a chat, saying thanks to people who are helpful, etc ;Dok thanks for letting me know
Post by: justwannawish on September 27, 2017, 11:19:30 am
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 27, 2017, 11:20:19 am
Sorry I didn't realise the post requirements had changed. Do I need to remove this post or would I be allowed to keep it here until I reach the requirements (hope it's not too far away now :) )
All good to leave it - At the rate you are posting you'll be at 50 posts really soon anyway ;D
Post by: Daniyahasan on September 27, 2017, 02:14:45 pm
i was just editing my creative according to your feedback and i thought about changing this sentence up a bit, so which one sounds better
orginial
Dark shadows danced amongst the dark walls, the flickering street lamps encouraging them to do so
edited
Dark shadows danced amongst the dimly lit walls, the flickering street lamps, playing the music for them
thanks:)
Post by: Becky234 on September 27, 2017, 04:45:25 pm
can someone tell me how many posts i need to have to get my creative marked
Post by: Daniyahasan on September 27, 2017, 04:47:58 pm
Hey guysyou need 50 posts:)
can someone tell me how many posts i need to have to get my creative marked
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 28, 2017, 11:49:23 am
Hey Elyse!
i was just editing my creative according to your feedback and i thought about changing this sentence up a bit, so which one sounds better
orginial
Dark shadows danced amongst the dark walls, the flickering street lamps encouraging them to do so
edited
Dark shadows danced amongst the dimly lit walls, the flickering street lamps, playing the music for them
thanks:)
Hey there :)
OOOOOOOOOOOH. I like both, a lot. The only thing holding me back from the second one is the confusion of aural/visual imagery by talking about sound. Maybe, "set the beat" for them?
I like what you're doing, really good attention to detail.
Post by: Daniyahasan on September 28, 2017, 05:25:31 pm
Hey there :)
OOOOOOOOOOOH. I like both, a lot. The only thing holding me back from the second one is the confusion of aural/visual imagery by talking about sound. Maybe, "set the beat" for them?
I like what you're doing, really good attention to detail.
Hmm yeahh makes sense, i was a little reluctant too about the second one cos its takes a few reads of the sentence to actually get whats going on otherwise its admittedly hella confusing. Whereas the first one is pretty clear
Post by: justwannawish on September 28, 2017, 07:03:12 pm
As it's for both discovery and for extension one (after the bomb) (I'm sorry Jamon ;)), I was hoping Elyse could look over it.
Thank you to you both for your great service
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 28, 2017, 10:47:28 pm
As it's for both discovery and for extension one (after the bomb) (I'm sorry Jamon ;)), I was hoping Elyse could look over it.
Deeply hurt on a personal level ;)
Should be able to have Elyse mark this for sure! You're on the list :)
Post by: av-angie-er on September 28, 2017, 11:06:17 pm
Post by: jamonwindeyer on September 28, 2017, 11:08:08 pm
Hi! I'm just wondering how many posts I would need to get to have a creative piece marked? :)
Hi! The requirement is currently 50 posts! ;D
Post by: av-angie-er on September 29, 2017, 10:45:53 am
Hi! The requirement is currently 50 posts! ;DI've had a History Extension essay marked before for 15 posts, so does that mean I'll have to get up to 65? Or just 50? Thanks :D
Post by: Natasha.97 on September 29, 2017, 10:52:23 am
I've had a History Extension essay marked before for 15 posts, so does that mean I'll have to get up to 65? Or just 50? Thanks :D
Hey!
You'll have to get up to 65 :) (50 posts/essay as outlined here)
Post by: av-angie-er on September 29, 2017, 11:21:47 am
Hey!Okay, thanks so much! :)
You'll have to get up to 65 :) (50 posts/essay as outlined here)
Post by: justwannawish on September 29, 2017, 08:54:02 pm
Post by: cookiemonsterxoxo on September 30, 2017, 06:50:22 am
No Longer Stolen
Priya and I sweltered as we drew squares on the crumbled street and numbered them with the stolen chalk. We played lagoori with a pile of stones and a dirt-covered plastic ball. Each day, the streets crumbled some more, but the chalk was always stolen and the stones were always free.
***
We run, further and further. The woods darkening, as if night came in seconds. Twigs scraped past my face, entangling themselves into my hair. My feet slip and I’m falling. I can’t open my voice to scream, fear, paralysing my body. I’m falling down. Down. Down. Down. I hit solid ground.
“Go Priya! They won’t find me here. Find another place and I’ll come get you.”
Minutes have passed. I can no longer hear the crunch of dried twigs or the rustling of leaves. Looking for a makeshift foothold, I hoist myself up, climbing up the side of the ditch like we would climb the Banyan tree.
“Priya! Priya!” I call out as I run.
A tiny red-brick cottage, with windows no larger than a sheet of tabloid newspaper, stands skeletal, a crumbling beauty of an era long past. An enormous Banyan tree stands overshadowing the cottage, its spreading branching hiding it from the rest of the world.
“Priya! Priya!”
She steps out of the darkness of the house and into the light of the setting sun.
“I think the boys gave up. Let’s go home.”
“They are terrible at hide and seek.”
“Well, we have an advantage now,” Priya tilts her head and raises her eyebrows at me, “This house.”
Laughing, we run back to our homes.
“Myra, let’s come back tomorrow.”
***
My mother’s cold palm wakes me.
“Namaste. Welcome to India.” The stewardess smiles.
A sea of faces moves like an unseen current towards the terminal building. Eyes of elderly women in saris glare at me and become more horrified as they take in my sleeveless midriff top and my denim mini skirt.
A few withering trees cast small pathetic patches of shade onto the baked tarmac.
“Mum! How long are we here for again?”
“Mother! Esha! Are you even listen--?”
“STOP IT, Myra! You were born and raised here for SIX YEARS! Can’t you stop complaining for just six weeks?”
Why did she always bring that up? We left ten year ago. We are Australians now.
I reach for my phone to call for an UBER before I realise. Instead, I stick out my tired hand in hope for a SUV with leather seats and air conditioning. What do I get instead? A metal cabin on three wheels. I reach for the seat belt. None. I clutch my mother’s arm. The rickshaw stalls, brakes abruptly and lets out a plume of grey smoke which consumes the vehicle. I watch the local children giggle as they draw hopscotch grids with chalk. I tell mum to go ahead without me.
“I think I want to explore a little.”
I couldn’t, for the life of me, recall the street on which the small cottage stood but I attempt to describe it to my rickshaw driver. She wouldn’t be able to get it. She smiles, nods and starts the motor again.
As the rickshaw rumbles on, the crowded streets start to resemble those that I once knew.
The old place now looks just a little more glorified than a shed. I place my hand on the Banyan tree, my fingertips gripping into deepening crevices.
“I can’t believe how long it’s been.”
“Me neither.”
What does she…? Who…? For the first time, I pay attention to the approaching rickshaw driver. Her frame says she is eighteen or nineteen years old, but she looks much older. She stands with one hip jutted to one side, her right arm draped across her slender body, clasping the other elbow. A deep curve begins to form on her lips and precious dimples…no way!
“It’s me. Priya.” She laughs.
Before I could breathe, I melt into her form. Her hands fold around my back and draw me closer. I feel my body shake.
“Oh my god! How…where…. what have you been up to?”
Priya paces uneasily and then sits down on the ground, beside me. She recounts her recent plight and laments her brief foolish relationship with Raj – the curiosity of our childhood – who had decided she wasn’t what he wanted after they had run away. She spoke in a soft tone, as if someone would hear and hurt her. But then, when Priya returned, it was to an empty house. Her parents couldn’t live with the shame. How could they do that? Leave her…? Mum would never give up on me. As she continued her story, I couldn’t help but stare at the scars on her neck and arms. Priya rolled down her sleeves and hunched further. I pulled her closer to me and that was when she started weeping into my shoulder.
“Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay.” I reassured her.
I feel so much at ease with Priya. Sitting there, beside the Banyan tree I envisage my past. I don’t despise the weather. I don’t get irritated with the unique aromas. I am six-years-old again!
I reach for her hand.
“Promise me, when you can, you will come to Australia.”
*****
She presses her face to the plane’s window as it touches the tarmac. The airport looks like a shopping mall with gleaming white tiles. Two glass elevators lift simultaneously, leading to the upper floor food court. The air is cool with a faint aroma of sausages and bacon which drifts from above. In the middle of many large open areas are white fabric covered seats. Priya walks past a group of girls in short skirts and crop tops and boys with only board shorts. They smile at her. She walks towards the chalk in a stationary store.
“$3.00”
Post by: justwannawish on September 30, 2017, 09:17:03 am
Hi !! Would you be able to read through my creative and provide some feedback please ! Thank you !!! ;D ;D
No Longer Stolen
Priya and I sweltered as we drew squares on the crumbled street and numbered them with the stolen chalk. We played lagoori with a pile of stones and a dirt-covered plastic ball. Each day, the streets crumbled some more, but the chalk was always stolen and the stones were always free.
***
We run, further and further. The woods darkening, as if night came in seconds. Twigs scraped past my face, entangling themselves into my hair. My feet slip and I’m falling. I can’t open my voice to scream, fear, paralysing my body. I’m falling down. Down. Down. Down. I hit solid ground.
“Go Priya! They won’t find me here. Find another place and I’ll come get you.”
Minutes have passed. I can no longer hear the crunch of dried twigs or the rustling of leaves. Looking for a makeshift foothold, I hoist myself up, climbing up the side of the ditch like we would climb the Banyan tree.
“Priya! Priya!” I call out as I run.
A tiny red-brick cottage, with windows no larger than a sheet of tabloid newspaper, stands skeletal, a crumbling beauty of an era long past. An enormous Banyan tree stands overshadowing the cottage, its spreading branching hiding it from the rest of the world.
“Priya! Priya!”
She steps out of the darkness of the house and into the light of the setting sun.
“I think the boys gave up. Let’s go home.”
“They are terrible at hide and seek.”
“Well, we have an advantage now,” Priya tilts her head and raises her eyebrows at me, “This house.”
Laughing, we run back to our homes.
“Myra, let’s come back tomorrow.”
***
My mother’s cold palm wakes me.
“Namaste. Welcome to India.” The stewardess smiles.
A sea of faces moves like an unseen current towards the terminal building. Eyes of elderly women in saris glare at me and become more horrified as they take in my sleeveless midriff top and my denim mini skirt.
A few withering trees cast small pathetic patches of shade onto the baked tarmac.
“Mum! How long are we here for again?”
“Mother! Esha! Are you even listen--?”
“STOP IT, Myra! You were born and raised here for SIX YEARS! Can’t you stop complaining for just six weeks?”
Why did she always bring that up? We left ten year ago. We are Australians now.
I reach for my phone to call for an UBER before I realise. Instead, I stick out my tired hand in hope for a SUV with leather seats and air conditioning. What do I get instead? A metal cabin on three wheels. I reach for the seat belt. None. I clutch my mother’s arm. The rickshaw stalls, brakes abruptly and lets out a plume of grey smoke which consumes the vehicle. I watch the local children giggle as they draw hopscotch grids with chalk. I tell mum to go ahead without me.
“I think I want to explore a little.”
I couldn’t, for the life of me, recall the street on which the small cottage stood but I attempt to describe it to my rickshaw driver. She wouldn’t be able to get it. She smiles, nods and starts the motor again.
As the rickshaw rumbles on, the crowded streets start to resemble those that I once knew.
The old place now looks just a little more glorified than a shed. I place my hand on the Banyan tree, my fingertips gripping into deepening crevices.
“I can’t believe how long it’s been.”
“Me neither.”
What does she…? Who…? For the first time, I pay attention to the approaching rickshaw driver. Her frame says she is eighteen or nineteen years old, but she looks much older. She stands with one hip jutted to one side, her right arm draped across her slender body, clasping the other elbow. A deep curve begins to form on her lips and precious dimples…no way!
“It’s me. Priya.” She laughs.
Before I could breathe, I melt into her form. Her hands fold around my back and draw me closer. I feel my body shake.
“Oh my god! How…where…. what have you been up to?”
Priya paces uneasily and then sits down on the ground, beside me. She recounts her recent plight and laments her brief foolish relationship with Raj – the curiosity of our childhood – who had decided she wasn’t what he wanted after they had run away. She spoke in a soft tone, as if someone would hear and hurt her. But then, when Priya returned, it was to an empty house. Her parents couldn’t live with the shame. How could they do that? Leave her…? Mum would never give up on me. As she continued her story, I couldn’t help but stare at the scars on her neck and arms. Priya rolled down her sleeves and hunched further. I pulled her closer to me and that was when she started weeping into my shoulder.
“Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay.” I reassured her.
I feel so much at ease with Priya. Sitting there, beside the Banyan tree I envisage my past. I don’t despise the weather. I don’t get irritated with the unique aromas. I am six-years-old again!
I reach for her hand.
“Promise me, when you can, you will come to Australia.”
*****
She presses her face to the plane’s window as it touches the tarmac. The airport looks like a shopping mall with gleaming white tiles. Two glass elevators lift simultaneously, leading to the upper floor food court. The air is cool with a faint aroma of sausages and bacon which drifts from above. In the middle of many large open areas are white fabric covered seats. Priya walks past a group of girls in short skirts and crop tops and boys with only board shorts. They smile at her. She walks towards the chalk in a stationary store.
“$3.00”
Hi, welcome to atarnotes!
Currently the marking policy for any piece of creative writing or an essay is 50 posts. I know this may seem like a lot, but if you start engaging yourself in the various forums, helping answering questions and asking any questions you may have, it'll be a lot easier and you'll be surprised at how quickly your post count rises!
https://atarnotes.com/forum/index.php?PHPSESSID=tkksm802sng1jk1di4e3rkoif2&topic=165968.0
Here's a more legit explanation.
Let me know if you have any concerns :)
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 01, 2017, 12:25:20 pm
Would it be possible for me to edit my work before it gets marked by Elyse? I was talking to someone on the English advanced chat and they gave me so many ideas that I wanted to include. Ofc if Elyse had already started editing it, I'll let her work her magic :)
Go for the edit, I'm pretty sure Elyse hasn't started :)
Post by: justwannawish on October 01, 2017, 03:22:02 pm
Go for the edit, I'm pretty sure Elyse hasn't started :)
Okay, here it is again haha. Hopefully it's a bit more coherent this time round :)
It's still really long, and I never know where to cut down. I'm also not sure what aspects of the rubric I have/have not talked about either, so any help with that would be really appreciated. I have some sections labelled "extension", which is things I don't plan to put in the aos creative writing since i didn't think it was relevant.
Spoiler
Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be you, the hero of the Manhattan Project, the star on their spangled banner. Absorbed in your scattered sketches and sheets of calculations, you’re consumed by your attempts to defeat the enemy, to build a weapon deadlier than the atomic bomb. And what better way than destroying commies, hey?
Sometimes I think of you and wonder what it’s like to be a murderer.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, a desperate nation dropped two bombs on another. We all know how this story ends.
Cracking your neck, you recalculate the ionisation power required to ignite the fusion fuel, carefully plotting deaths like the madman we all know you are. I’ve seen a lot of them in my time, but you, rational, intelligent you, sipping your Tang frighten me more than a psychopath.
(It was war, they excuse it as a one-off. It’s humanity, I reply. You can’t trust them)
Extension: I hope you make a mistake and give up. I hope that you change your mind and give up. I hope the world ends before you end it because you don’t want to be death, the destroyer of the world. Trust me. I pray and pray, but God doesn’t exist much nowadays. People have better reasons to die than religion.
Whistling Ain’t I Right, you scribble the last lines and let your shaking hands drop the pen. The numbers don’t make sense to me, but I can tell by your wide-eyed grin that you did it.
Congratulations. You’ve just made a hydrogen bomb, one more powerful than the atomic bomb, one without fissione that’s just going to make more work for me. I’ve already overworked and understaffed.
(One death, two deaths, what more is another million? Tell me, have you ever seen a corpse?)
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I can’t! You’re going to end the world and I’m the only one who cares.
And they say Death is heartless.
***
As you cradle the papers to your chest, your smile slowly combusts into a cheer. Months of testing. Mocking smiles from the other scientists. Failure after failure. It all paid off! You have to tell Eva.
Throwing open the door, you skid to a halt behind her silhouette, illuminated by a candle stub. Eva’s reading glasses slip from her exasperated sigh, as she reads the papers. You pity her- small print is the bane of your life as well.
You scan the article she’s reading, grinning at the photo of the mushroom cloud. You’ll make that look like a peace pipe. “Darling, I didn’t know…” you read, you like to do things besides your hair. “You like politics.”
Eva starts, covering the paper with her body. Extension: After kind John Smith next door got taken away by the Committee, you’ve both been more jumpy, more frown lines decorating your foreheads. But you have nothing to fear, making bombs is not un-American at all.
Taking her hand, you laugh “We can have conversations again.”
She loosens her shoulders, smile flickering like a candle in the wind. It’s nothing like the steady glow of the girl you married and you wonder where she went. “I don’t think we share the same views.”
You kneel in front of her, “Try me, Eva.” You miss her wince- you’ve been forgetting since your new job that she’s your ‘Evie’. You’ve been ignoring a lot about her- her new bouffant, her pretty dress, her calls for dinner.
And maybe thinking about all of this, she spits out, “I think the Americans are murderers for the Japanese bombings.”
Murderer- you a murderer? She’s gone mad.
Extension: Eva continues, her words more blazing than the flames. “I don’t think communists are bad. For god’s sake, I’m a communist! I don’t want to end American society. I think the only bad people out there are our government.”
“Those murderers went to Hiroshima under the guise of freeing Western democracy. Was our democracy worth the deaths of innocent kids? What did they ever do to us? What did the civilians do?” Eva’s eyes flash and her bitter curses start echoing in your mind. Murderer.
“And you know what’s really tragic? They’re planning another set of bombings. Bigger and better! Do they know what they’re doing?” Extinguished, she stops, bringing her hand to her mouth. “I think a lot of terrible things.”
“They didn’t kill anyone directly,” you whisper, fixating your eyes on her wedding ring. What if she knew that your high-earning fancy job in the city, the one that paid for her pretty dresses and ring, was earned by the blood of innocents?
Eva scoffs, and you wonder when the sweet housewife you married left. Did she ever exist?
“The bombs didn’t magically transport themselves. People dropped it. People created it. Nothing is made evil. People- I don’t know if you can call those scum humans really-make things evil.”
She quietens, quivering in the vulnerable way fire does when it’s burnt out. “Are you going to call the Committee on me?” You shake your head, knees giving out, and collapse into the seat next to her. She flinches, perhaps disgusted by the blood surrounding you. “I’ll bring your dinner.”
Staring in silence at the food, you tremblingly hold your gravy filled spoon above the peas.
Over Japan, an aircraft had held the bombs above the people.
Somewhere, someday, someone’s going to do the same with your hydrogen bomb.
You drop it. They drop the bomb. They’re going to drop the bomb.
The peas are covered. The people are buried. They’re going to die.
By your hands. By your hands. By your hands.
Is that tomato or blood on your hands?
***
At night, you glower at the ceiling, uncomfortable in your soft bed. Thoughts of the bomb, your bomb, run through your nightmares. You don’t know what it felt like, of course, you’re not dead. But it comes alive whenever you close your eyes. Hot and blinding, red as blood. Black and cold, a silent killer. Explosive. Screams. Corpses. Dead by your hands.
Is this what it feels to be a murderer?
No. NO! You scream into your duvet and struggle to free yourself from the blankets, nearly tripping over the bedside table.
Eva furrows her brows, “What’s wrong?” Killer.
You bite your lip, “Just have to do something.” Slaughterer.
Walking into your study, you run a hand through your hair and find the blueprints again, examining it under the candlelight. Hours and hours of dedication, you’ve spent so long on it. It’s such a pity. You clutch the sheets, the words wrapping themselves around your fingers, tethering you. Murderer.
The flames burn and you wonder if all those people you killed burned as well. Closing your eyes, you let the candle digest your recipe for death and watch the ashes fall for the last time.
You go back to bed and kiss your wife for the first time in months. “You looked beautiful today, Evie.” She gapes at you, because you finally remembered. Wrapping an arm around her, you smile, “Let’s go on a holiday.”
Evie laughs but her eyes sparkle in agreement.
Tomorrow you’ll tell your employers it’s impossible and ignore your colleagues’ taunts at the fact the wonder-boy couldn’t do it. You’ll finally use up that vacation on your paycheck and take Evie away for a weekend.
A break will do you both good.
***
On the other side of the world, I let out a sob as the familiar twinges of pain, the suffering of souls you were going to create, finally leave. The girl I was waiting for straightens her crying mother’s kimono and kisses her goodbye, attempting to memorise every touch, every glance. As she takes my hand, I thank you for not making more people die like she did.
Extension: (Once the country asked you to do something and you did the right thing brilliantly. Thank you for not letting it break you.)
Sometimes, I think of you and wonder what’s it like to be a hero.
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 02, 2017, 04:01:49 pm
Okay, here it is again haha. Hopefully it's a bit more coherent this time round :)Hey there!! Happy to sit down and read this :)
It's still really long, and I never know where to cut down. I'm also not sure what aspects of the rubric I have/have not talked about either, so any help with that would be really appreciated. I have some sections labelled "extension", which is things I don't plan to put in the aos creative writing since i didn't think it was relevant.
Spoiler
Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be you, the hero of the Manhattan Project, the star on their spangled banner. Absorbed in your scattered sketches and sheets of calculations, you’re consumed by your attempts to defeat the enemy, to build a weapon deadlier than the atomic bomb. And what better way than destroying commies, hey?
Sometimes I think of you and wonder what it’s like to be a murderer.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, a desperate nation dropped two bombs on another. We all know how this story ends.
Cracking your neck, you recalculate the ionisation power required to ignite the fusion fuel, carefully plotting deaths like the madman we all know you are. I’ve seen a lot of them in my time, but you, rational, intelligent you, sipping your Tang frightened or frightens* me more than a psychopath.
(It was war, they excuse it as a one-off. It’s humanity, I reply. You can’t trust them)
Extension: I hope you make a mistake and give up. I hope that you change your mind and give up. I hope the world ends before you end it's because you don’t want to be death, the destroyer of the world. Trust me. I pray and pray, but God doesn’t exist much nowadays. People have better reasons to die than religion.
Whistling Ain’t I Right, you scribble the last lines and let your shaking hands drop the pen. The numbers don’t make sense to me, but I can tell by your wide-eyed grin that you did it.
Congratulations. You’ve just made a hydrogen bomb, one more powerful than the atomic bomb, one without fissione that’s just going to make more work for me. I’ve already overworked and understaffed.
(One death, two deaths, what more is another million? Tell me, have you ever seen a corpse?)
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I can’t! You’re going to end the world and I’m the only one who cares.
And they say Death is heartless. I'll add at this point that I've read everything out loud so far to make sure that your grammar is stopping and starting the story in the flow that you want. So far, VERY good!
***
As you cradle the papers to your chest, your smile slowly combusts into a cheer. Months of testing. Mocking smiles from the other scientists. Failure after failure. It all paid off! You have to tell Eva.
Throwing open the door, you skid to a halt behind her silhouette, illuminated by a candle stub. Eva’s reading glasses slip from her exasperated sigh, as she reads the papers. You pity her- small print is the bane of your life as well.
You scan the article she’s reading, grinning at the photo of the mushroom cloud. You’ll make that look like a peace pipe. “Darling, I didn’t know…” you read, you like to do things besides your hair. “You like politics.” This sentence here, I just don't think I'm reading it the way you intended. It's almost like that middle bit there, the part outside of the quotation marks, is part of the quote? and I'm not sure if it's being read from the paper of it these are the words the person is saying? I think the thing that makes me think it's on the paper is, "you read," but then the "you like politics" is mixing the voice of the person and the narration and it's just not quite clear for me.
Eva starts, covering the paper with her body. Extension: After kind John Smith next door got taken away by the Committee, you’ve both been more jumpy, more frown lines decorating your foreheads. But you have nothing to fear, making bombs is not un-American at all. *shudders* YES. THIS.
Taking her hand, you laugh “We can have conversations again.”
She loosens her shoulders, smile flickering like a candle in the wind. It’s nothing like the steady glow of the girl you married and you wonder where she went. “I don’t think we share the same views.”
You kneel in front of her, “Try me, Eva.” You miss her wince- you’ve been forgetting since your new job that she’s your ‘Evie’. You’ve been ignoring a lot about her- her new bouffant, her pretty dress, her calls for dinner.
And maybe thinking about all of this, she spits out, “I think the Americans are murderers for the Japanese bombings.”
Murderer- you a murderer? She’s gone mad. This italicised bit can be stronger, I think. I'm not sure about the exact way you're intending for me to read this.
Extension: Eva continues, her words more blazing than the flames. “I don’t think communists are bad. For god’s sake, I’m a communist! I don’t want to end American society. I think the only bad people out there are our government.”
“Those murderers went to Hiroshima under the guise of freeing Western democracy. Was our democracy worth the deaths of innocent kids? What did they ever do to us? What did the civilians do?” Eva’s eyes flash and her bitter curses start echoing in your mind. Murderer.
“And you know what’s really tragic? They’re planning another set of bombings. Bigger and better! Do they know what they’re doing?” Extinguished, she stops, bringing her hand to her mouth. “I think a lot of terrible things.”
“They didn’t kill anyone directly,” you whisper, fixating your eyes on her wedding ring. What if she knew that your high-earning fancy job in the city, the one that paid for her pretty dresses and ring, was earned by the blood of innocents?
Eva scoffs, and you wonder when the sweet housewife you married left. Did she ever exist? I love this bit. I like that it's not WHERE is she, but just recognises she has left by wondering WHEN - it shows a preoccupation of the husband for a long time.
“The bombs didn’t magically transport themselves. People dropped it. People created it. Nothing is made evil. People- I don’t know if you can call those scum humans really-make things evil.”
She quietens, quivering in the vulnerable way fire does when it’s burnt out. “Are you going to call the Committee on me?” You shake your head, knees giving out, and collapse into the seat next to her. She flinches, perhaps disgusted by the blood surrounding you. “I’ll bring your dinner.”
Staring in silence at the food, you tremblingly hold your gravy filled spoon above the peas.
Over Japan, an aircraft had held the bombs above the people.
Somewhere, someday, someone’s going to do the same with your hydrogen bomb. OMLLLL YESSS. Love this imagery - so domestic, yet so global.
You drop it. They drop the bomb. They’re going to drop the bomb.
The peas are covered. The people are buried. They’re going to die.
By your hands. By your hands. By your hands.
Is that tomato or blood on your hands? Just a small thing which I'll leave up to you, I'd put a comma after "blood" so the "on your hands" rings with greater salience to tie into the repetition of "by your hands" above.
***
At night, you glower at the ceiling, uncomfortable in your soft bed. Thoughts of the bomb, your bomb, run through your nightmares. You don’t know what it felt like, of course, you’re not dead. But it comes alive whenever you close your eyes. Hot and blinding, red as blood. Black and cold, a silent killer. Explosive. Screams. Corpses. Dead by your hands.
Is this what it feels to be a murderer?
No. NO! You scream into your duvet and struggle to free yourself from the blankets, nearly tripping over the bedside table.
Eva furrows her brows, “What’s wrong?” Killer.
You bite your lip, “Just have to do something.” Slaughterer.
Walking into your study, you run a hand through your hair and find the blueprints again, examining it under the candlelight. Hours and hours of dedication, you’ve spent so long on it. It’s such a pity. You clutch the sheets, the words wrapping themselves around your fingers, tethering you. Murderer.
The flames burn and you wonder if all those people you killed burned as well. Closing your eyes, you let the candle digest your recipe for death and watch the ashes fall for the last time.
***
On the other side of the world, I let out a sob as the familiar twinges of pain, the suffering of souls you were going to create, finally leave. The girl I was waiting for straightens her crying mother’s kimono and kisses her goodbye, attempting to memorise every touch, every glance. As she takes my hand, I thank you for not making more people die like she did.
Extension: (Once the country asked you to do something and you did the right thing brilliantly. Thank you for not letting it break you.)
Sometimes, I think of you and wonder what’s it like to be a hero.
Wonderful. Brilliant. Incredible.
How do I articulate how much I enjoy this piece? It's clean AF. I read it verbally to make sure it lulled and sung the way it should, and it did. The wording is JUST enough every time - crisp, and clean, and never too much. You've thought so carefully about the techniques, I can see it especially in the gravy/bomb scenario. Who would've thought??
In terms of plot, I love love love the ending. The two people, so significantly connected, but never meet. The only thing that I think we could probably do away with in order to give the reader a little more work to do, a little more respect for their ability to put the pieces together, is the holiday thing.
You go back to bed and kiss your wife for the first time in months. “You looked beautiful today, Evie.” She gapes at you, because you finally remembered. Wrapping an arm around her, you smile, “Let’s go on a holiday.”
Evie laughs but her eyes sparkle in agreement.
Tomorrow you’ll tell your employers it’s impossible and ignore your colleagues’ taunts at the fact the wonder-boy couldn’t do it. You’ll finally use up that vacation on your paycheck and take Evie away for a weekend.
A break will do you both good.
This here, could in fact just be, "You went to sleep that night in debt to Evie. You nodded off thinking about the taunts of your employers when you tell them it's impossible, and yes, even the wonder-boy himself couldn't do it. So nobody could."
Sometttthing like this, brings all of the above into just two sentences and it leaves stuff to the imagination. So because we look at Evie with debt and gratitude, the reader can assume that Evie has swayed his opinion. This is then confirmed in a very short manner in the next sentence, rather than leaving the "oh my god he changed his mind" experience of the reader as an experience of a few sentences, distracted by a holiday. I think it's more cutting this way. Then, moving on to the person in Japan - BRILLIANT. The You + I of the story is wonderful. A very clever technique. The discovery is strong, and it works on multiple layers at multiple points.
In terms of Extension - you've also ticked all the boxes. Ways of thinking, yes. The religion at the beginning is subtle but strong, the war, the gender roles, the science, the world order - it all works together so seamlessly. Are you extending on this version for extension or just presenting it like this?
For discovery - this is strong, cutting, very clean, and I would surely give this a band 6, hinging on the fact that it is developed to the stimulus of course!
Post by: justwannawish on October 03, 2017, 11:02:28 pm
Hey there!! Happy to sit down and read this :)Spoiler
Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be you, the hero of the Manhattan Project, the star on their spangled banner. Absorbed in your scattered sketches and sheets of calculations, you’re consumed by your attempts to defeat the enemy, to build a weapon deadlier than the atomic bomb. And what better way than destroying commies, hey?
Sometimes I think of you and wonder what it’s like to be a murderer.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, a desperate nation dropped two bombs on another. We all know how this story ends.
Cracking your neck, you recalculate the ionisation power required to ignite the fusion fuel, carefully plotting deaths like the madman we all know you are. I’ve seen a lot of them in my time, but you, rational, intelligent you, sipping your Tang frightened or frightens* me more than a psychopath.
(It was war, they excuse it as a one-off. It’s humanity, I reply. You can’t trust them)
Extension: I hope you make a mistake and give up. I hope that you change your mind and give up. I hope the world ends before you end it's because you don’t want to be death, the destroyer of the world. Trust me. I pray and pray, but God doesn’t exist much nowadays. People have better reasons to die than religion.
Whistling Ain’t I Right, you scribble the last lines and let your shaking hands drop the pen. The numbers don’t make sense to me, but I can tell by your wide-eyed grin that you did it.
Congratulations. You’ve just made a hydrogen bomb, one more powerful than the atomic bomb, one without fissione that’s just going to make more work for me. I’ve already overworked and understaffed.
(One death, two deaths, what more is another million? Tell me, have you ever seen a corpse?)
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I can’t! You’re going to end the world and I’m the only one who cares.
And they say Death is heartless. I'll add at this point that I've read everything out loud so far to make sure that your grammar is stopping and starting the story in the flow that you want. So far, VERY good!
***
As you cradle the papers to your chest, your smile slowly combusts into a cheer. Months of testing. Mocking smiles from the other scientists. Failure after failure. It all paid off! You have to tell Eva.
Throwing open the door, you skid to a halt behind her silhouette, illuminated by a candle stub. Eva’s reading glasses slip from her exasperated sigh, as she reads the papers. You pity her- small print is the bane of your life as well.
You scan the article she’s reading, grinning at the photo of the mushroom cloud. You’ll make that look like a peace pipe. “Darling, I didn’t know…” you read, you like to do things besides your hair. “You like politics.” This sentence here, I just don't think I'm reading it the way you intended. It's almost like that middle bit there, the part outside of the quotation marks, is part of the quote? and I'm not sure if it's being read from the paper of it these are the words the person is saying? I think the thing that makes me think it's on the paper is, "you read," but then the "you like politics" is mixing the voice of the person and the narration and it's just not quite clear for me.
Eva starts, covering the paper with her body. Extension: After kind John Smith next door got taken away by the Committee, you’ve both been more jumpy, more frown lines decorating your foreheads. But you have nothing to fear, making bombs is not un-American at all. *shudders* YES. THIS.
Taking her hand, you laugh “We can have conversations again.”
She loosens her shoulders, smile flickering like a candle in the wind. It’s nothing like the steady glow of the girl you married and you wonder where she went. “I don’t think we share the same views.”
You kneel in front of her, “Try me, Eva.” You miss her wince- you’ve been forgetting since your new job that she’s your ‘Evie’. You’ve been ignoring a lot about her- her new bouffant, her pretty dress, her calls for dinner.
And maybe thinking about all of this, she spits out, “I think the Americans are murderers for the Japanese bombings.”
Murderer- you a murderer? She’s gone mad. This italicised bit can be stronger, I think. I'm not sure about the exact way you're intending for me to read this.
Extension: Eva continues, her words more blazing than the flames. “I don’t think communists are bad. For god’s sake, I’m a communist! I don’t want to end American society. I think the only bad people out there are our government.”
“Those murderers went to Hiroshima under the guise of freeing Western democracy. Was our democracy worth the deaths of innocent kids? What did they ever do to us? What did the civilians do?” Eva’s eyes flash and her bitter curses start echoing in your mind. Murderer.
“And you know what’s really tragic? They’re planning another set of bombings. Bigger and better! Do they know what they’re doing?” Extinguished, she stops, bringing her hand to her mouth. “I think a lot of terrible things.”
“They didn’t kill anyone directly,” you whisper, fixating your eyes on her wedding ring. What if she knew that your high-earning fancy job in the city, the one that paid for her pretty dresses and ring, was earned by the blood of innocents?
Eva scoffs, and you wonder when the sweet housewife you married left. Did she ever exist? I love this bit. I like that it's not WHERE is she, but just recognises she has left by wondering WHEN - it shows a preoccupation of the husband for a long time.
“The bombs didn’t magically transport themselves. People dropped it. People created it. Nothing is made evil. People- I don’t know if you can call those scum humans really-make things evil.”
She quietens, quivering in the vulnerable way fire does when it’s burnt out. “Are you going to call the Committee on me?” You shake your head, knees giving out, and collapse into the seat next to her. She flinches, perhaps disgusted by the blood surrounding you. “I’ll bring your dinner.”
Staring in silence at the food, you tremblingly hold your gravy filled spoon above the peas.
Over Japan, an aircraft had held the bombs above the people.
Somewhere, someday, someone’s going to do the same with your hydrogen bomb. OMLLLL YESSS. Love this imagery - so domestic, yet so global.
You drop it. They drop the bomb. They’re going to drop the bomb.
The peas are covered. The people are buried. They’re going to die.
By your hands. By your hands. By your hands.
Is that tomato or blood on your hands? Just a small thing which I'll leave up to you, I'd put a comma after "blood" so the "on your hands" rings with greater salience to tie into the repetition of "by your hands" above.
***
At night, you glower at the ceiling, uncomfortable in your soft bed. Thoughts of the bomb, your bomb, run through your nightmares. You don’t know what it felt like, of course, you’re not dead. But it comes alive whenever you close your eyes. Hot and blinding, red as blood. Black and cold, a silent killer. Explosive. Screams. Corpses. Dead by your hands.
Is this what it feels to be a murderer?
No. NO! You scream into your duvet and struggle to free yourself from the blankets, nearly tripping over the bedside table.
Eva furrows her brows, “What’s wrong?” Killer.
You bite your lip, “Just have to do something.” Slaughterer.
Walking into your study, you run a hand through your hair and find the blueprints again, examining it under the candlelight. Hours and hours of dedication, you’ve spent so long on it. It’s such a pity. You clutch the sheets, the words wrapping themselves around your fingers, tethering you. Murderer.
The flames burn and you wonder if all those people you killed burned as well. Closing your eyes, you let the candle digest your recipe for death and watch the ashes fall for the last time.
***
On the other side of the world, I let out a sob as the familiar twinges of pain, the suffering of souls you were going to create, finally leave. The girl I was waiting for straightens her crying mother’s kimono and kisses her goodbye, attempting to memorise every touch, every glance. As she takes my hand, I thank you for not making more people die like she did.
Extension: (Once the country asked you to do something and you did the right thing brilliantly. Thank you for not letting it break you.)
Sometimes, I think of you and wonder what’s it like to be a hero.
Wonderful. Brilliant. Incredible.
How do I articulate how much I enjoy this piece? It's clean AF. I read it verbally to make sure it lulled and sung the way it should, and it did. The wording is JUST enough every time - crisp, and clean, and never too much. You've thought so carefully about the techniques, I can see it especially in the gravy/bomb scenario. Who would've thought??
In terms of plot, I love love love the ending. The two people, so significantly connected, but never meet. The only thing that I think we could probably do away with in order to give the reader a little more work to do, a little more respect for their ability to put the pieces together, is the holiday thing.
You go back to bed and kiss your wife for the first time in months. “You looked beautiful today, Evie.” She gapes at you, because you finally remembered. Wrapping an arm around her, you smile, “Let’s go on a holiday.”
Evie laughs but her eyes sparkle in agreement.
Tomorrow you’ll tell your employers it’s impossible and ignore your colleagues’ taunts at the fact the wonder-boy couldn’t do it. You’ll finally use up that vacation on your paycheck and take Evie away for a weekend.
A break will do you both good.
This here, could in fact just be, "You went to sleep that night in debt to Evie. You nodded off thinking about the taunts of your employers when you tell them it's impossible, and yes, even the wonder-boy himself couldn't do it. So nobody could."
Sometttthing like this, brings all of the above into just two sentences and it leaves stuff to the imagination. So because we look at Evie with debt and gratitude, the reader can assume that Evie has swayed his opinion. This is then confirmed in a very short manner in the next sentence, rather than leaving the "oh my god he changed his mind" experience of the reader as an experience of a few sentences, distracted by a holiday. I think it's more cutting this way. Then, moving on to the person in Japan - BRILLIANT. The You + I of the story is wonderful. A very clever technique. The discovery is strong, and it works on multiple layers at multiple points.
In terms of Extension - you've also ticked all the boxes. Ways of thinking, yes. The religion at the beginning is subtle but strong, the war, the gender roles, the science, the world order - it all works together so seamlessly. Are you extending on this version for extension or just presenting it like this?
For discovery - this is strong, cutting, very clean, and I would surely give this a band 6, hinging on the fact that it is developed to the stimulus of course!
Honestly, words cannot describe how much your feedback means to me. I've been underperforming in all my creatives though I considered them to be my most developed skill in English and I've been rereading your comment because it made me feel a lot better about everything.
About your feedback:
"You scan the article she’s reading, grinning at the photo of the mushroom cloud. You’ll make that look like a peace pipe. “Darling, I didn’t know…” you read, you like to do things besides your hair. “You like politics.”
What I intended this to be was the words he was saying out loud juxtaposed with his thoughts. It was meant to be a reflection on how much they grew apart because there is so much he still doesn't know about her
"Murderer- you a murderer? She’s gone mad." This italicised bit can be stronger, I think. I'm not sure about the exact way you're intending for me to read this.
For this, I think I was trying to get like a shocked "lol what is she saying" feel about it. There's meant to be a tone of disbelief, which is later juxtaposed with his realisation at the end that she was right all along
I totally agree with your suggestion. Do you think this works better?
You go back to bed and, kissing your wife for the first time in months, you murmur a quiet "Thank you, Evie" into her hair.
You nod off, thinking about the taunts of your colleagues when you tell them it's impossible, that the wonder-boy himself couldn't do it, that no one could.
You fall asleep with a smile.
I'm glad you found it flowing, I tried to make it as smooth as possible and make the words sing as much as I could.
For the whole extension/advanced difference, I think i marked out a couple of sections as "Extension" (I wasn't going to put them in the discovery story because I thought the themes were more relevant to Extension, but if you think otherwise (whether it be that those sections fit better in discovery/why other sections aren't as relevant for discovery), please let me know! I'll be glad to change it.
This is such a long comment, I apologise :), but is there anything else you think I should add/remove?
Post by: Iminschool on October 05, 2017, 09:43:00 pm
Thanks
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 05, 2017, 10:27:54 pm
Hey guys, here's my creative writing piece. Any constructive criticism would be appreciated :)
Thanks
Hey friend! My spreadsheet says you'll need to reach 65 posts to qualify for this creative to be marked, the requirement is currently 50 posts and you had something marked for 15 posts at the start of the year ;D
Post by: Iminschool on October 05, 2017, 10:30:10 pm
Hey friend! My spreadsheet says you'll need to reach 65 posts to qualify for this creative to be marked, the requirement is currently 50 posts and you had something marked for 15 posts at the start of the year ;DOk mb. Thanks
Post by: theofficialsabrina on October 06, 2017, 06:51:14 pm
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What would you do if you had a blank slate, a fresh start, and no-one expecting anything in particular of you? If you knew your friends, family and those who you admire were guaranteed to be impressed and encouraging?
First off, it sounds like there’s a catch...and of course there is, what did you expect? And secondly, are you disappointed?
But fret not! The domineering influence of expectation has always been widespread. Our actions are often swayed by what others think we should and should not do. Expectations will continue to be - because, by human nature, we all naturally and instinctively carry judgement and hence, live in a complex society in which WE are being constantly judged by others. When we reach expectations already set out for us, we are rewarded and when we do not, we are punished - we may not know it, but others sure are thinking it.
Expectation initially presents itself as an external force that drives meaning, order and prosperity - especially for those who favour the thoughts of others, which would rightfully include you, dear reader, otherwise, what would be the mystery that lies behind your ever-presence?
Hardly groundbreaking for you, but expectation is a demanding god. Speak ill of the god of expectation and others will speak ill of you. This is often best justified in many studies that there is a strong correlation with the development of self-efficacy and the attitudes and beliefs of others. In schools, excellence in achievement tends to be influenced by high parental and cultural expectations. At the workplace, performance is influenced by the presence of a manager. In sporting teams, the expectations of a coach in, perhaps the intensity and frequency of training, can influence success at the big game.
It is therefore, not unworldly to say that expectations are often associated with positive outcomes, success and excellence. However, outcomes such as these are treated as limited resource. One where competition is central, one where only the fittest will reign supreme and one where survival within society is key this way. There is general acceptance within society that not everybody can excel yet still, these expectations are apparent. Not everybody can become an athlete, just as not everybody can be tall - otherwise, there would be no distinction of being so. Indeed, if to excel means to ‘stand out’ from the crowd, then by definition, only some can excel.
So it seems that the god of expectation should be our ally as it provides countless benefits of fame, success and most of all, the respect of others - but only after achieving what a small proportion of our society is able to. Talk about unrealistic standards!
Often, expectations and reality are ridiculed for the sake of comedy - but, what they truly showcase is that expectations are warped ideas of a reality. After all, they are abstract, vague concepts that we choose to put faith in. No? Too rich and embarrassing an image? Would you prefer me to define expectation by what it does, rather than by what it is?
However, often many cross the line between living up to expectations and a loss of oneself.
Let’s try another way. Consider this - with a sense of prosperity gained, is a true sense of happiness achieved? You may (and probably have) followed expectations all your life and achieved what the world approves of - climbing the corporate ladder, going to university and getting a degree, not wearing that mini skirt you’ve always wanted to wear, starving yourself to become the ‘perfect’ body shape perceived in the media, giving the press what they want to hear and not what you want to say - roll up, roll up, witness the almighty power of the god of expectation.
So with these expectations come the pressures, the anxiety and ultimately, the fear of not being able to fulfil them. Sometimes, in an effort to impress those who have burdened us, we often try to exceed their conjectures and do more than we are promised. We get tied up in knots about how best to rise up to the challenge set before us, that we often forget about what’s truly important - ourselves.
You see, when you spend most of your time running around obsessed with the idea of being loved and approved by others, wearing all kinds of masks and costumes based on the role you are expected to be playing, not only should you be recognised as an accredited actor...but you begin to lose yourself. You get lost in the crowd, becoming one of the millions, if not billions, of people who have no idea who they are and what they stand for - just a side effect to the addictive drug of expectation.
In the end, who are we to blame? The baby boomers for enforcing their teachings? God himself, for crafting judgement into the essence of human nature? No. We are only to blame ourselves.
After all, we all know that kid who would always sit at the back of the class, doodling till no end. He did not care the slightest about the world around him, and frankly, nor the world to him after some time.
But now you do. Being disappointed, you admire him. I mean, what did you expect?
Post by: fantasticbeasts3 on October 06, 2017, 06:53:53 pm
I was wondering if you could read my Creative piece and give me some pointers on how to improve it as well as whether it is adaptable to a any HSC stimulus. Thank you!!-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------SpoilerWhat would you do if you had a blank slate, a fresh start, and no-one expecting anything in particular of you? If you knew your friends, family and those who you admire were guaranteed to be impressed and encouraging?
First off, it sounds like there’s a catch...and of course there is, what did you expect? And secondly, are you disappointed?
But fret not! The domineering influence of expectation has always been widespread. Our actions are often swayed by what others think we should and should not do. Expectations will continue to be - because, by human nature, we all naturally and instinctively carry judgement and hence, live in a complex society in which WE are being constantly judged by others. When we reach expectations already set out for us, we are rewarded and when we do not, we are punished - we may not know it, but others sure are thinking it.
Expectation initially presents itself as an external force that drives meaning, order and prosperity - especially for those who favour the thoughts of others, which would rightfully include you, dear reader, otherwise, what would be the mystery that lies behind your ever-presence?
Hardly groundbreaking for you, but expectation is a demanding god. Speak ill of the god of expectation and others will speak ill of you. This is often best justified in many studies that there is a strong correlation with the development of self-efficacy and the attitudes and beliefs of others. In schools, excellence in achievement tends to be influenced by high parental and cultural expectations. At the workplace, performance is influenced by the presence of a manager. In sporting teams, the expectations of a coach in, perhaps the intensity and frequency of training, can influence success at the big game.
It is therefore, not unworldly to say that expectations are often associated with positive outcomes, success and excellence. However, outcomes such as these are treated as limited resource. One where competition is central, one where only the fittest will reign supreme and one where survival within society is key this way. There is general acceptance within society that not everybody can excel yet still, these expectations are apparent. Not everybody can become an athlete, just as not everybody can be tall - otherwise, there would be no distinction of being so. Indeed, if to excel means to ‘stand out’ from the crowd, then by definition, only some can excel.
So it seems that the god of expectation should be our ally as it provides countless benefits of fame, success and most of all, the respect of others - but only after achieving what a small proportion of our society is able to. Talk about unrealistic standards!
Often, expectations and reality are ridiculed for the sake of comedy - but, what they truly showcase is that expectations are warped ideas of a reality. After all, they are abstract, vague concepts that we choose to put faith in. No? Too rich and embarrassing an image? Would you prefer me to define expectation by what it does, rather than by what it is?
However, often many cross the line between living up to expectations and a loss of oneself.
Let’s try another way. Consider this - with a sense of prosperity gained, is a true sense of happiness achieved? You may (and probably have) followed expectations all your life and achieved what the world approves of - climbing the corporate ladder, going to university and getting a degree, not wearing that mini skirt you’ve always wanted to wear, starving yourself to become the ‘perfect’ body shape perceived in the media, giving the press what they want to hear and not what you want to say - roll up, roll up, witness the almighty power of the god of expectation.
So with these expectations come the pressures, the anxiety and ultimately, the fear of not being able to fulfil them. Sometimes, in an effort to impress those who have burdened us, we often try to exceed their conjectures and do more than we are promised. We get tied up in knots about how best to rise up to the challenge set before us, that we often forget about what’s truly important - ourselves.
You see, when you spend most of your time running around obsessed with the idea of being loved and approved by others, wearing all kinds of masks and costumes based on the role you are expected to be playing, not only should you be recognised as an accredited actor...but you begin to lose yourself. You get lost in the crowd, becoming one of the millions, if not billions, of people who have no idea who they are and what they stand for - just a side effect to the addictive drug of expectation.
In the end, who are we to blame? The baby boomers for enforcing their teachings? God himself, for crafting judgement into the essence of human nature? No. We are only to blame ourselves.
After all, we all know that kid who would always sit at the back of the class, doodling till no end. He did not care the slightest about the world around him, and frankly, nor the world to him after some time.
But now you do. Being disappointed, you admire him. I mean, what did you expect?
hi, welcome to the forums! sorry to burst your bubble but you need 50 posts to get an essay or creative marked! sounds like a lot, but if you stick around here for a bit, you'll find your posts accumulate quickly. best of luck with your hsc! :-)
Post by: justwannawish on October 06, 2017, 10:31:20 pm
Hey there!! Happy to sit down and read this :)Spoiler
Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be you, the hero of the Manhattan Project, the star on their spangled banner. Absorbed in your scattered sketches and sheets of calculations, you’re consumed by your attempts to defeat the enemy, to build a weapon deadlier than the atomic bomb. And what better way than destroying commies, hey?
Sometimes I think of you and wonder what it’s like to be a murderer.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, a desperate nation dropped two bombs on another. We all know how this story ends.
Cracking your neck, you recalculate the ionisation power required to ignite the fusion fuel, carefully plotting deaths like the madman we all know you are. I’ve seen a lot of them in my time, but you, rational, intelligent you, sipping your Tang frightened or frightens* me more than a psychopath.
(It was war, they excuse it as a one-off. It’s humanity, I reply. You can’t trust them)
Extension: I hope you make a mistake and give up. I hope that you change your mind and give up. I hope the world ends before you end it's because you don’t want to be death, the destroyer of the world. Trust me. I pray and pray, but God doesn’t exist much nowadays. People have better reasons to die than religion.
Whistling Ain’t I Right, you scribble the last lines and let your shaking hands drop the pen. The numbers don’t make sense to me, but I can tell by your wide-eyed grin that you did it.
Congratulations. You’ve just made a hydrogen bomb, one more powerful than the atomic bomb, one without fissione that’s just going to make more work for me. I’ve already overworked and understaffed.
(One death, two deaths, what more is another million? Tell me, have you ever seen a corpse?)
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I can’t! You’re going to end the world and I’m the only one who cares.
And they say Death is heartless. I'll add at this point that I've read everything out loud so far to make sure that your grammar is stopping and starting the story in the flow that you want. So far, VERY good!
***
As you cradle the papers to your chest, your smile slowly combusts into a cheer. Months of testing. Mocking smiles from the other scientists. Failure after failure. It all paid off! You have to tell Eva.
Throwing open the door, you skid to a halt behind her silhouette, illuminated by a candle stub. Eva’s reading glasses slip from her exasperated sigh, as she reads the papers. You pity her- small print is the bane of your life as well.
You scan the article she’s reading, grinning at the photo of the mushroom cloud. You’ll make that look like a peace pipe. “Darling, I didn’t know…” you read, you like to do things besides your hair. “You like politics.” This sentence here, I just don't think I'm reading it the way you intended. It's almost like that middle bit there, the part outside of the quotation marks, is part of the quote? and I'm not sure if it's being read from the paper of it these are the words the person is saying? I think the thing that makes me think it's on the paper is, "you read," but then the "you like politics" is mixing the voice of the person and the narration and it's just not quite clear for me.
Eva starts, covering the paper with her body. Extension: After kind John Smith next door got taken away by the Committee, you’ve both been more jumpy, more frown lines decorating your foreheads. But you have nothing to fear, making bombs is not un-American at all. *shudders* YES. THIS.
Taking her hand, you laugh “We can have conversations again.”
She loosens her shoulders, smile flickering like a candle in the wind. It’s nothing like the steady glow of the girl you married and you wonder where she went. “I don’t think we share the same views.”
You kneel in front of her, “Try me, Eva.” You miss her wince- you’ve been forgetting since your new job that she’s your ‘Evie’. You’ve been ignoring a lot about her- her new bouffant, her pretty dress, her calls for dinner.
And maybe thinking about all of this, she spits out, “I think the Americans are murderers for the Japanese bombings.”
Murderer- you a murderer? She’s gone mad. This italicised bit can be stronger, I think. I'm not sure about the exact way you're intending for me to read this.
Extension: Eva continues, her words more blazing than the flames. “I don’t think communists are bad. For god’s sake, I’m a communist! I don’t want to end American society. I think the only bad people out there are our government.”
“Those murderers went to Hiroshima under the guise of freeing Western democracy. Was our democracy worth the deaths of innocent kids? What did they ever do to us? What did the civilians do?” Eva’s eyes flash and her bitter curses start echoing in your mind. Murderer.
“And you know what’s really tragic? They’re planning another set of bombings. Bigger and better! Do they know what they’re doing?” Extinguished, she stops, bringing her hand to her mouth. “I think a lot of terrible things.”
“They didn’t kill anyone directly,” you whisper, fixating your eyes on her wedding ring. What if she knew that your high-earning fancy job in the city, the one that paid for her pretty dresses and ring, was earned by the blood of innocents?
Eva scoffs, and you wonder when the sweet housewife you married left. Did she ever exist? I love this bit. I like that it's not WHERE is she, but just recognises she has left by wondering WHEN - it shows a preoccupation of the husband for a long time.
“The bombs didn’t magically transport themselves. People dropped it. People created it. Nothing is made evil. People- I don’t know if you can call those scum humans really-make things evil.”
She quietens, quivering in the vulnerable way fire does when it’s burnt out. “Are you going to call the Committee on me?” You shake your head, knees giving out, and collapse into the seat next to her. She flinches, perhaps disgusted by the blood surrounding you. “I’ll bring your dinner.”
Staring in silence at the food, you tremblingly hold your gravy filled spoon above the peas.
Over Japan, an aircraft had held the bombs above the people.
Somewhere, someday, someone’s going to do the same with your hydrogen bomb. OMLLLL YESSS. Love this imagery - so domestic, yet so global.
You drop it. They drop the bomb. They’re going to drop the bomb.
The peas are covered. The people are buried. They’re going to die.
By your hands. By your hands. By your hands.
Is that tomato or blood on your hands? Just a small thing which I'll leave up to you, I'd put a comma after "blood" so the "on your hands" rings with greater salience to tie into the repetition of "by your hands" above.
***
At night, you glower at the ceiling, uncomfortable in your soft bed. Thoughts of the bomb, your bomb, run through your nightmares. You don’t know what it felt like, of course, you’re not dead. But it comes alive whenever you close your eyes. Hot and blinding, red as blood. Black and cold, a silent killer. Explosive. Screams. Corpses. Dead by your hands.
Is this what it feels to be a murderer?
No. NO! You scream into your duvet and struggle to free yourself from the blankets, nearly tripping over the bedside table.
Eva furrows her brows, “What’s wrong?” Killer.
You bite your lip, “Just have to do something.” Slaughterer.
Walking into your study, you run a hand through your hair and find the blueprints again, examining it under the candlelight. Hours and hours of dedication, you’ve spent so long on it. It’s such a pity. You clutch the sheets, the words wrapping themselves around your fingers, tethering you. Murderer.
The flames burn and you wonder if all those people you killed burned as well. Closing your eyes, you let the candle digest your recipe for death and watch the ashes fall for the last time.
***
On the other side of the world, I let out a sob as the familiar twinges of pain, the suffering of souls you were going to create, finally leave. The girl I was waiting for straightens her crying mother’s kimono and kisses her goodbye, attempting to memorise every touch, every glance. As she takes my hand, I thank you for not making more people die like she did.
Extension: (Once the country asked you to do something and you did the right thing brilliantly. Thank you for not letting it break you.)
Sometimes, I think of you and wonder what’s it like to be a hero.
Wonderful. Brilliant. Incredible.
How do I articulate how much I enjoy this piece? It's clean AF. I read it verbally to make sure it lulled and sung the way it should, and it did. The wording is JUST enough every time - crisp, and clean, and never too much. You've thought so carefully about the techniques, I can see it especially in the gravy/bomb scenario. Who would've thought??
In terms of plot, I love love love the ending. The two people, so significantly connected, but never meet. The only thing that I think we could probably do away with in order to give the reader a little more work to do, a little more respect for their ability to put the pieces together, is the holiday thing.
You go back to bed and kiss your wife for the first time in months. “You looked beautiful today, Evie.” She gapes at you, because you finally remembered. Wrapping an arm around her, you smile, “Let’s go on a holiday.”
Evie laughs but her eyes sparkle in agreement.
Tomorrow you’ll tell your employers it’s impossible and ignore your colleagues’ taunts at the fact the wonder-boy couldn’t do it. You’ll finally use up that vacation on your paycheck and take Evie away for a weekend.
A break will do you both good.
This here, could in fact just be, "You went to sleep that night in debt to Evie. You nodded off thinking about the taunts of your employers when you tell them it's impossible, and yes, even the wonder-boy himself couldn't do it. So nobody could."
Sometttthing like this, brings all of the above into just two sentences and it leaves stuff to the imagination. So because we look at Evie with debt and gratitude, the reader can assume that Evie has swayed his opinion. This is then confirmed in a very short manner in the next sentence, rather than leaving the "oh my god he changed his mind" experience of the reader as an experience of a few sentences, distracted by a holiday. I think it's more cutting this way. Then, moving on to the person in Japan - BRILLIANT. The You + I of the story is wonderful. A very clever technique. The discovery is strong, and it works on multiple layers at multiple points.
In terms of Extension - you've also ticked all the boxes. Ways of thinking, yes. The religion at the beginning is subtle but strong, the war, the gender roles, the science, the world order - it all works together so seamlessly. Are you extending on this version for extension or just presenting it like this?
For discovery - this is strong, cutting, very clean, and I would surely give this a band 6, hinging on the fact that it is developed to the stimulus of course!
It's me again! Sorry, but I was wondering if you could work out a few issues I have with adapting the piece? I've tried fitting it to each of the syllabus dot points and this is what I've come up with:
First time discovery: finding the bomb, changing his perception
Rediscovering something lost, concealed or forgotten: not really sure if it counts, but indirectly, a reconnection with his wife?
Sudden or unexpected: didn't expect Evie to come up with such a confronting argument that shook the foundations of his assumptions
Deliberate planning: the bomb was one created out of his personal wonder and necessity from the government
Emotional, spiritual: his realisation of the damage the bomb caused
Creative and intellectual: not sure about these ones either
Confronting and provocative: hope that's apparent ;)
New understandings and renewed perceptions of ourselves and others: not sure of this is communicated very well either
Personal, cultural, historical, social contexts: historical and social, I would say yes? Not sure about personal and cultural
Far reaching and transformative for the individual and broader society: the ending scene with the Japanese girl, and I think it was implicitly threaded throughout the piece
Ramifications: was the discovery and his own feelings about it enough to suit this dotpoint
Different perspectives/worth can be reassessed over time: Evie vs Protagonist at the start, protagonist throughout the piece
Challenge/affirm widely held assumptions and beliefs about aspects of human experience and the world: I feel like I'm being biased towards this but I find myself agreeing haha
New discoveries about: place-not at all, people-vaguely yes, relationships- wife and husband??, societies-American society in the 1950s was a bad place for one's conscience, events-not sure about this either
Generate new ideas: morals vs societal aims,
Do you think that these themes fit the story? Or alternatively, have any idea how to change the story to fit to another stimulus? Thank you so much!
Post by: kemi on October 07, 2017, 12:08:03 pm
If we have the required number of posts can we PM our creatives? Assuming the thread hasn't locked of course.
Thank you!
Post by: sals101 on October 08, 2017, 04:01:39 pm
Butterflies slide down the knots in my stomach as I gazed across the lofty pastel apartments, jerking back and forth until my gaze would catch yet another pastel home for a millisecond more than the others. My paper thin heels glide down the car floor mats as the brakes and accelerator were impulsively shifting, like switching channels on TV, instead navigating through the rugged, slender roads in between skyscrapers. They reminded me of European roads, lined with bright coloured scooters, hanging ivy, the oceanic aroma. Oh how I missed greece, this was the closest thing to home, the same summer vibes which passed out rays of energy and sunshine occupied by the sun, besides today.
The clouds merged together, blocking any glistening sun, but my eyes remained fixated on the slippery concrete roads which let water droplets caress them.
“So Niles.. How are you ?”
“Harper , breathe it's okay, you deserve this.”
He knew me too well, I attempted to distract myself from my pounding heart.
“ what if they don't li -”
“If anyone doesn't like you that's their own loss”.
“But, you know me I'm used to being disappointed ”
“Harper, you deserve the peace not them.”
Delight flooded the heaviness upon my heart, Niles always knew the right thing to say, indeed I was the one who deserved peace, not only to wash over my pain but to completely erase it.
My childhood lay like a stone upon my heart, years of constant sorrow i wish i could take back from my 5 year old self and look at it the way i do now, adoption just meant you deserved to be loved more than you were. But what child is to know that at 5? .Waking up every morning in a row of beds amongst other abandoned children, eager to walk the sand, puddles, the fresh lawn and everything inbetween.
“ Hey Harper, look it’s your lanky uncle HAHHA”
Them swarm of empty hearted children, craving love would laugh hysterically when uncle Ray would wander through the scanty hallways.
Despite the jealous chuckles, uncle ray drowned me in warmth as if the sun huddled me,
the only blood relationship engraved in my mind,
I never knew if he was sent there or came willingly, but he radiated light amongst the dull, imprisoned property. The cuddles imprinted on my skin, spiked of his black and grey beard which would rind my cheeks, carving a smile, as he ruffled his face into my stomach, tickling me to the point where my body would curl up and roll to the imperfect floor. Disappearing, without a chance to see me become Harper Sandra Niles, Niles never failed to provide for me as a daughter.
Snapping out of bottled thoughts,pulling my exhausted face closer to the window as we travelled in line with the golden gate bridge, the breeze curling my soft blonde waves behind my ear, sorrow lingered at the tip of my tongue but the view took any words from my grip. Sliding back into the stiff Francisco streets, I Glanced at the cute cafe corners with displays filled of warm glazed donuts, peering at the engraved gold title laying upon the black marble cafe.
“OMG Niles is that wayfare!!!, Pull in to the right!”
“Is this the organic cafe you always talk about Harper?”
“YES! they have vegan donuts,cookies-”
“Got it! Let's get you something to steer the nerves, let me guess strawberry glazed?”
“DUHH”
Thrr rthrrrr, The engine urged, attempting to jolt, making little BRUPPP’s to offer motion. Too engaged at the sight of food my mind lost consciousness.
“Harper?”
“ yes Niles ”
“The car wont start”
Being muddled himself, Niles walked aggressively, tie swinging freely in the wind. A blonde man jolted, swerving around the corner in a navy suit, his dreamy eyes fixed on mine.
“Do you need help?”
“Our car wont start”
“It’s the battery” niles butted.
“My chauffeur can jumpstart it, but can I offer you a coffee lovely lady”
My eyes fixated on his handsomely toned body, sheer through his tux, but destiny awaited.
“ sorry we-”
“I understand” he replied
“Barry get the cables” He ordered
Barry and Niles were in deep worry about the car starting as it suddenly roared on.
“Thankyou so much -”
“It’s my pleasure”.
The pair bolted around the corner , brushing against the mini tree pots. Settling inside the car, mt mind boggled, my love for the warmth and joy in San Francisco shone through this gentleman.
I always craved affection which came with birthday candles, families huddled around dining tables, christmas trees, but would it really be the same knowing it wasn't a desire to love? My mind snapped out of inevitably deep thoughts.What were my parents doing in San Francisco?, they didn't belong in such as lively city, too harsh to rome these gentle streets. My heart was in sudden confusion. I became perplexed, not knowing what I wanted from this, I wasn't ready to settle for the guilty, ‘we had no choice’ bullshit.
“Niles do they even deserve to see me?”
“They need to see what they left behind, don’t fall for their sappy guilt”
“Pull over niles, I never want them to ghost over the person I have created for myself”
“You just need to show them what they've missed and what they will never be apart of”
“I don't want them to live with disclosure”
“Just do it, so you can live knowing you never really needed them”
“Ok”
Ok was never enough, but I knew seeing them was the only path to tranquility.
Arriving at a flat street, a speckle of sun dusting upon the roof. Deep breathing , gripping tight as my heels settled into the cracked road, jerking my leg. A hasty spark shifted into me, trembling, across the broken road in my heart.My hands leaped into the polished brass door knocker, knocking silently against my aggressiveness. My ears met with the door lock twisting, turning to niles, gazing at the door, every tick of the door dug deeper with a sharp knife right through my emotional wounds.
Post by: prickles on October 08, 2017, 06:43:16 pm
Post by: fantasticbeasts3 on October 09, 2017, 11:06:44 am
I was wondering if you could read my Creative piece and give me some pointers on how to improve it. Thank you!SpoilerDinner was the best. My family and I could just laugh, talk and enjoy ourselves. We could forget about the stresses of life and focus on the good thing, the little things. Once upon a time, life was great, with no worries and no troubles. Since Marcus, we could not be the same family. Everything is blurred and obscure. We had no direction or sense of where life is taking us. There was once a time, I looked up to Rob, I idolised him, I wanted to be him but it was his act of foolishness that now he is nothing to me and there is no way i could forgive him. I had a deep anger and indignation towards Rob, my uncle only by name, nothing more. I knew what he’d done wasn’t intentional, it was a mistake. One mistake, now one less person at home.
One month has passed since the accident, Marcus, only 7 years old, didn’t deserve to go out this way. Jake and I were in the car with Marcus and Rob, and I could only wish it was me not him. He spent his time with laughter and joy and nothing but a smile, one that could light up nations. My parents would visit him every weekend, showering his grave with flowers and messages, but Jake and I would never go. It was too hard to witness. I would sit in my dark, black room, reminiscing on moments in Marcus’ life. I go back to the days, when we would spend every summer on the soft, sparkling, white sand that dance upon my feet. The rays of the sun radiating our bodies as packets of energy, while we’d kick up the surface of the icy surf so that droplets would glimmer like diamonds in the sunlight. On our lips the crystalline salt sat on our tongues, with the freshness of life filtering through our lungs. It was one moment in time, that was an eternity of joy and exuberance. But eternity like happiness has an end, for Marcus his end came too early.
I believed the time was right to visit Marcus. Jake and I moved to the cemetery, with mixed with emotions of anxiety and anger. Jake walked next to me silent, in the windy, drained streets, with all the emotion sucked from his body. Through his red eye’s, I could see the anger inside him, his despair and retreat from the world in his pale face. As we arrived at Marcus, Jake was stiff, suffocating in his own body, like words and pictures would collide in his head. Trees covered the cemetery, the brown leaves were curling and stiff. The branches drooped. It seemed so forlorn in the colourless arena they surrounded. Next to us was a table, of sandstone blocks, covered with mold. Rob was seated on the table. The disgust and anger moved up my body, A swelling of the veins waiting to explode, with the urge to say things, you would rather left unsaid.
I walked up to him, with Jake rather staying with Marcus, resisting myself from saying something that I would regret. I was expecting Rob to bombard me with apologies and ‘please forgive me’ speeches. It wasn’t like that at all though. He had accepted what he had done and knew it was wrong. Not much was said, but the feeling of shame and guilt radiated from his body. The atmosphere was tense but quiet, until Jake walked up to us, Rob stated with remorse “I know sorry isn’t going to do much, but I really am sorry ”. Jake retaliated and with all the anger throttling him he blasted “you apologies to someone if you spill a drink on them. You killed my brother and ruined everything in my life”. I grabbed Jake and moved him away from Rob, calming him down, I went back and sat with Rob, tears falling down his face, the guilt tearing at his heart, ripping at his insides. I could see his pain and sorrow. The anger I was feeling was not for Rob but for not having Marcus in my life, I could now say “You are forgiven.” and move that darkness out of my life. He replied “ How could you forgive, after all I have done, the pain I have caused”, I replied with a quote from a book I read, “Because darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”
Back where it all started, the sands beneath my feet it’s white, it’s soft, it’s calm, what more could you ask for really. Everything feels warm, soft and still, like the whiteness is holding me up. All of the death and horror has been left behind and I have been cleansed by the light. It’s a beautiful irony that it has taken death to transport me to this beautiful place, I can see the pure white
hi! the post requirement is currently 50 posts to get an essay or creative marked! sounds like a lot, but they do build up quickly - keep asking questions, answering people's questions, participate in discussions and you'll get there :-)
best of luck with your hsc,
fantasticbeasts
Post by: sophiegmaher on October 09, 2017, 12:16:33 pm
Post by: seventeenboi on October 09, 2017, 02:23:13 pm
i've finally accumulated to 50 posts PLSPLS mark my creative + in my opinion it's lacking on the discovery aspect, but I'm not sure how to approach it - could you perhaps suggest somekind of plot points or like things that could occur to further portray the impact of discovery ?? thanks so much!!!!! PLS SAVE MY ATAR LMFAO
Spoiler
Leonard woke up to another crumpled emptiness on the other side of their bed. He had tried to fill the void of space himself everyday, by painting the empty canvases they promised to fill together with the art they had devoted their lives to. Papers and threadbare socks were scattered across the stone-cold timber floors around the fortress. He could almost see the look of disappointment on Maria’s face if she had known what he’d become.
The bedridden sun was still buried in its cloak of anxiety and cast a lone shadow on the floor, barely warming the bareness that permeated the walls of his room. Sprawled across them, decades-old paintings attempted to compensate for the blankness. He closed his eyes to reimagine the trials of his youth in these illustrations which had now to him, become lifeless bodies of muted grey and insipidity.
The fireplace which was once ample and alive, and had facilitated late night conspiratorial whispers and dozes wrapped in blankets, was now black and charred with dead secrets buried in the ashes. Now, even the layers of brick seemed to want to disintegrate and crumble under the weight of the yellowing photographs of frozen smiles entrapped in time. He tried to avoid the gaze of the happy faces.
Their happy faces.
Heaving himself off the bed, he stumbled towards his easel - a place both of refuge and despair.
Its flaking wood and peeling skin was almost repulsive, as it looked like it was about to succumb to ruin and collapse from the heavy burden of unsatisfactory canvas after canvas, day after day.
He began to etch tendrils for branches, but the pencil disobeyed his mind and as his fingers clutched its weak wooden frame anxiously, it quivered in his grasp. The curvature of wise beaks would only become the squabble of pigeons. Mighty wings would only become feeble scribbles crumbling in the violent wind.
*********************************
So he decided to stop these fantasies and desires. He only knew they were never be got at again. Not without Maria.
It had taken him weeks to approach their cupboard - he had to learn how to resist the fluttering of her ribbons in the books she didn’t want to crease, or the whiff of her rustic perfume in their room. Packing away his brushes palettes, placing them delicately into a wooden box. He began categorising things into the chapters they shared in their lives, sorting the colossal stack of paintings in the corner which were billowing with dust. Flicking and flicking he tried to avoid the gaze of each canvas to avoid feeling nauseous. He was eventually interrupted an unfamiliar convolution of pigments and hues which seduced his eyes - its contents unrecognisable.
He was baffled by the complexity of it all.
Amongst stern boulder-like clouds which threatened to swallow the sky, dainty wisps of periwinkle greeted through rifts that the fog could not reach. Above the clouds, stars were delicately plotted to sprawl across an expanse of infinite black and navy. Back on the earth, fields and fields of herbage and vegetation quivered from the cool remnants of a shower extending their green limbs. A forest of silvery poplars rose spangled with the dewy glittering of gold and green in welcome. A flock of crimson birds crowded and nestled amongst its boughs relinquishing the open air in shrill, energetic conversation. Each bird flitted about and tended to each other. Their reddened headdresses defied the ashen ambience of the scenery as they rode the unreachable thermals above as if in a graceful ballroom dance. In the midst of it all, a tiny figure stood awkwardly, gazing upwards and almost engulfed by the overwhelming entity, hypnotised by the crisp symphony of his world.
At the bottom, signed, in delicate curls and rolling letters: “For my Leonard - Maria”
It was one of those unfamiliar scenes, like a childhood hometown left unvisited to evaporate from memory, only to return surging. For so long, he realised how he had craved the hypnotism and soothe of her. Wonder devoured the monotony that had stifled him, pulsing through his arteries like water flooding into dry rivulets.
His eyes followed the winding river the figure stood in and traced it as it meandered into the horizon.
You are alone, but you are not alone! The figure seemed to piercingly voice.
His eyes welled up with the droplets of laughter they shared.
He set down her creation, returning to his own easel by the window and picked up his brush, gripping it. He had forgotten how comfortably it sat in his hands, like a natural extension of his body, like another limb. Caressing its mahogany build, he recalled the intense spectrum of hues that dominated their lives, visualising them on the frosted blank.
Even without Maria, his own story would continue - she seemed to be telling him that now.
Meticulously, he carved effortless strokes onto the awaiting linen.
A stroke of vibrant vermillion, a stroke of brilliant blue.
A stroke for each remnant of memory that they made together.
A stroke for each memory he will make himself from now on.
The bedridden sun was still buried in its cloak of anxiety and cast a lone shadow on the floor, barely warming the bareness that permeated the walls of his room. Sprawled across them, decades-old paintings attempted to compensate for the blankness. He closed his eyes to reimagine the trials of his youth in these illustrations which had now to him, become lifeless bodies of muted grey and insipidity.
The fireplace which was once ample and alive, and had facilitated late night conspiratorial whispers and dozes wrapped in blankets, was now black and charred with dead secrets buried in the ashes. Now, even the layers of brick seemed to want to disintegrate and crumble under the weight of the yellowing photographs of frozen smiles entrapped in time. He tried to avoid the gaze of the happy faces.
Their happy faces.
Heaving himself off the bed, he stumbled towards his easel - a place both of refuge and despair.
Its flaking wood and peeling skin was almost repulsive, as it looked like it was about to succumb to ruin and collapse from the heavy burden of unsatisfactory canvas after canvas, day after day.
He began to etch tendrils for branches, but the pencil disobeyed his mind and as his fingers clutched its weak wooden frame anxiously, it quivered in his grasp. The curvature of wise beaks would only become the squabble of pigeons. Mighty wings would only become feeble scribbles crumbling in the violent wind.
*********************************
So he decided to stop these fantasies and desires. He only knew they were never be got at again. Not without Maria.
It had taken him weeks to approach their cupboard - he had to learn how to resist the fluttering of her ribbons in the books she didn’t want to crease, or the whiff of her rustic perfume in their room. Packing away his brushes palettes, placing them delicately into a wooden box. He began categorising things into the chapters they shared in their lives, sorting the colossal stack of paintings in the corner which were billowing with dust. Flicking and flicking he tried to avoid the gaze of each canvas to avoid feeling nauseous. He was eventually interrupted an unfamiliar convolution of pigments and hues which seduced his eyes - its contents unrecognisable.
He was baffled by the complexity of it all.
Amongst stern boulder-like clouds which threatened to swallow the sky, dainty wisps of periwinkle greeted through rifts that the fog could not reach. Above the clouds, stars were delicately plotted to sprawl across an expanse of infinite black and navy. Back on the earth, fields and fields of herbage and vegetation quivered from the cool remnants of a shower extending their green limbs. A forest of silvery poplars rose spangled with the dewy glittering of gold and green in welcome. A flock of crimson birds crowded and nestled amongst its boughs relinquishing the open air in shrill, energetic conversation. Each bird flitted about and tended to each other. Their reddened headdresses defied the ashen ambience of the scenery as they rode the unreachable thermals above as if in a graceful ballroom dance. In the midst of it all, a tiny figure stood awkwardly, gazing upwards and almost engulfed by the overwhelming entity, hypnotised by the crisp symphony of his world.
At the bottom, signed, in delicate curls and rolling letters: “For my Leonard - Maria”
It was one of those unfamiliar scenes, like a childhood hometown left unvisited to evaporate from memory, only to return surging. For so long, he realised how he had craved the hypnotism and soothe of her. Wonder devoured the monotony that had stifled him, pulsing through his arteries like water flooding into dry rivulets.
His eyes followed the winding river the figure stood in and traced it as it meandered into the horizon.
You are alone, but you are not alone! The figure seemed to piercingly voice.
His eyes welled up with the droplets of laughter they shared.
He set down her creation, returning to his own easel by the window and picked up his brush, gripping it. He had forgotten how comfortably it sat in his hands, like a natural extension of his body, like another limb. Caressing its mahogany build, he recalled the intense spectrum of hues that dominated their lives, visualising them on the frosted blank.
Even without Maria, his own story would continue - she seemed to be telling him that now.
Meticulously, he carved effortless strokes onto the awaiting linen.
A stroke of vibrant vermillion, a stroke of brilliant blue.
A stroke for each remnant of memory that they made together.
A stroke for each memory he will make himself from now on.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 09, 2017, 03:59:52 pm
Hey :)
If we have the required number of posts can we PM our creatives? Assuming the thread hasn't locked of course.
Thank you!
Unfortunately we can only mark in these designated threads :)
Hey! I was wondering if anyone had any advice on how to integrate a stimulus into your creative: how central should the stimulus be, and how much does the integration of the stimulus count towards the mark?
The advice I always give is that the stimulus should be obvious enough that someone who has the stimulus can tell you've used it, but not so obvious that someone who doesn't have the stimulus notices anything out of place. It should be natural in your story, it shouldn't "stick out."
Incorporating the stimulus properly is a significant portion of your mark for the section - An amazing creative that ignores the stimulus won't score nearly as well as the same Creative that incorporates the stimulus ;D
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 09, 2017, 04:55:56 pm
Honestly, words cannot describe how much your feedback means to me. I've been underperforming in all my creatives though I considered them to be my most developed skill in English and I've been rereading your comment because it made me feel a lot better about everything.
About your feedback:
"You scan the article she’s reading, grinning at the photo of the mushroom cloud. You’ll make that look like a peace pipe. “Darling, I didn’t know…” you read, you like to do things besides your hair. “You like politics.”
What I intended this to be was the words he was saying out loud juxtaposed with his thoughts. It was meant to be a reflection on how much they grew apart because there is so much he still doesn't know about her
"Murderer- you a murderer? She’s gone mad." This italicised bit can be stronger, I think. I'm not sure about the exact way you're intending for me to read this.
For this, I think I was trying to get like a shocked "lol what is she saying" feel about it. There's meant to be a tone of disbelief, which is later juxtaposed with his realisation at the end that she was right all along
I totally agree with your suggestion. Do you think this works better?
You go back to bed and, kissing your wife for the first time in months, you murmur a quiet "Thank you, Evie" into her hair.
You nod off, thinking about the taunts of your colleagues when you tell them it's impossible, that the wonder-boy himself couldn't do it, that no one could.
You fall asleep with a smile.
I'm glad you found it flowing, I tried to make it as smooth as possible and make the words sing as much as I could.
For the whole extension/advanced difference, I think i marked out a couple of sections as "Extension" (I wasn't going to put them in the discovery story because I thought the themes were more relevant to Extension, but if you think otherwise (whether it be that those sections fit better in discovery/why other sections aren't as relevant for discovery), please let me know! I'll be glad to change it.
This is such a long comment, I apologise :), but is there anything else you think I should add/remove?
Hello! I'm SO sorry this took so long - I got your PM over the weekend when the lectures were happening but knew I wouldn't have a quick chance to jump on the forums until today (and admittedly - I planned to give more time than I actually have). I didn't realise the Extension pieces were for the Extension creative - I just thought they were edits. So this makes more sense now! haha. I'd leave the first one in and take the second two out - especially the communism one. It's a nice touch for extension but for AOS it just gives another nugget of info that will possibly add to it all being too much.
I think your adjustment of the goodnight to Evie thing is much better. Very fluid!
I'm glad this gave you a confidence boost - I definitely think it's a great creative and is very deserving of high marks! The narrative structure through the narrational voice is most complex yet smooth and I definitely think that deserves applause! :)
Post by: dancing phalanges on October 09, 2017, 05:01:29 pm
Post by: fantasticbeasts3 on October 09, 2017, 05:12:15 pm
Hey guys, quick question for the Paper 1 creative. It's been 2 visual stimulus' in a row for 2015 and 2016 on discovery so, logically should we be preparing more for a textual stimulus? Also, do you think NESA could completely screw everyone over by making us base the creative off one of the unseen texts or images? Thanks :)
okay i'd probably be cry if they made us base the creative off one of the unseen texts... it's going to be like writing a fanfic 😂 i wouldn't rule out the possibility of a textual stimulus - it would probably be a starting/ending sentence (i can't think of any more at the moment). or maybe specifying the form of the creative (definitely not out of the realm of possibility, it was like that in trials!) prepare for both, just in case :-)
best of luck with your hsc,
fantasticbeasts
Post by: dancing phalanges on October 09, 2017, 05:14:59 pm
okay i'd probably be cry if they made us base the creative off one of the unseen texts... it's going to be like writing a fanfic 😂 i wouldn't rule out the possibility of a textual stimulus - it would probably be a starting/ending sentence (i can't think of any more at the moment). or maybe specifying the form of the creative (definitely not out of the realm of possibility, it was like that in trials!) prepare for both, just in case :-)
best of luck with your hsc,
fantasticbeasts
hahah i didnt completely mean do a fanfic but more using the visual unseen if there is one like you would a normal unseen or if they take a sentence out of an unseen text. i just have a feeling a textual one is going to come up seeing its been visual 2 years in a row which would be way better as personally hate visual ones, much easier to obviously blend in textual ones as visual ones i prefer to interpret metaphorically but its hard to do obviously to the marker
Post by: fantasticbeasts3 on October 09, 2017, 05:18:11 pm
hahah i didnt completely mean do a fanfic but more using the visual unseen if there is one like you would a normal unseen or if they take a sentence out of an unseen text. i just have a feeling a textual one is going to come up seeing its been visual 2 years in a row which would be way better as personally hate visual ones, much easier to obviously blend in textual ones as visual ones i prefer to interpret metaphorically but its hard to do obviously to the marker
yea, of course hahaha just in the case of basing it off a fiction extract! but yea for sure, visuals are easy to incorporate into your creative, but it's hard for the marker to see it :-) (or should it be ":-(")
Post by: blasonduo on October 09, 2017, 06:51:07 pm
In all seriousness, My creative writing sucks, and it always has sucked. It is the area which drops me from 86-87% down to an 80-81%. I think my best mark ever has been a 9/15 :/ I've always struggled with it, as I'm never too sure how on earth to improve it (teachers are limited)
In my creative writing, I have added multiple "italics" as shown in my comments and questions throughout the writing.
Creative WITH my comments
Spoiler
I swung around in my chair and leapt towards the door, today was the day."Is this a good way to start a creative writing? It doesn't really "grab" the attention of the reader" I lurched out of the room and inhaled the fresh, innocent morning air and watched the light of the world wake up from it’s slumber as I situated my panama hat "I wanted a hat to be placed on, but the word panama doesn't seem to roll off properly, but I didn't want to just call it a hat"to hide myself from its influence. I walked calmly down the street, trying to not draw attention to the salvaged emotion bubbling inside of me. My legs were trembling as if they’d never walked this stride before but I kept my pace; fast but steady, the weight of anticipation urged me to reach the airport as soon as possible. I knew this was excessive, pointless; the plane had a set time of arrival. Yet I couldn’t help being anxious, excited, itching for that time to be now. I had waited so long"Does this last part seem cliche?".
I smirked as I watched the trees majestically sway and dance in rhythm, distracting me of what’s the come, the arrival of the person who I would see so very soon"Again, I feel like this sentence is poorly written; too "lovey dovey" is that makes sense". The birds sang in harmony, praising and celebrating as if they were in my presence"I want birds to be apart of this, but this "as if they were in my presence" doesn't seem like the best of wording, how could I improve this?". Lost in my own vacant thoughts, I looked up to realise the airport upon the horizon. "Is this too sudden, seems forced to me"I enter the pristine, white, sunlit area, filled with people dashing around with a passion and a determination to explore the world around them. I pull out a crumpled, brown piece of paper and read “23” scrawled onto it, knowing that this was where I needed to be. As I walked, the bold red numbers on the billboards began to rise; 1, 2, 3 … "Is this proper writing? Am I allowed? If it effective?"As I continued, the hall began to fill, becoming congested until I was constantly brushing shoulders with society until I reached hallway 23, then everyone seemed to vanish."Again, is feel abrupt, and not well thought out, everyone did not "vanish" it was more meant to show his concentration on the situation, again, I don't know how to effectively portray this"
I stood in the middle of the corridor, my hands faced together as a horde of passengers began to slowly flood towards me. My eyes darted person to person, desperately looking for her, her glowing orange hair while not moving a muscle. "Is the description here needed?" The crowd began to wash over me"here I'm trying to portray society as symbolic, especially with water and the random nature of it, I know; I'm poor at conveying it", but I kept my confidence, watching like an eagle, silent as a grave,"these similies seem too generic, is this fine?" hoping for any indication. The crowd began to grunt and push at my presence, but I did not care, I could not care. However their presence vanished as fast as they approached, the corridor was once again….. Empty? "is this allowed?"I was confused, baffled, concerned. I attempted to call her, but she did not pick up. I concluded that I had forgotten the time of arrival, so I continued to stand, waiting. Wave after wave of other passengers washed a little more hope away from my tight grasp, my legs screamed to give up, but my mind was determined, I continued to hope. "The whole last two sentences seem to be rushed, do you get that vibe? If so, how do I improve it?"
But she did not arrive. "I thought this was actually good?........ is it?"
The room began to darken and my head fell heavily, all hope had been lost. I turned back to exit the building, once full of emotions, now barren, I'm trying to link society as a whole to him, as he felt more "human", he'd be literally and metaphorically closer to society, again, was this ineffective?"the walls greyed, hiding their once found beauty. The sun hid its influence, The world lost its enchantment. I exited the airport and was greeted by a chilling gust of wind mocking my vulnerability as I inhaled sharply trying to expel my disappointments. The trees began to mock me as their leaves whispered about my demise while the birds, did not dare mutter a word as my shoulders hung low with the burden as the final ray of life left my world."I was trying to give light, this symbol that represented his emotions? Heh, I might be shallow in the analysis here"I lurched towards my door and slumped back into my chair. Many thoughts and questions flashed through my mind as I fell my head into my hands. What went wrong? I pulled out my phone and scrolled through our texts, the glorious texts and I remembered the good times, "This seems like filler to me, even though it wasn't"but this only filled me with more hopelessness. I sunk down, dejected and defeated, tomorrow is now just another day."This ending seems too sudden :/"
I smirked as I watched the trees majestically sway and dance in rhythm, distracting me of what’s the come, the arrival of the person who I would see so very soon"Again, I feel like this sentence is poorly written; too "lovey dovey" is that makes sense". The birds sang in harmony, praising and celebrating as if they were in my presence"I want birds to be apart of this, but this "as if they were in my presence" doesn't seem like the best of wording, how could I improve this?". Lost in my own vacant thoughts, I looked up to realise the airport upon the horizon. "Is this too sudden, seems forced to me"I enter the pristine, white, sunlit area, filled with people dashing around with a passion and a determination to explore the world around them. I pull out a crumpled, brown piece of paper and read “23” scrawled onto it, knowing that this was where I needed to be. As I walked, the bold red numbers on the billboards began to rise; 1, 2, 3 … "Is this proper writing? Am I allowed? If it effective?"As I continued, the hall began to fill, becoming congested until I was constantly brushing shoulders with society until I reached hallway 23, then everyone seemed to vanish."Again, is feel abrupt, and not well thought out, everyone did not "vanish" it was more meant to show his concentration on the situation, again, I don't know how to effectively portray this"
I stood in the middle of the corridor, my hands faced together as a horde of passengers began to slowly flood towards me. My eyes darted person to person, desperately looking for her, her glowing orange hair while not moving a muscle. "Is the description here needed?" The crowd began to wash over me"here I'm trying to portray society as symbolic, especially with water and the random nature of it, I know; I'm poor at conveying it", but I kept my confidence, watching like an eagle, silent as a grave,"these similies seem too generic, is this fine?" hoping for any indication. The crowd began to grunt and push at my presence, but I did not care, I could not care. However their presence vanished as fast as they approached, the corridor was once again….. Empty? "is this allowed?"I was confused, baffled, concerned. I attempted to call her, but she did not pick up. I concluded that I had forgotten the time of arrival, so I continued to stand, waiting. Wave after wave of other passengers washed a little more hope away from my tight grasp, my legs screamed to give up, but my mind was determined, I continued to hope. "The whole last two sentences seem to be rushed, do you get that vibe? If so, how do I improve it?"
But she did not arrive. "I thought this was actually good?........ is it?"
The room began to darken and my head fell heavily, all hope had been lost. I turned back to exit the building, once full of emotions, now barren, I'm trying to link society as a whole to him, as he felt more "human", he'd be literally and metaphorically closer to society, again, was this ineffective?"the walls greyed, hiding their once found beauty. The sun hid its influence, The world lost its enchantment. I exited the airport and was greeted by a chilling gust of wind mocking my vulnerability as I inhaled sharply trying to expel my disappointments. The trees began to mock me as their leaves whispered about my demise while the birds, did not dare mutter a word as my shoulders hung low with the burden as the final ray of life left my world."I was trying to give light, this symbol that represented his emotions? Heh, I might be shallow in the analysis here"I lurched towards my door and slumped back into my chair. Many thoughts and questions flashed through my mind as I fell my head into my hands. What went wrong? I pulled out my phone and scrolled through our texts, the glorious texts and I remembered the good times, "This seems like filler to me, even though it wasn't"but this only filled me with more hopelessness. I sunk down, dejected and defeated, tomorrow is now just another day."This ending seems too sudden :/"
Creative WITHOUT my comments
Spoiler
I swung around in my chair and leapt towards the door, today was the day. I lurched out of the room and inhaled the fresh, innocent morning air and watched the light of the world wake up from its slumber as I situated my panama hat to hide myself from its influence. I walked calmly down the street, trying to not draw attention to the salvaged emotion bubbling inside of me. My legs were trembling as if they’d never walked this stride before but I kept my pace; fast but steady, the weight of anticipation urged me to reach the airport as soon as possible. I knew this was excessive, pointless; the plane had a set time of arrival. Yet I couldn’t help being anxious, excited, itching for that time to be now. I had waited so long.
I smirked as I watched the trees majestically sway and dance in rhythm, distracting me of what’s the come, the arrival of the person who I would see so very soon. The birds sang in harmony, praising and celebrating as if they were in my presence. Lost in my own vacant thoughts, I looked up to realise the airport upon the horizon. I enter the pristine, white, sunlit area, filled with people dashing around with a passion and a determination to explore the world around them. I pull out a crumpled, brown piece of paper and read “23” scrawled onto it, knowing that this was where I needed to be. As I walked, the bold red numbers on the billboards began to rise; 1, 2, 3 … As I continued, the hall began to fill, becoming congested until I was constantly brushing shoulders with society until I reached hallway 23, then everyone seemed to vanish.
I stood in the middle of the corridor, my hands viced together as a horde of passengers began to slowly flood towards me. My eyes darted person to person, desperately looking for her, her glowing orange hair while not moving a muscle. The crowd began to wash over me, but I kept my confidence, watching like an eagle, silent as a grave, hoping for any indication. The crowd began to grunt and push at my presence, but I did not care, I could not care. However their presence vanished as fast as they approached, the corridor was once again….. Empty? I was confused, baffled, concerned. I attempted to call her, but she did not pick up. I concluded that I had forgotten the time of arrival, so I continued to stand, waiting. Wave after wave of other passengers washed a little more hope away from my tight grasp, my legs screamed to give up, but my mind was determined, I continued to hope.
But she did not arrive.
The room began to darken and my head fell heavily, all hope had been lost. I turned back to exit the building, once full of emotions, now barren, the walls greyed, hiding their once found beauty. The sun hid its influence, The world lost its enchantment. I exited the airport and was greeted by a chilling gust of wind mocking my vulnerability as I inhaled sharply trying to expel my disappointments. The trees began to mock me as their leaves whispered about my demise while the birds, did not dare mutter a word as my shoulders hung low with the burden as the final ray of life left my world.I lurched towards my door and slumped back into my chair. Many thoughts and questions flashed through my mind as I fell my head into my hands. What went wrong? I pulled out my phone and scrolled through our texts, the glorious texts and I remembered the good times, but this only filled me with more hopelessness. I sunk down, dejected and defeated, tomorrow is now just another day.
I smirked as I watched the trees majestically sway and dance in rhythm, distracting me of what’s the come, the arrival of the person who I would see so very soon. The birds sang in harmony, praising and celebrating as if they were in my presence. Lost in my own vacant thoughts, I looked up to realise the airport upon the horizon. I enter the pristine, white, sunlit area, filled with people dashing around with a passion and a determination to explore the world around them. I pull out a crumpled, brown piece of paper and read “23” scrawled onto it, knowing that this was where I needed to be. As I walked, the bold red numbers on the billboards began to rise; 1, 2, 3 … As I continued, the hall began to fill, becoming congested until I was constantly brushing shoulders with society until I reached hallway 23, then everyone seemed to vanish.
I stood in the middle of the corridor, my hands viced together as a horde of passengers began to slowly flood towards me. My eyes darted person to person, desperately looking for her, her glowing orange hair while not moving a muscle. The crowd began to wash over me, but I kept my confidence, watching like an eagle, silent as a grave, hoping for any indication. The crowd began to grunt and push at my presence, but I did not care, I could not care. However their presence vanished as fast as they approached, the corridor was once again….. Empty? I was confused, baffled, concerned. I attempted to call her, but she did not pick up. I concluded that I had forgotten the time of arrival, so I continued to stand, waiting. Wave after wave of other passengers washed a little more hope away from my tight grasp, my legs screamed to give up, but my mind was determined, I continued to hope.
But she did not arrive.
The room began to darken and my head fell heavily, all hope had been lost. I turned back to exit the building, once full of emotions, now barren, the walls greyed, hiding their once found beauty. The sun hid its influence, The world lost its enchantment. I exited the airport and was greeted by a chilling gust of wind mocking my vulnerability as I inhaled sharply trying to expel my disappointments. The trees began to mock me as their leaves whispered about my demise while the birds, did not dare mutter a word as my shoulders hung low with the burden as the final ray of life left my world.I lurched towards my door and slumped back into my chair. Many thoughts and questions flashed through my mind as I fell my head into my hands. What went wrong? I pulled out my phone and scrolled through our texts, the glorious texts and I remembered the good times, but this only filled me with more hopelessness. I sunk down, dejected and defeated, tomorrow is now just another day.
Overall, I attempted to give symbols and motifs, but they might be too shallow.
Also, My storyline as a whole, nothing really progressess, its a story that just shows a discovery of the presence of nothing, and then his reaction to it, how drastic will my marks drop due to this.
Also, my Creative currently is very short, what are some things I could add to bring up this word count?
Finally, I feel like there is no "resolution" and I've been told that marks can be lost, is my ending really that bad?
Also my writing as a whole, how is it? how Poorly am I communicating current events? Is my style right?
Thank you so much :D
Post by: taylorlucy on October 09, 2017, 09:13:36 pm
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 10, 2017, 07:53:52 am
Hey guys, quick question for the Paper 1 creative. It's been 2 visual stimulus' in a row for 2015 and 2016 on discovery so, logically should we be preparing more for a textual stimulus? Also, do you think NESA could completely screw everyone over by making us base the creative off one of the unseen texts or images? Thanks :)
Hey there! When it comes to English papers - my advice is to not try and find logic in the patterns. I think there's merit for other papers, but English doesn't seem to follow that same vein. So I'd be preparing equally for a textual stimulus as I would for a visual stimulus.
As for the second part - yes they could. I haven't considered that they will, but surely there's nothing stopping them from doing that other than that it would probably be very limiting in terms of the diversity of responses they'd receive, especially considering lately they've been providing a few stimulus options - which I'd suggest is so they can receive a variety of responses and students of various skill levels (this includes standard and advanced, remember), can access the paper.
Post by: bun00 on October 10, 2017, 08:30:02 am
would i be able to put my creative writing on here, not to get marked but maybe for some suggestions on how i could adapt it to a question that requires a discovery that emerges from a process of deliberate and careful planning? or will i still need 50 posts?
thankyou! and ATB ;D
Spoiler
Nothing Ever Mattered to Me
Nothing ever mattered to me. I’d followed the same jaded steps down the bright cold walks of Broadway. Down to that same dusty, 60’s built shop at the station stairs that was no more than a “shabby counter with a few smokes underneath” as he used to call it
.
***
My father instilled these words into me when I lived my ‘daddy’s boy’ life.
“Son, you’ve a big road ahead and you’ll travel it solo one day.”
He never vacated his thoughts of my life ahead, he’d told me that his life was nothing special and never will be, he’d told me I’d probably reject my parents as I grew older, just because he did. This was all, only for me to discover the culmination of his life, and it was as he said…nothing special. And now I live my own life…
***
Through the twelve uneventful years consumed in the monotonous ritual of passing a box or two to a stranger, or sometimes a familiar face, on a daily basis. I’d squint through the flashing black and orange “CTC George St” above me that became engrained in my eyes.
I’d peer through to the ever-bustling city street which always appeared to be a cosmopolitan gathering. It was full of busy men’s feet, who rushed with briefcases and smartphones, while others were going for their morning jog before yet another tedious day in the office. I saw some less active in the distance who’d occupy their day with clenching their hand-drawn “money please!” sign and only uplift their heads to the occasional tinkle of a coin in their basket. It never seemed strange to me that although they felt so helpless, I felt no obligation to help them. It never seemed strange that as business men rushed by with slick haircuts, grey suit jackets and a shining watch that only a rich man wears, they felt no obligation to offer any more than droplets flicked from their striding shoes as they raced to “Platform 6 departing for all stops to Mascot”.
Frank, a face I knew as well as a brother. I’d see him scrambling through the crowds around 7:45, just before his 8am InterCity, change for Wynyard. He’d take his box with no more than a “G’day mate I’ll just take one today” and was swept back into the humming sea of bodies.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, the masses of people became irregular. The scene evolved into mothers shopping, buskers, young refugees appearing in the middle of the walkway. The held an advertisement with directions to a shop that only they didn’t realise was the opposite direction to the arrow. My attention to detail baffled me, I was a walking contradiction. The more I detailed them, the more insignificant they were to me.
I saw the occasional fall on the slippery pavement in front of my store. I saw mothers scolding their children fruitlessly. I saw the fights of street kids and young boys stealing on the sly. But nothing ever mattered to me. As long as my till overflowed at the end of the day, I wasn’t turned in my sleep about the things I saw on the streets, nor did I worry about the deathly diseases my product created. Supposedly ‘confronting’ signs were plastered over the billboards, buses and taxis with “cigarettes are eating you alive” - blown up pictures of various ‘body parts’ - they looked more like a year eight dissection science lesson. But I wasn’t confronted by them, nothing ever mattered to me. The world had forsaken me as a child. My parents, degenerates of society, abandoned me when I was only eight years old. I pilfered, lied and deceived to survive. Society unleashed a dark veil that obscured my suffering…nobody cared. Shame never blanketed me. There was not an iota of regret in what I did for a living. I was just giving back to society what they gave me…contempt and indifference.
That day was not meant to be different, that day was not meant to bring anything exciting or new, and it didn’t.
I watched the dribs and drabs of people sightseeing, shopping, begging, busking, and then I was met…with change.
That dreary mundane day maybe was meant to be different. Through the crowds was a small, forlorn girl no more than the tender age of ten. She leant against the cold sandstone wall, no one to talk to, no one to keep her warm, no one to acknowledge her existence. Her undone, rumpled hair fell over her pale face while her glassy blue eyes held a stiff gaze at the pavement. She was ‘clothed’ in scuffed sparkly sandals and a pink dress that could have fitted another one of her inside. Every so often she’d lift her eyes and pan over the people, cars and shop names only to find no hope or comfort, she’d drop her head again. After what seemed like fifteen dreamy minutes of me watching her every action, which could be better described as inaction, her eyes rose and were captured by the black and orange flashing above me. Her face grew colour, her eyes sparkled, her posture was straightened, head high she began her stroll toward my counter. Her eyes could not be stolen from the flashing sign above me and her step was unbroken. Although she was so close and so determined, her eyes never met mine at the counter.
I’d never had a customer so near yet so far. Curiosity pierced my being, who was this customer? I’d had regulars and irregulars, but none were less than twenty, none were less than 5 ft, none wore little pink dresses and scuffed sparkly sandals.
That child…was ten.
Age ten’s were not supposed to brighten up when they saw the “CTC” sign, only overloaded adults. Who’d taught her that “cigarettes relieve stress”? Where were her parents?
But…I’d thought…nothing ever mattered to me?
Maybe something did matter? I’d never allowed myself to be vulnerable to my surroundings, what was this weakness that was creeping inside me? I was challenging myself, this young girl evoked curiosity within me. Some long-forgotten gentleness. Some flickering of compassion.
It was then that I reached for the screeching shutter to segregate her young life from her journey to death. I flicked out the dusty light above the counter, pulled the door of that twelve year “nothing ever mattered to me” life and deadlocked it behind me.
It was then that I realised “Every story has an end, but in life every ending is just a new beginning”.
It was her life that changed mine, it was her journey that provoked my new beginning. I silently thanked her.
With the takings in my pocket, less the notes I’d put in hers, I mounted the stairs and understood…
Something mattered to me.
Nothing ever mattered to me. I’d followed the same jaded steps down the bright cold walks of Broadway. Down to that same dusty, 60’s built shop at the station stairs that was no more than a “shabby counter with a few smokes underneath” as he used to call it
.
***
My father instilled these words into me when I lived my ‘daddy’s boy’ life.
“Son, you’ve a big road ahead and you’ll travel it solo one day.”
He never vacated his thoughts of my life ahead, he’d told me that his life was nothing special and never will be, he’d told me I’d probably reject my parents as I grew older, just because he did. This was all, only for me to discover the culmination of his life, and it was as he said…nothing special. And now I live my own life…
***
Through the twelve uneventful years consumed in the monotonous ritual of passing a box or two to a stranger, or sometimes a familiar face, on a daily basis. I’d squint through the flashing black and orange “CTC George St” above me that became engrained in my eyes.
I’d peer through to the ever-bustling city street which always appeared to be a cosmopolitan gathering. It was full of busy men’s feet, who rushed with briefcases and smartphones, while others were going for their morning jog before yet another tedious day in the office. I saw some less active in the distance who’d occupy their day with clenching their hand-drawn “money please!” sign and only uplift their heads to the occasional tinkle of a coin in their basket. It never seemed strange to me that although they felt so helpless, I felt no obligation to help them. It never seemed strange that as business men rushed by with slick haircuts, grey suit jackets and a shining watch that only a rich man wears, they felt no obligation to offer any more than droplets flicked from their striding shoes as they raced to “Platform 6 departing for all stops to Mascot”.
Frank, a face I knew as well as a brother. I’d see him scrambling through the crowds around 7:45, just before his 8am InterCity, change for Wynyard. He’d take his box with no more than a “G’day mate I’ll just take one today” and was swept back into the humming sea of bodies.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, the masses of people became irregular. The scene evolved into mothers shopping, buskers, young refugees appearing in the middle of the walkway. The held an advertisement with directions to a shop that only they didn’t realise was the opposite direction to the arrow. My attention to detail baffled me, I was a walking contradiction. The more I detailed them, the more insignificant they were to me.
I saw the occasional fall on the slippery pavement in front of my store. I saw mothers scolding their children fruitlessly. I saw the fights of street kids and young boys stealing on the sly. But nothing ever mattered to me. As long as my till overflowed at the end of the day, I wasn’t turned in my sleep about the things I saw on the streets, nor did I worry about the deathly diseases my product created. Supposedly ‘confronting’ signs were plastered over the billboards, buses and taxis with “cigarettes are eating you alive” - blown up pictures of various ‘body parts’ - they looked more like a year eight dissection science lesson. But I wasn’t confronted by them, nothing ever mattered to me. The world had forsaken me as a child. My parents, degenerates of society, abandoned me when I was only eight years old. I pilfered, lied and deceived to survive. Society unleashed a dark veil that obscured my suffering…nobody cared. Shame never blanketed me. There was not an iota of regret in what I did for a living. I was just giving back to society what they gave me…contempt and indifference.
That day was not meant to be different, that day was not meant to bring anything exciting or new, and it didn’t.
I watched the dribs and drabs of people sightseeing, shopping, begging, busking, and then I was met…with change.
That dreary mundane day maybe was meant to be different. Through the crowds was a small, forlorn girl no more than the tender age of ten. She leant against the cold sandstone wall, no one to talk to, no one to keep her warm, no one to acknowledge her existence. Her undone, rumpled hair fell over her pale face while her glassy blue eyes held a stiff gaze at the pavement. She was ‘clothed’ in scuffed sparkly sandals and a pink dress that could have fitted another one of her inside. Every so often she’d lift her eyes and pan over the people, cars and shop names only to find no hope or comfort, she’d drop her head again. After what seemed like fifteen dreamy minutes of me watching her every action, which could be better described as inaction, her eyes rose and were captured by the black and orange flashing above me. Her face grew colour, her eyes sparkled, her posture was straightened, head high she began her stroll toward my counter. Her eyes could not be stolen from the flashing sign above me and her step was unbroken. Although she was so close and so determined, her eyes never met mine at the counter.
I’d never had a customer so near yet so far. Curiosity pierced my being, who was this customer? I’d had regulars and irregulars, but none were less than twenty, none were less than 5 ft, none wore little pink dresses and scuffed sparkly sandals.
That child…was ten.
Age ten’s were not supposed to brighten up when they saw the “CTC” sign, only overloaded adults. Who’d taught her that “cigarettes relieve stress”? Where were her parents?
But…I’d thought…nothing ever mattered to me?
Maybe something did matter? I’d never allowed myself to be vulnerable to my surroundings, what was this weakness that was creeping inside me? I was challenging myself, this young girl evoked curiosity within me. Some long-forgotten gentleness. Some flickering of compassion.
It was then that I reached for the screeching shutter to segregate her young life from her journey to death. I flicked out the dusty light above the counter, pulled the door of that twelve year “nothing ever mattered to me” life and deadlocked it behind me.
It was then that I realised “Every story has an end, but in life every ending is just a new beginning”.
It was her life that changed mine, it was her journey that provoked my new beginning. I silently thanked her.
With the takings in my pocket, less the notes I’d put in hers, I mounted the stairs and understood…
Something mattered to me.
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 10, 2017, 10:43:17 am
Heyy!
would i be able to put my creative writing on here, not to get marked but maybe for some suggestions on how i could adapt it to a question that requires a discovery that emerges from a process of deliberate and careful planning? or will i still need 50 posts?
thankyou! and ATB ;D
Normally El or I would be happy to have a skim, but with the amount of marking we've got to do at the moment we'll leave it to our awesome community to give you a few suggestions - And you definitely don't need a post count for that ;D
Post by: biffi023 on October 10, 2017, 02:25:07 pm
Heyy!
would i be able to put my creative writing on here, not to get marked but maybe for some suggestions on how i could adapt it to a question that requires a discovery that emerges from a process of deliberate and careful planning? or will i still need 50 posts?
thankyou! and ATB ;DSpoilerNothing Ever Mattered to Me
Nothing ever mattered to me. I’d followed the same jaded steps down the bright cold walks of Broadway. Down to that same dusty, 60’s built shop at the station stairs that was no more than a “shabby counter with a few smokes underneath” as he used to call it
.
***
My father instilled these words into me when I lived my ‘daddy’s boy’ life.
“Son, you’ve a big road ahead and you’ll travel it solo one day.”
He never vacated his thoughts of my life ahead, he’d told me that his life was nothing special and never will be, he’d told me I’d probably reject my parents as I grew older, just because he did. This was all, only for me to discover the culmination of his life, and it was as he said…nothing special. And now I live my own life…
***
Through the twelve uneventful years consumed in the monotonous ritual of passing a box or two to a stranger, or sometimes a familiar face, on a daily basis. I’d squint through the flashing black and orange “CTC George St” above me that became engrained in my eyes.
I’d peer through to the ever-bustling city street which always appeared to be a cosmopolitan gathering. It was full of busy men’s feet, who rushed with briefcases and smartphones, while others were going for their morning jog before yet another tedious day in the office. I saw some less active in the distance who’d occupy their day with clenching their hand-drawn “money please!” sign and only uplift their heads to the occasional tinkle of a coin in their basket. It never seemed strange to me that although they felt so helpless, I felt no obligation to help them. It never seemed strange that as business men rushed by with slick haircuts, grey suit jackets and a shining watch that only a rich man wears, they felt no obligation to offer any more than droplets flicked from their striding shoes as they raced to “Platform 6 departing for all stops to Mascot”.
Frank, a face I knew as well as a brother. I’d see him scrambling through the crowds around 7:45, just before his 8am InterCity, change for Wynyard. He’d take his box with no more than a “G’day mate I’ll just take one today” and was swept back into the humming sea of bodies.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, the masses of people became irregular. The scene evolved into mothers shopping, buskers, young refugees appearing in the middle of the walkway. The held an advertisement with directions to a shop that only they didn’t realise was the opposite direction to the arrow. My attention to detail baffled me, I was a walking contradiction. The more I detailed them, the more insignificant they were to me.
I saw the occasional fall on the slippery pavement in front of my store. I saw mothers scolding their children fruitlessly. I saw the fights of street kids and young boys stealing on the sly. But nothing ever mattered to me. As long as my till overflowed at the end of the day, I wasn’t turned in my sleep about the things I saw on the streets, nor did I worry about the deathly diseases my product created. Supposedly ‘confronting’ signs were plastered over the billboards, buses and taxis with “cigarettes are eating you alive” - blown up pictures of various ‘body parts’ - they looked more like a year eight dissection science lesson. But I wasn’t confronted by them, nothing ever mattered to me. The world had forsaken me as a child. My parents, degenerates of society, abandoned me when I was only eight years old. I pilfered, lied and deceived to survive. Society unleashed a dark veil that obscured my suffering…nobody cared. Shame never blanketed me. There was not an iota of regret in what I did for a living. I was just giving back to society what they gave me…contempt and indifference.
That day was not meant to be different, that day was not meant to bring anything exciting or new, and it didn’t.
I watched the dribs and drabs of people sightseeing, shopping, begging, busking, and then I was met…with change.
That dreary mundane day maybe was meant to be different. Through the crowds was a small, forlorn girl no more than the tender age of ten. She leant against the cold sandstone wall, no one to talk to, no one to keep her warm, no one to acknowledge her existence. Her undone, rumpled hair fell over her pale face while her glassy blue eyes held a stiff gaze at the pavement. She was ‘clothed’ in scuffed sparkly sandals and a pink dress that could have fitted another one of her inside. Every so often she’d lift her eyes and pan over the people, cars and shop names only to find no hope or comfort, she’d drop her head again. After what seemed like fifteen dreamy minutes of me watching her every action, which could be better described as inaction, her eyes rose and were captured by the black and orange flashing above me. Her face grew colour, her eyes sparkled, her posture was straightened, head high she began her stroll toward my counter. Her eyes could not be stolen from the flashing sign above me and her step was unbroken. Although she was so close and so determined, her eyes never met mine at the counter.
I’d never had a customer so near yet so far. Curiosity pierced my being, who was this customer? I’d had regulars and irregulars, but none were less than twenty, none were less than 5 ft, none wore little pink dresses and scuffed sparkly sandals.
That child…was ten.
Age ten’s were not supposed to brighten up when they saw the “CTC” sign, only overloaded adults. Who’d taught her that “cigarettes relieve stress”? Where were her parents?
But…I’d thought…nothing ever mattered to me?
Maybe something did matter? I’d never allowed myself to be vulnerable to my surroundings, what was this weakness that was creeping inside me? I was challenging myself, this young girl evoked curiosity within me. Some long-forgotten gentleness. Some flickering of compassion.
It was then that I reached for the screeching shutter to segregate her young life from her journey to death. I flicked out the dusty light above the counter, pulled the door of that twelve year “nothing ever mattered to me” life and deadlocked it behind me.
It was then that I realised “Every story has an end, but in life every ending is just a new beginning”.
It was her life that changed mine, it was her journey that provoked my new beginning. I silently thanked her.
With the takings in my pocket, less the notes I’d put in hers, I mounted the stairs and understood…
Something mattered to me.
hey!.. nice narrative btw! ;D umm.... i can't really help.. will read it again and think about it!
its true tho.. thats a hard point to relate creatives to! :-\
any ideas for mine while ur at it wld be MA bun..?
Post by: bun00 on October 10, 2017, 02:49:56 pm
hey!.. nice narrative btw! ;D umm.... i can't really help.. will read it again and think about it!
its true tho.. thats a hard point to relate creatives to! :-\
any ideas for mine while ur at it wld be MA bun..?
hey thanks :)
i know it's so true!! like when a story is totally about unexpectedness how do u make it sound planned?!?!?! any advice would be MA!
hmm nah not atm sorry yours is similar to mine as in u jst cant make it planned!! i'll keep thinking but :)
ATB :D
Post by: av-angie-er on October 11, 2017, 05:37:56 pm
Spoiler
17 November 2010
My dearest daughter,
Sometimes, if I’m paying attention, I’ll see little pieces of her in you.
A sigh of tingling air scatters intricate frost patterns on the glass. Your small fingers wipes away a circle of winter’s breath from the pane to reveal a snow-blanketed town and nothing but a wonderful shade of white for miles into the distance.
Fiddling with the latch and sliding the window open, you inhale a gust of frigid oxygen, streaming through your red hair in its purest form. As a soft tinge of pink perfuses across your cheeks and the tip of your nose, you marvel at the thought of nothing but open ice and snow, all for you to explore.
In my contemplation of closing the window or letting you admire the view, I recall your mother’s quiet smile on that first morning.
Temperatures reached all time lows in the winter of 2007, yet she felt a warm tingling sensation on that morning and most mornings after.
“I don’t know what it is, but- but it’s like electric ecstasy whirling around my chest,” she hummed when I asked why she was smiling, “like a sort of enlivening warmth…”
To my dismay, nothing could ever translate her impulsive sentimentality into terms that I understood. Maybe she’s coming down with something, I thought, before returning to my paperwork while she blissfully watched the morning monotony unfold from the front porch.
“Sure, just come in soon, honey. You’re going to catch a cold.” I mumbled, reaching to draw the window shut before she suddenly turned on her heels to face me.
“You’re going to be a great father, Truman” she remarked, round frost-coated glasses magnifying excitement in her olive green eyes.
The polished blueprint of my life seemed suddenly reduced to ashes. I analysed the pace of her breathing, the slight upward curl of her lips, the way that she anxiously fiddled with the ends of her vibrant red hair – all the symptoms of an overwhelming happiness.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I said,” she chuckled lightly, “you are going to be a great father!”
She repeated this reassurance for months, the words always laced with a sincerity that echoed her innately maternal compassion. I had trouble believing it, but her white-hot positivity was a kindness nonetheless. Her glowing, perhaps delusional, confidence may have even outshone my uncertainty at times. That’s simply how infectiously immune she was to my defeatist attitude. Hence the magnitude of the unexpected torment when she suddenly fell ill.
The word ‘eclampsia’ was a sudden burst of electric light that drowned out the rest of the doctor’s careful words into empty static. The medical statistics and subsequent uncertainties were the ravenous boom. And nothing - not a million self-care brochures or late-night Google searches - could conquer the helplessness and confusion that clouded your mother’s once-beaming sense of hope.
The mattress burned cold when she woke up each morning. Remnants of lucid nightmares would hang from her eyes as she adjusted to the synthetic hospital room glow. The scent of crisp sterility seeped into the bleak, white walls that confined her to disinfected bed sheets and non-solid foods for 2 eternal months. As if forgetting to nurture a flame before it dissipated into smoke, I watched as she declined rapidly, to the point where her brilliant smile was just a hazy memory with fading warmth. Your mother's body recovered in slow, turbulent progression after you were born, but what is there to do when your soul is poisoned?
You came to us 10 weeks too soon.
Suddenly the hospital became home. Every morning I would visit you. The neonatal intensive care unit that they kept you in was another world to your mother's hospital room. A kaleidoscope of delicate colours dispersed against anesthetic whites. The floral curtains were always spread, allowing sunlight to caress your skin in gentle Summer zephyr. On the best days you would hold my finger in your hand through a hole in the side of the incubator. You were, you are, phosphorescent, my dear. But oh, how you made me melt. After a cherished hour of watching you thrive, hanging onto life by a dozen winding tubes, I’d pry myself away to a part-time job at a nearby grocery store. A three-minute walk from the hospital through winding alleyways, often under callous rain.
And then every night, stumbling against the pavement in aching exhaustion, I would visit your mother.
"Lucille"
Meaning light, a French variation of Lucy. Your mother whispered it to me one night, squeezing my hand delicately with a kind smile that betrayed the melancholia in her eyes. Stroking the red hair that draped messily over her pale, porcelain skin, I breathed a shaky "okay” and said nothing more.
At first, I blamed myself for her death. Not eclampsia. Not postpartum depression. Not an intentional lithium overdose. Refusing to accept the bitter truth, I wondered; if I had somehow saw on that first morning how her last night would end, would I have been able to save her?
But even as I lost her, I found you. And I know now that I was the one needing to be saved.
I was the one trapped inside an isolated eternal winter of my own making. But ice melts, and so too do bittersweet delusions of security. She saved me from a dull, purposeless, comfortable existence simply by bringing me out into the world. By giving me the brightest sunshine. The light of my life.
I see so much of her in you.
“I’m sorry, Pa.” you mumble as the thermometer beeps softly and I place the warm cloth on your forehead.
“That’s okay, sweetheart. We’ll play outside together for as long as you’d like after you feel better. Say goodnight to your Mama, Lu.” I gesture towards the picture on the bedside table.
“Goodnight, Mama” you hum, revealing a smile identical to that of the woman in the photo – one that is glowing, kind and procures an enlivening warmth.
I do adore you, Lucille.
Love always,
Dad
My dearest daughter,
Sometimes, if I’m paying attention, I’ll see little pieces of her in you.
A sigh of tingling air scatters intricate frost patterns on the glass. Your small fingers wipes away a circle of winter’s breath from the pane to reveal a snow-blanketed town and nothing but a wonderful shade of white for miles into the distance.
Fiddling with the latch and sliding the window open, you inhale a gust of frigid oxygen, streaming through your red hair in its purest form. As a soft tinge of pink perfuses across your cheeks and the tip of your nose, you marvel at the thought of nothing but open ice and snow, all for you to explore.
In my contemplation of closing the window or letting you admire the view, I recall your mother’s quiet smile on that first morning.
Temperatures reached all time lows in the winter of 2007, yet she felt a warm tingling sensation on that morning and most mornings after.
“I don’t know what it is, but- but it’s like electric ecstasy whirling around my chest,” she hummed when I asked why she was smiling, “like a sort of enlivening warmth…”
To my dismay, nothing could ever translate her impulsive sentimentality into terms that I understood. Maybe she’s coming down with something, I thought, before returning to my paperwork while she blissfully watched the morning monotony unfold from the front porch.
“Sure, just come in soon, honey. You’re going to catch a cold.” I mumbled, reaching to draw the window shut before she suddenly turned on her heels to face me.
“You’re going to be a great father, Truman” she remarked, round frost-coated glasses magnifying excitement in her olive green eyes.
The polished blueprint of my life seemed suddenly reduced to ashes. I analysed the pace of her breathing, the slight upward curl of her lips, the way that she anxiously fiddled with the ends of her vibrant red hair – all the symptoms of an overwhelming happiness.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I said,” she chuckled lightly, “you are going to be a great father!”
She repeated this reassurance for months, the words always laced with a sincerity that echoed her innately maternal compassion. I had trouble believing it, but her white-hot positivity was a kindness nonetheless. Her glowing, perhaps delusional, confidence may have even outshone my uncertainty at times. That’s simply how infectiously immune she was to my defeatist attitude. Hence the magnitude of the unexpected torment when she suddenly fell ill.
The word ‘eclampsia’ was a sudden burst of electric light that drowned out the rest of the doctor’s careful words into empty static. The medical statistics and subsequent uncertainties were the ravenous boom. And nothing - not a million self-care brochures or late-night Google searches - could conquer the helplessness and confusion that clouded your mother’s once-beaming sense of hope.
The mattress burned cold when she woke up each morning. Remnants of lucid nightmares would hang from her eyes as she adjusted to the synthetic hospital room glow. The scent of crisp sterility seeped into the bleak, white walls that confined her to disinfected bed sheets and non-solid foods for 2 eternal months. As if forgetting to nurture a flame before it dissipated into smoke, I watched as she declined rapidly, to the point where her brilliant smile was just a hazy memory with fading warmth. Your mother's body recovered in slow, turbulent progression after you were born, but what is there to do when your soul is poisoned?
You came to us 10 weeks too soon.
Suddenly the hospital became home. Every morning I would visit you. The neonatal intensive care unit that they kept you in was another world to your mother's hospital room. A kaleidoscope of delicate colours dispersed against anesthetic whites. The floral curtains were always spread, allowing sunlight to caress your skin in gentle Summer zephyr. On the best days you would hold my finger in your hand through a hole in the side of the incubator. You were, you are, phosphorescent, my dear. But oh, how you made me melt. After a cherished hour of watching you thrive, hanging onto life by a dozen winding tubes, I’d pry myself away to a part-time job at a nearby grocery store. A three-minute walk from the hospital through winding alleyways, often under callous rain.
And then every night, stumbling against the pavement in aching exhaustion, I would visit your mother.
"Lucille"
Meaning light, a French variation of Lucy. Your mother whispered it to me one night, squeezing my hand delicately with a kind smile that betrayed the melancholia in her eyes. Stroking the red hair that draped messily over her pale, porcelain skin, I breathed a shaky "okay” and said nothing more.
At first, I blamed myself for her death. Not eclampsia. Not postpartum depression. Not an intentional lithium overdose. Refusing to accept the bitter truth, I wondered; if I had somehow saw on that first morning how her last night would end, would I have been able to save her?
But even as I lost her, I found you. And I know now that I was the one needing to be saved.
I was the one trapped inside an isolated eternal winter of my own making. But ice melts, and so too do bittersweet delusions of security. She saved me from a dull, purposeless, comfortable existence simply by bringing me out into the world. By giving me the brightest sunshine. The light of my life.
I see so much of her in you.
“I’m sorry, Pa.” you mumble as the thermometer beeps softly and I place the warm cloth on your forehead.
“That’s okay, sweetheart. We’ll play outside together for as long as you’d like after you feel better. Say goodnight to your Mama, Lu.” I gesture towards the picture on the bedside table.
“Goodnight, Mama” you hum, revealing a smile identical to that of the woman in the photo – one that is glowing, kind and procures an enlivening warmth.
I do adore you, Lucille.
Love always,
Dad
Post by: Mathew587 on October 11, 2017, 06:51:04 pm
Hey there!! Happy to sit down and read this :)The only problem is that no one in the Manhattan project except a handful actually knew what they were working on ;) But i guess the markers will probs overlook that hahaSpoiler
Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be you, the hero of the Manhattan Project, the star on their spangled banner. Absorbed in your scattered sketches and sheets of calculations, you’re consumed by your attempts to defeat the enemy, to build a weapon deadlier than the atomic bomb. And what better way than destroying commies, hey?
Sometimes I think of you and wonder what it’s like to be a murderer.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, a desperate nation dropped two bombs on another. We all know how this story ends.
Cracking your neck, you recalculate the ionisation power required to ignite the fusion fuel, carefully plotting deaths like the madman we all know you are. I’ve seen a lot of them in my time, but you, rational, intelligent you, sipping your Tang frightened or frightens* me more than a psychopath.
(It was war, they excuse it as a one-off. It’s humanity, I reply. You can’t trust them)
Extension: I hope you make a mistake and give up. I hope that you change your mind and give up. I hope the world ends before you end it's because you don’t want to be death, the destroyer of the world. Trust me. I pray and pray, but God doesn’t exist much nowadays. People have better reasons to die than religion.
Whistling Ain’t I Right, you scribble the last lines and let your shaking hands drop the pen. The numbers don’t make sense to me, but I can tell by your wide-eyed grin that you did it.
Congratulations. You’ve just made a hydrogen bomb, one more powerful than the atomic bomb, one without fissione that’s just going to make more work for me. I’ve already overworked and understaffed.
(One death, two deaths, what more is another million? Tell me, have you ever seen a corpse?)
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I can’t! You’re going to end the world and I’m the only one who cares.
And they say Death is heartless. I'll add at this point that I've read everything out loud so far to make sure that your grammar is stopping and starting the story in the flow that you want. So far, VERY good!
***
As you cradle the papers to your chest, your smile slowly combusts into a cheer. Months of testing. Mocking smiles from the other scientists. Failure after failure. It all paid off! You have to tell Eva.
Throwing open the door, you skid to a halt behind her silhouette, illuminated by a candle stub. Eva’s reading glasses slip from her exasperated sigh, as she reads the papers. You pity her- small print is the bane of your life as well.
You scan the article she’s reading, grinning at the photo of the mushroom cloud. You’ll make that look like a peace pipe. “Darling, I didn’t know…” you read, you like to do things besides your hair. “You like politics.” This sentence here, I just don't think I'm reading it the way you intended. It's almost like that middle bit there, the part outside of the quotation marks, is part of the quote? and I'm not sure if it's being read from the paper of it these are the words the person is saying? I think the thing that makes me think it's on the paper is, "you read," but then the "you like politics" is mixing the voice of the person and the narration and it's just not quite clear for me.
Eva starts, covering the paper with her body. Extension: After kind John Smith next door got taken away by the Committee, you’ve both been more jumpy, more frown lines decorating your foreheads. But you have nothing to fear, making bombs is not un-American at all. *shudders* YES. THIS.
Taking her hand, you laugh “We can have conversations again.”
She loosens her shoulders, smile flickering like a candle in the wind. It’s nothing like the steady glow of the girl you married and you wonder where she went. “I don’t think we share the same views.”
You kneel in front of her, “Try me, Eva.” You miss her wince- you’ve been forgetting since your new job that she’s your ‘Evie’. You’ve been ignoring a lot about her- her new bouffant, her pretty dress, her calls for dinner.
And maybe thinking about all of this, she spits out, “I think the Americans are murderers for the Japanese bombings.”
Murderer- you a murderer? She’s gone mad. This italicised bit can be stronger, I think. I'm not sure about the exact way you're intending for me to read this.
Extension: Eva continues, her words more blazing than the flames. “I don’t think communists are bad. For god’s sake, I’m a communist! I don’t want to end American society. I think the only bad people out there are our government.”
“Those murderers went to Hiroshima under the guise of freeing Western democracy. Was our democracy worth the deaths of innocent kids? What did they ever do to us? What did the civilians do?” Eva’s eyes flash and her bitter curses start echoing in your mind. Murderer.
“And you know what’s really tragic? They’re planning another set of bombings. Bigger and better! Do they know what they’re doing?” Extinguished, she stops, bringing her hand to her mouth. “I think a lot of terrible things.”
“They didn’t kill anyone directly,” you whisper, fixating your eyes on her wedding ring. What if she knew that your high-earning fancy job in the city, the one that paid for her pretty dresses and ring, was earned by the blood of innocents?
Eva scoffs, and you wonder when the sweet housewife you married left. Did she ever exist? I love this bit. I like that it's not WHERE is she, but just recognises she has left by wondering WHEN - it shows a preoccupation of the husband for a long time.
“The bombs didn’t magically transport themselves. People dropped it. People created it. Nothing is made evil. People- I don’t know if you can call those scum humans really-make things evil.”
She quietens, quivering in the vulnerable way fire does when it’s burnt out. “Are you going to call the Committee on me?” You shake your head, knees giving out, and collapse into the seat next to her. She flinches, perhaps disgusted by the blood surrounding you. “I’ll bring your dinner.”
Staring in silence at the food, you tremblingly hold your gravy filled spoon above the peas.
Over Japan, an aircraft had held the bombs above the people.
Somewhere, someday, someone’s going to do the same with your hydrogen bomb. OMLLLL YESSS. Love this imagery - so domestic, yet so global.
You drop it. They drop the bomb. They’re going to drop the bomb.
The peas are covered. The people are buried. They’re going to die.
By your hands. By your hands. By your hands.
Is that tomato or blood on your hands? Just a small thing which I'll leave up to you, I'd put a comma after "blood" so the "on your hands" rings with greater salience to tie into the repetition of "by your hands" above.
***
At night, you glower at the ceiling, uncomfortable in your soft bed. Thoughts of the bomb, your bomb, run through your nightmares. You don’t know what it felt like, of course, you’re not dead. But it comes alive whenever you close your eyes. Hot and blinding, red as blood. Black and cold, a silent killer. Explosive. Screams. Corpses. Dead by your hands.
Is this what it feels to be a murderer?
No. NO! You scream into your duvet and struggle to free yourself from the blankets, nearly tripping over the bedside table.
Eva furrows her brows, “What’s wrong?” Killer.
You bite your lip, “Just have to do something.” Slaughterer.
Walking into your study, you run a hand through your hair and find the blueprints again, examining it under the candlelight. Hours and hours of dedication, you’ve spent so long on it. It’s such a pity. You clutch the sheets, the words wrapping themselves around your fingers, tethering you. Murderer.
The flames burn and you wonder if all those people you killed burned as well. Closing your eyes, you let the candle digest your recipe for death and watch the ashes fall for the last time.
***
On the other side of the world, I let out a sob as the familiar twinges of pain, the suffering of souls you were going to create, finally leave. The girl I was waiting for straightens her crying mother’s kimono and kisses her goodbye, attempting to memorise every touch, every glance. As she takes my hand, I thank you for not making more people die like she did.
Extension: (Once the country asked you to do something and you did the right thing brilliantly. Thank you for not letting it break you.)
Sometimes, I think of you and wonder what’s it like to be a hero.
Wonderful. Brilliant. Incredible.
How do I articulate how much I enjoy this piece? It's clean AF. I read it verbally to make sure it lulled and sung the way it should, and it did. The wording is JUST enough every time - crisp, and clean, and never too much. You've thought so carefully about the techniques, I can see it especially in the gravy/bomb scenario. Who would've thought??
In terms of plot, I love love love the ending. The two people, so significantly connected, but never meet. The only thing that I think we could probably do away with in order to give the reader a little more work to do, a little more respect for their ability to put the pieces together, is the holiday thing.
You go back to bed and kiss your wife for the first time in months. “You looked beautiful today, Evie.” She gapes at you, because you finally remembered. Wrapping an arm around her, you smile, “Let’s go on a holiday.”
Evie laughs but her eyes sparkle in agreement.
Tomorrow you’ll tell your employers it’s impossible and ignore your colleagues’ taunts at the fact the wonder-boy couldn’t do it. You’ll finally use up that vacation on your paycheck and take Evie away for a weekend.
A break will do you both good.
This here, could in fact just be, "You went to sleep that night in debt to Evie. You nodded off thinking about the taunts of your employers when you tell them it's impossible, and yes, even the wonder-boy himself couldn't do it. So nobody could."
Sometttthing like this, brings all of the above into just two sentences and it leaves stuff to the imagination. So because we look at Evie with debt and gratitude, the reader can assume that Evie has swayed his opinion. This is then confirmed in a very short manner in the next sentence, rather than leaving the "oh my god he changed his mind" experience of the reader as an experience of a few sentences, distracted by a holiday. I think it's more cutting this way. Then, moving on to the person in Japan - BRILLIANT. The You + I of the story is wonderful. A very clever technique. The discovery is strong, and it works on multiple layers at multiple points.
In terms of Extension - you've also ticked all the boxes. Ways of thinking, yes. The religion at the beginning is subtle but strong, the war, the gender roles, the science, the world order - it all works together so seamlessly. Are you extending on this version for extension or just presenting it like this?
For discovery - this is strong, cutting, very clean, and I would surely give this a band 6, hinging on the fact that it is developed to the stimulus of course!
Post by: justwannawish on October 11, 2017, 07:49:52 pm
The only problem is that no one in the Manhattan project except a handful actually knew what they were working on ;) But i guess the markers will probs overlook that hahaWell, let's take artistic license and hope the markers ignore that, or they assume he's part of the handful. I mean they have a lot of works to mark ;), surely this one isn't that important in their eyes and can be read without overthinking....
Hello! I'm SO sorry this took so long - I got your PM over the weekend when the lectures were happening but knew I wouldn't have a quick chance to jump on the forums until today (and admittedly - I planned to give more time than I actually have). I didn't realise the Extension pieces were for the Extension creative - I just thought they were edits. So this makes more sense now! haha. I'd leave the first one in and take the second two out - especially the communism one. It's a nice touch for extension but for AOS it just gives another nugget of info that will possibly add to it all being too much.
I think your adjustment of the goodnight to Evie thing is much better. Very fluid!
I'm glad this gave you a confidence boost - I definitely think it's a great creative and is very deserving of high marks! The narrative structure through the narrational voice is most complex yet smooth and I definitely think that deserves applause! :)
Thank you once again for all your help (we seem to miss each other every time, I didn't even know you replied!)
Do the clarifications I made make sense in your mind now, or do you think I still need more adjustment?
I've also made another comment about how to integrate aspects of the syllabus into the creative, and I'll just copy it below for your reference:
First time discovery: finding the bomb, changing his perception
Rediscovering something lost, concealed or forgotten: not really sure if it counts, but indirectly, a reconnection with his wife?
Sudden or unexpected: didn't expect Evie to come up with such a confronting argument that shook the foundations of his assumptions
Deliberate planning: the bomb was one created out of his personal wonder and necessity from the government
Emotional, spiritual: his realisation of the damage the bomb caused
Creative and intellectual: not sure about these ones either
Confronting and provocative: hope that's apparent ;)
New understandings and renewed perceptions of ourselves and others: not sure of this is communicated very well either
Personal, cultural, historical, social contexts: historical and social, I would say yes? Not sure about personal and cultural
Far reaching and transformative for the individual and broader society: the ending scene with the Japanese girl, and I think it was implicitly threaded throughout the piece
Ramifications: was the discovery and his own feelings about it enough to suit this dotpoint
Different perspectives/worth can be reassessed over time: Evie vs Protagonist at the start, protagonist throughout the piece
Challenge/affirm widely held assumptions and beliefs about aspects of human experience and the world: I feel like I'm being biased towards this but I find myself agreeing haha
New discoveries about: place-not at all, people-vaguely yes, relationships- wife and husband??, societies-American society in the 1950s was a bad place for one's conscience, events-not sure about this either
Generate new ideas: morals vs societal aims,
Do you have any ideas of what this work suits in terms of HSC questions and what it needs to be heavily adjusted to answer? I've tried breaking it down above but am always interested in your feedback
Post by: danii444 on October 11, 2017, 10:29:37 pm
—
If you ask Victoria, it was yesterday. Every day, a baby is born, someone dies. However, not every day, do natural disasters occur.
***
Victoria lived in a nuclear family. Together they resided in a double-story, utopian-like modern house in a wealthy suburb, overlooking the tranquil view of the beach across the road. Victoria constantly begged her parents for the latest technology and often took her material possessions for granted; having her very own plasma screen, a king-sized bed, the latest iPhone and still desired more.
It was an ordinary Monday morning. Victoria was tired as ever with racoon-like eyes, as she was sleep deprived, due to a long night of studying, but managed to rise from her crumpled blankets as her mum exclaimed “Breakfast is ready!”
Her morning came to consciousness as she wearily walked down the stairs and made her way to the breakfast table, where her much-needed cup of hot coffee and toast lay in front of her on the white, glossy kitchen countertop. The family was enjoying their breakfast. When abruptly without any warning…
BOOM! A noise louder than thunder struck immediately. The ground made slight movements, which rapidly became violent. It started to shake confrontationally as though it were a beating drum in a vigorous tempo. The table wobbled harshly, and her hot coffee spilt over the countertop. Victoria’s mum noticed the lamp above their heads was swinging side to side like a pendulum, as she shouted “Earthquake!”
Fear hit Victoria like lightning, as a surge of horror rushed through her veins. Victoria, her Mum, Dad and her younger brother darted to crouch under the dinner table. They held each other tightly, curled up in a foetal position, while gripping onto the table legs for life. Their screams were lost under the deafening noise of the underground rumbling. A series of multiple frightening sounds continued…
BANG! As the bookshelf and all its contents fell flat onto the timber floor.
Seconds later an indefinable sound preceded, the road splitting in half, and trees snapping simultaneously.
SHATTER! As the glass vase on the dinner table and the pictures from the walls fell, which broke into a million pieces.
Paralysing terror overwhelmed her, causing her palms to sweat profusely, perspiration to drip from her forehead and hyperventilate. She endured a fear she had never experienced before. Victoria’s heart was pounding out of her chest as a wave emotion engulfed her. Fear. Worry. Panic. Just the thought of the house imploding intensely unnerved her, where she and her family may perish in the landslide of rubble and never see daylight.
Finally, the earthquake ceased. Wreckage, chaos, but the house still stands and all four were still alive. Covered in a layer of dust, Victoria and her family hurriedly rushed outside for fear that the house might still come crashing down on them.
The wreckage that stood before Victoria’s eyes was utterly devastating. The homes in their street were damaged; some had even collapsed, possibly trapping people underneath the heavy rough rubble. Roads were cracked, liquid was spilling out of gutters, huge dust clouds drifted in the sky, uprooted and snapped trees were drooping, and ambulance sirens were constantly overheard in the distance. People were darting out of their homes. Some were stunned, some crying, some injured. Tears rolled down people’s faces. Tears for all that was lost, the pain, the melancholy, the grief, and the future struggles of regaining their footing. The devastation, panic and helplessness on everyone’s faces were disturbing and tragic. It was the most frightening experience Victoria faced, that changed her life forever.
After weeks of recovering from this perennial occurrence as her family regained their footing, Victoria’s mindset and core values shifted drastically. After she witnessed the obliteration of her surroundings, saw her house almost tragically collapse, and many of her possessions were wrecked; she discovered that the material possessions which once consumed her life so prominently were actually worth very little and are not the key to life-long happiness. She took on a new perspective and valued her family more than ever, cherishing every moment she spent with them. She attempted to maintain strong, positive family relationships and was grateful for everything she could call hers.
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 12, 2017, 02:36:10 pm
HELLO
i've finally accumulated to 50 posts PLSPLS mark my creative + in my opinion it's lacking on the discovery aspect, but I'm not sure how to approach it - could you perhaps suggest somekind of plot points or like things that could occur to further portray the impact of discovery ?? thanks so much!!!!! PLS SAVE MY ATAR LMFAO
Spoiler
Leonard woke up to another crumpled emptiness on the other side of their bed. He had tried to fill the void of space himself everyday, by painting the empty canvases they promised to fill together with the art they had devoted their lives to. Papers and threadbare socks were scattered across the stone-cold timber floors around the fortress. He could almost see the look of disappointment on Maria’s face if she had known what he’d become.
The bedridden sun was still buried in its cloak of anxiety and cast a lone shadow on the floor, barely warming the bareness that permeated the walls of his room. Sprawled across them, decades-old paintings attempted to compensate for the blankness. He closed his eyes to reimagine the trials of his youth in these illustrations which had now to him, become lifeless bodies of muted grey and insipidity.
The fireplace which was once ample and alive, and had facilitated late night conspiratorial whispers and dozes wrapped in blankets, was now black and charred with dead secrets buried in the ashes. Now, even the layers of brick seemed to want to disintegrate and crumble under the weight of the yellowing photographs of frozen smiles entrapped in time. He tried to avoid the gaze of the happy faces.
Their happy faces. Nice variation of length and language! I also especially like the dead secrets buried in the ashes. Very creative!
Heaving himself off the bed, he stumbled towards his easel - a place both of refuge and despair.
Its flaking wood and peeling skin was almost repulsive, as it looked like it was about to succumb to ruin and collapse from the heavy burden of unsatisfactory canvas after canvas, day after day.
He began to etch tendrils for branches, but the pencil disobeyed his mind and as his fingers clutched its weak wooden frame anxiously, it quivered in his grasp. The curvature of wise beaks would only become the squabble of pigeons. Mighty wings would only become feeble scribbles crumbling in the violent wind.
*********************************
So he decided to stop these fantasies and desires. He only knew they were never be got at again. I don't know what this means? Not without Maria.
It had taken him weeks to approach their cupboard - he had to learn how to resist the fluttering of her ribbons in the books she didn’t want to crease, or the whiff of her rustic perfume in their room. Packing away his brushes palettes, placing them delicately into a wooden box. He began categorising things into the chapters they shared in their lives, sorting the colossal stack of paintings in the corner which were billowing with dust. To me, billowing isn't the right word. Flicking and flicking he tried to avoid the gaze of each canvas to avoid feeling nauseous. He was eventually interrupted an unfamiliar convolution of pigments and hues which seduced his eyes - its contents unrecognisable.
He was baffled by the complexity of it all.
Amongst stern boulder-like clouds which threatened to swallow the sky, dainty wisps of periwinkle greeted through rifts that the fog could not reach. Above the clouds, stars were delicately plotted to sprawl across an expanse of infinite black and navy. Back on the earth, fields and fields of herbage and vegetation quivered from the cool remnants of a shower extending their green limbs. A forest of silvery poplars rose spangled with the dewy glittering of gold and green in welcome. A flock of crimson birds crowded and nestled amongst its boughs relinquishing the open air in shrill, energetic conversation. Each bird flitted about and tended to each other. Their reddened headdresses defied the ashen ambience of the scenery as they rode the unreachable thermals above as if in a graceful ballroom dance. In the midst of it all, a tiny figure stood awkwardly, gazing upwards and almost engulfed by the overwhelming entity, hypnotised by the crisp symphony of his world.
At the bottom, signed, in delicate curls and rolling letters: “For my Leonard - Maria”
It was one of those unfamiliar scenes, like a childhood hometown left unvisited to evaporate from memory, only to return surging. For so long, he realised how he had craved the hypnotism and soothe of her. Wonder devoured the monotony that had stifled him, pulsing through his arteries like water flooding into dry rivulets.
His eyes followed the winding river the figure stood in and traced it as it meandered into the horizon.
You are alone, but you are not alone! The figure seemed to piercingly voice.
His eyes welled up with the droplets of laughter they shared.
He set down her creation, returning to his own easel by the window and picked up his brush, gripping it. He had forgotten how comfortably it sat in his hands, like a natural extension of his body, like another limb. Caressing its mahogany build, he recalled the intense spectrum of hues that dominated their lives, visualising them on the frosted blank.
Even without Maria, his own story would continue - she seemed to be telling him that now.
Meticulously, he carved effortless strokes onto the awaiting linen.
A stroke of vibrant vermillion, a stroke of brilliant blue.
A stroke for each remnant of memory that they made together.
A stroke for each memory he will make himself from now on.
The bedridden sun was still buried in its cloak of anxiety and cast a lone shadow on the floor, barely warming the bareness that permeated the walls of his room. Sprawled across them, decades-old paintings attempted to compensate for the blankness. He closed his eyes to reimagine the trials of his youth in these illustrations which had now to him, become lifeless bodies of muted grey and insipidity.
The fireplace which was once ample and alive, and had facilitated late night conspiratorial whispers and dozes wrapped in blankets, was now black and charred with dead secrets buried in the ashes. Now, even the layers of brick seemed to want to disintegrate and crumble under the weight of the yellowing photographs of frozen smiles entrapped in time. He tried to avoid the gaze of the happy faces.
Their happy faces. Nice variation of length and language! I also especially like the dead secrets buried in the ashes. Very creative!
Heaving himself off the bed, he stumbled towards his easel - a place both of refuge and despair.
Its flaking wood and peeling skin was almost repulsive, as it looked like it was about to succumb to ruin and collapse from the heavy burden of unsatisfactory canvas after canvas, day after day.
He began to etch tendrils for branches, but the pencil disobeyed his mind and as his fingers clutched its weak wooden frame anxiously, it quivered in his grasp. The curvature of wise beaks would only become the squabble of pigeons. Mighty wings would only become feeble scribbles crumbling in the violent wind.
*********************************
So he decided to stop these fantasies and desires. He only knew they were never be got at again. I don't know what this means? Not without Maria.
It had taken him weeks to approach their cupboard - he had to learn how to resist the fluttering of her ribbons in the books she didn’t want to crease, or the whiff of her rustic perfume in their room. Packing away his brushes palettes, placing them delicately into a wooden box. He began categorising things into the chapters they shared in their lives, sorting the colossal stack of paintings in the corner which were billowing with dust. To me, billowing isn't the right word. Flicking and flicking he tried to avoid the gaze of each canvas to avoid feeling nauseous. He was eventually interrupted an unfamiliar convolution of pigments and hues which seduced his eyes - its contents unrecognisable.
He was baffled by the complexity of it all.
Amongst stern boulder-like clouds which threatened to swallow the sky, dainty wisps of periwinkle greeted through rifts that the fog could not reach. Above the clouds, stars were delicately plotted to sprawl across an expanse of infinite black and navy. Back on the earth, fields and fields of herbage and vegetation quivered from the cool remnants of a shower extending their green limbs. A forest of silvery poplars rose spangled with the dewy glittering of gold and green in welcome. A flock of crimson birds crowded and nestled amongst its boughs relinquishing the open air in shrill, energetic conversation. Each bird flitted about and tended to each other. Their reddened headdresses defied the ashen ambience of the scenery as they rode the unreachable thermals above as if in a graceful ballroom dance. In the midst of it all, a tiny figure stood awkwardly, gazing upwards and almost engulfed by the overwhelming entity, hypnotised by the crisp symphony of his world.
At the bottom, signed, in delicate curls and rolling letters: “For my Leonard - Maria”
It was one of those unfamiliar scenes, like a childhood hometown left unvisited to evaporate from memory, only to return surging. For so long, he realised how he had craved the hypnotism and soothe of her. Wonder devoured the monotony that had stifled him, pulsing through his arteries like water flooding into dry rivulets.
His eyes followed the winding river the figure stood in and traced it as it meandered into the horizon.
You are alone, but you are not alone! The figure seemed to piercingly voice.
His eyes welled up with the droplets of laughter they shared.
He set down her creation, returning to his own easel by the window and picked up his brush, gripping it. He had forgotten how comfortably it sat in his hands, like a natural extension of his body, like another limb. Caressing its mahogany build, he recalled the intense spectrum of hues that dominated their lives, visualising them on the frosted blank.
Even without Maria, his own story would continue - she seemed to be telling him that now.
Meticulously, he carved effortless strokes onto the awaiting linen.
A stroke of vibrant vermillion, a stroke of brilliant blue.
A stroke for each remnant of memory that they made together.
A stroke for each memory he will make himself from now on.
I like the way you've used art as a motif and also a propellant for the story throughout. Your writing is very descriptive. I only have one thing to suggest in terms of language. If you're on a PC, click Control + F and if you're on a mac, command + F, and search the word "which." It's used 9 times and it's no coincidence that in each of those sentences I felt like it jarred. Amongst stern boulder-like clouds which threatened to swallow the sky Removing the "which" here and instead writing, "Amongst stern boulder-like clouds, threatening to swallow the sky..." you make it flow much nicer. It's something I've noticed a lot of students tend to do is use "which" and "as to which" (you're only doing the first) and it gets used a few too many times as a connector and it begins to stick out. So a heads up on this one!
In terms of your plot:
I like this story, it's quite nice because of the way the art ties the entire thing together in a really fluid way. There are times where the imagery is too deep, and this is mainly in personifications like "threatening to swallow the sky" which is brilliant, but when it's paired with "stern boulder-like clouds" it is a very descriptive heavy, so I'd take a close look at passages like that. You've identified that you want to explore more discovery, and I agree it's important. I've read a few stories in a similar style to yours now, where a significant person dies, then the person remaining finds something that gives them the strength to see things differently. Perhaps you could pull on emotions a bit more to make the discovery more meaningful for a reader. It's nice because there's a few levels of emotion, but one that really pulls me in a way of thinking "wow that made me feel something" might in turn culminate in an emotional discovery. This would likely mean adding a "shock" element which can be a risky path to go down, especially because it's easy to fall into the trap of putting the discovery all at the end. But I think that's a place you can work on in this essay as is, in that the bulk of the discoveries happens at the end instead of being throughout the piece. Perhaps we need to work on bringing a discovery in from earlier on, embedding it earlier in the piece and then there will be more levels of discovery, but also a greater effect of the last discovery too.
I hope this helps and gives you a bit of direction for your final adjustments! :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 12, 2017, 05:07:41 pm
Are you prepared to be disgusted with my creative writing???
In all seriousness, My creative writing sucks, and it always has sucked. It is the area which drops me from 86-87% down to an 80-81%. I think my best mark ever has been a 9/15 :/ I've always struggled with it, as I'm never too sure how on earth to improve it (teachers are limited)
In my creative writing, I have added multiple "italics" as shown in my comments and questions throughout the writing.
Creative WITH my commentsSpoilerI swung around in my chair and leapt towards the door, today was the day."Is this a good way to start a creative writing? It doesn't really "grab" the attention of the reader" I lurched out of the room and inhaled the fresh, innocent morning air and watched the light of the world wake up from it’s slumber as I situated my panama hat "I wanted a hat to be placed on, but the word panama doesn't seem to roll off properly, but I didn't want to just call it a hat"to hide myself from its influence. I walked calmly down the street, trying to not draw attention to the salvaged emotion bubbling inside of me. My legs were trembling as if they’d never walked this stride before but I kept my pace; fast but steady, the weight of anticipation urged me to reach the airport as soon as possible. I knew this was excessive, pointless; the plane had a set time of arrival. Yet I couldn’t help being anxious, excited, itching for that time to be now. I had waited so long"Does this last part seem cliche?".
I smirked as I watched the trees majestically sway and dance in rhythm, distracting me of what’s the come, the arrival of the person who I would see so very soon"Again, I feel like this sentence is poorly written; too "lovey dovey" is that makes sense". The birds sang in harmony, praising and celebrating as if they were in my presence"I want birds to be apart of this, but this "as if they were in my presence" doesn't seem like the best of wording, how could I improve this?". Lost in my own vacant thoughts, I looked up to realise the airport upon the horizon. "Is this too sudden, seems forced to me"I enter the pristine, white, sunlit area, filled with people dashing around with a passion and a determination to explore the world around them. I pull out a crumpled, brown piece of paper and read “23” scrawled onto it, knowing that this was where I needed to be. As I walked, the bold red numbers on the billboards began to rise; 1, 2, 3 … "Is this proper writing? Am I allowed? If it effective?"As I continued, the hall began to fill, becoming congested until I was constantly brushing shoulders with society until I reached hallway 23, then everyone seemed to vanish."Again, is feel abrupt, and not well thought out, everyone did not "vanish" it was more meant to show his concentration on the situation, again, I don't know how to effectively portray this"
I stood in the middle of the corridor, my hands faced together as a horde of passengers began to slowly flood towards me. My eyes darted person to person, desperately looking for her, her glowing orange hair while not moving a muscle. "Is the description here needed?" The crowd began to wash over me"here I'm trying to portray society as symbolic, especially with water and the random nature of it, I know; I'm poor at conveying it", but I kept my confidence, watching like an eagle, silent as a grave,"these similies seem too generic, is this fine?" hoping for any indication. The crowd began to grunt and push at my presence, but I did not care, I could not care. However their presence vanished as fast as they approached, the corridor was once again….. Empty? "is this allowed?"I was confused, baffled, concerned. I attempted to call her, but she did not pick up. I concluded that I had forgotten the time of arrival, so I continued to stand, waiting. Wave after wave of other passengers washed a little more hope away from my tight grasp, my legs screamed to give up, but my mind was determined, I continued to hope. "The whole last two sentences seem to be rushed, do you get that vibe? If so, how do I improve it?"
But she did not arrive. "I thought this was actually good?........ is it?"
The room began to darken and my head fell heavily, all hope had been lost. I turned back to exit the building, once full of emotions, now barren, I'm trying to link society as a whole to him, as he felt more "human", he'd be literally and metaphorically closer to society, again, was this ineffective?"the walls greyed, hiding their once found beauty. The sun hid its influence, The world lost its enchantment. I exited the airport and was greeted by a chilling gust of wind mocking my vulnerability as I inhaled sharply trying to expel my disappointments. The trees began to mock me as their leaves whispered about my demise while the birds, did not dare mutter a word as my shoulders hung low with the burden as the final ray of life left my world."I was trying to give light, this symbol that represented his emotions? Heh, I might be shallow in the analysis here"I lurched towards my door and slumped back into my chair. Many thoughts and questions flashed through my mind as I fell my head into my hands. What went wrong? I pulled out my phone and scrolled through our texts, the glorious texts and I remembered the good times, "This seems like filler to me, even though it wasn't"but this only filled me with more hopelessness. I sunk down, dejected and defeated, tomorrow is now just another day."This ending seems too sudden :/"
Creative WITHOUT my commentsSpoilerI swung around in my chair and leapt towards the door, today was the day. I lurched out of the room and inhaled the fresh, innocent morning air and watched the light of the world wake up from its slumber as I situated my panama hat to hide myself from its influence. I walked calmly down the street, trying to not draw attention to the salvaged emotion bubbling inside of me. My legs were trembling as if they’d never walked this stride before but I kept my pace; fast but steady, the weight of anticipation urged me to reach the airport as soon as possible. I knew this was excessive, pointless; the plane had a set time of arrival. Yet I couldn’t help being anxious, excited, itching for that time to be now. I had waited so long.
I smirked as I watched the trees majestically sway and dance in rhythm, distracting me of what’s the come, the arrival of the person who I would see so very soon. The birds sang in harmony, praising and celebrating as if they were in my presence. Lost in my own vacant thoughts, I looked up to realise the airport upon the horizon. I enter the pristine, white, sunlit area, filled with people dashing around with a passion and a determination to explore the world around them. I pull out a crumpled, brown piece of paper and read “23” scrawled onto it, knowing that this was where I needed to be. As I walked, the bold red numbers on the billboards began to rise; 1, 2, 3 … As I continued, the hall began to fill, becoming congested until I was constantly brushing shoulders with society until I reached hallway 23, then everyone seemed to vanish.
I stood in the middle of the corridor, my hands viced together as a horde of passengers began to slowly flood towards me. My eyes darted person to person, desperately looking for her, her glowing orange hair while not moving a muscle. The crowd began to wash over me, but I kept my confidence, watching like an eagle, silent as a grave, hoping for any indication. The crowd began to grunt and push at my presence, but I did not care, I could not care. However their presence vanished as fast as they approached, the corridor was once again….. Empty? I was confused, baffled, concerned. I attempted to call her, but she did not pick up. I concluded that I had forgotten the time of arrival, so I continued to stand, waiting. Wave after wave of other passengers washed a little more hope away from my tight grasp, my legs screamed to give up, but my mind was determined, I continued to hope.
But she did not arrive.
The room began to darken and my head fell heavily, all hope had been lost. I turned back to exit the building, once full of emotions, now barren, the walls greyed, hiding their once found beauty. The sun hid its influence, The world lost its enchantment. I exited the airport and was greeted by a chilling gust of wind mocking my vulnerability as I inhaled sharply trying to expel my disappointments. The trees began to mock me as their leaves whispered about my demise while the birds, did not dare mutter a word as my shoulders hung low with the burden as the final ray of life left my world.I lurched towards my door and slumped back into my chair. Many thoughts and questions flashed through my mind as I fell my head into my hands. What went wrong? I pulled out my phone and scrolled through our texts, the glorious texts and I remembered the good times, but this only filled me with more hopelessness. I sunk down, dejected and defeated, tomorrow is now just another day.
Overall, I attempted to give symbols and motifs, but they might be too shallow.
Also, My storyline as a whole, nothing really progressess, its a story that just shows a discovery of the presence of nothing, and then his reaction to it, how drastic will my marks drop due to this.
Also, my Creative currently is very short, what are some things I could add to bring up this word count?
Finally, I feel like there is no "resolution" and I've been told that marks can be lost, is my ending really that bad?
Also my writing as a whole, how is it? how Poorly am I communicating current events? Is my style right?
Thank you so much :D
Heya! Let's have a go at this and see what we can do to boost your marks in a short time :) I'll edit the copy with the italics so I can put my own comments in bold to reply to you :)
Spoiler
I swung around in my chair and leapt towards the door, today was the day."Is this a good way to start a creative writing? It doesn't really "grab" the attention of the reader" I'd put "today was the day" as a sentence of its own. I lurched out of the room and inhaled the fresh, innocent morning air and watched the light of the world wake up from it’s slumber as I situated my panama hat "I wanted a hat to be placed on, but the word panama doesn't seem to roll off properly, but I didn't want to just call it a hat" Maybe talk about the fabric of the hat rather than the type - like felt,
or leather, or suede...to hide myself from its influence. I walked calmly down the street, trying to not draw attention to the salvaged emotion bubbling inside of me. My legs were trembling as if they’d never walked this stride before but I kept my pace; fast but steady, the weight of anticipation urged me to reach the airport as soon as possible. I knew this was excessive, pointless; the plane had a set time of arrival. Yet I couldn’t help being anxious, excited, itching for that time to be now. I had waited so long"Does this last part seem cliche?". I had waited so long - cliched. I had waited too long - interesting.
I smirked as I watched the trees majestically sway and dance in rhythm, distracting me of what’s the come, I don't know what you're saying here the arrival of the person who I would see so very soon"Again, I feel like this sentence is poorly written; too "lovey dovey" is that makes sense". The thing that makes it lovey dovey is "so very" instead of "so soon" or "very soon" you've said "so very soon." The birds sang in harmony, praising and celebrating as if they were in my presence"I want birds to be apart of this, but this "as if they were in my presence" doesn't seem like the best of wording, how could I improve this?". I'm not sure what you are trying to say because I figure if you can hear the birds, they must be in your presence. Do you mean, "as if they were singing for me?" or "as if they were my symphony?"
Lost in my own vacant thoughts, I looked up to realise the airport upon the horizon. "Is this too sudden, seems forced to me"I enter the pristine, white, sunlit area, filled with people dashing around with a passion and a determination to explore the world around them. I pull out a crumpled, brown piece of paper and read “23” scrawled onto it, knowing that this was where I needed to be. As I walked, the bold red numbers on the billboards began to rise; 1, 2, 3 … "Is this proper writing? Am I allowed? If it effective?"As I continued, the hall began to fill, becoming congested until I was constantly brushing shoulders with society until I reached hallway 23, then everyone seemed to vanish."Again, is feel abrupt, and not well thought out, everyone did not "vanish" it was more meant to show his concentration on the situation, again, I don't know how to effectively portray this" Instead of using "vanished" what about a softer word like "faded into white noise"
I stood in the middle of the corridor, my hands faced together as a horde of passengers began to slowly flood towards me. My eyes darted person to person, desperately looking for her, her glowing orange hair while not moving a muscle. "Is the description here needed?" The "while not moving a muscle" thing is probably the imagery that confuses it for me, I like the hair. The crowd began to wash over me"here I'm trying to portray society as symbolic, especially with water and the random nature of it, I know; I'm poor at conveying it", but I kept my confidence, watching like an eagle, silent as a grave,"these similies seem too generic, is this fine?" hoping for any indication. I'd say something like "as stoic as..." and pick something that is stoic (not a stone lol). Because stoic kind of combines those two together, if I'm interpreting what you would like to say correctly. The crowd began to grunt and push at my presence, but I did not care, I could not care. However their presence vanished as fast as they approached, the corridor was once again….. Empty? "is this allowed?"I was confused, baffled, concerned. I attempted to call her, but she did not pick up. I concluded that I had forgotten the time of arrival, so I continued to stand, waiting. Wave after wave of other passengers washed a little more hope away from my tight grasp, my legs screamed to give up, but my mind was determined, I continued to hope. "The whole last two sentences seem to be rushed, do you get that vibe? If so, how do I improve it?"
But she did not arrive. "I thought this was actually good?........ is it?"
The room began to darken and my head fell heavily, all hope had been lost. I turned back to exit the building, once full of emotions, now barren, I'm trying to link society as a whole to him, as he felt more "human", he'd be literally and metaphorically closer to society, again, was this ineffective?"the walls greyed, hiding their once found beauty. Were the walls of an airport ever found to be beautiful? The sun hid its influence, The world lost its enchantment. I exited the airport and was greeted by a chilling gust of wind mocking my vulnerability as I inhaled sharply trying to expel my disappointments. The trees began to mock me as their leaves whispered about my demise while the birds, did not dare mutter a word as my shoulders hung low with the burden as the final ray of life left my world."I was trying to give light, this symbol that represented his emotions? Heh, I might be shallow in the analysis here"I lurched towards my door and slumped back into my chair. Many thoughts and questions flashed through my mind as I fell my head into my hands. What went wrong? I pulled out my phone and scrolled through our texts, the glorious texts and I remembered the good times, "This seems like filler to me, even though it wasn't"but this only filled me with more hopelessness. I sunk down, dejected and defeated, tomorrow is now just another day."This ending seems too sudden :/"
or leather, or suede...to hide myself from its influence. I walked calmly down the street, trying to not draw attention to the salvaged emotion bubbling inside of me. My legs were trembling as if they’d never walked this stride before but I kept my pace; fast but steady, the weight of anticipation urged me to reach the airport as soon as possible. I knew this was excessive, pointless; the plane had a set time of arrival. Yet I couldn’t help being anxious, excited, itching for that time to be now. I had waited so long"Does this last part seem cliche?". I had waited so long - cliched. I had waited too long - interesting.
I smirked as I watched the trees majestically sway and dance in rhythm, distracting me of what’s the come, I don't know what you're saying here the arrival of the person who I would see so very soon"Again, I feel like this sentence is poorly written; too "lovey dovey" is that makes sense". The thing that makes it lovey dovey is "so very" instead of "so soon" or "very soon" you've said "so very soon." The birds sang in harmony, praising and celebrating as if they were in my presence"I want birds to be apart of this, but this "as if they were in my presence" doesn't seem like the best of wording, how could I improve this?". I'm not sure what you are trying to say because I figure if you can hear the birds, they must be in your presence. Do you mean, "as if they were singing for me?" or "as if they were my symphony?"
Lost in my own vacant thoughts, I looked up to realise the airport upon the horizon. "Is this too sudden, seems forced to me"I enter the pristine, white, sunlit area, filled with people dashing around with a passion and a determination to explore the world around them. I pull out a crumpled, brown piece of paper and read “23” scrawled onto it, knowing that this was where I needed to be. As I walked, the bold red numbers on the billboards began to rise; 1, 2, 3 … "Is this proper writing? Am I allowed? If it effective?"As I continued, the hall began to fill, becoming congested until I was constantly brushing shoulders with society until I reached hallway 23, then everyone seemed to vanish."Again, is feel abrupt, and not well thought out, everyone did not "vanish" it was more meant to show his concentration on the situation, again, I don't know how to effectively portray this" Instead of using "vanished" what about a softer word like "faded into white noise"
I stood in the middle of the corridor, my hands faced together as a horde of passengers began to slowly flood towards me. My eyes darted person to person, desperately looking for her, her glowing orange hair while not moving a muscle. "Is the description here needed?" The "while not moving a muscle" thing is probably the imagery that confuses it for me, I like the hair. The crowd began to wash over me"here I'm trying to portray society as symbolic, especially with water and the random nature of it, I know; I'm poor at conveying it", but I kept my confidence, watching like an eagle, silent as a grave,"these similies seem too generic, is this fine?" hoping for any indication. I'd say something like "as stoic as..." and pick something that is stoic (not a stone lol). Because stoic kind of combines those two together, if I'm interpreting what you would like to say correctly. The crowd began to grunt and push at my presence, but I did not care, I could not care. However their presence vanished as fast as they approached, the corridor was once again….. Empty? "is this allowed?"I was confused, baffled, concerned. I attempted to call her, but she did not pick up. I concluded that I had forgotten the time of arrival, so I continued to stand, waiting. Wave after wave of other passengers washed a little more hope away from my tight grasp, my legs screamed to give up, but my mind was determined, I continued to hope. "The whole last two sentences seem to be rushed, do you get that vibe? If so, how do I improve it?"
But she did not arrive. "I thought this was actually good?........ is it?"
The room began to darken and my head fell heavily, all hope had been lost. I turned back to exit the building, once full of emotions, now barren, I'm trying to link society as a whole to him, as he felt more "human", he'd be literally and metaphorically closer to society, again, was this ineffective?"the walls greyed, hiding their once found beauty. Were the walls of an airport ever found to be beautiful? The sun hid its influence, The world lost its enchantment. I exited the airport and was greeted by a chilling gust of wind mocking my vulnerability as I inhaled sharply trying to expel my disappointments. The trees began to mock me as their leaves whispered about my demise while the birds, did not dare mutter a word as my shoulders hung low with the burden as the final ray of life left my world."I was trying to give light, this symbol that represented his emotions? Heh, I might be shallow in the analysis here"I lurched towards my door and slumped back into my chair. Many thoughts and questions flashed through my mind as I fell my head into my hands. What went wrong? I pulled out my phone and scrolled through our texts, the glorious texts and I remembered the good times, "This seems like filler to me, even though it wasn't"but this only filled me with more hopelessness. I sunk down, dejected and defeated, tomorrow is now just another day."This ending seems too sudden :/"
I think the story needs an element of sinister or humour. If you follow the humour right, he needs to spring out of bed and pull on some kind of memorable clothing (rainbow socks?), waltz out the door with a flower in his shirt pocket, (use very colourful imagery), and as the piece goes on and the colour begins to fade and is replaced by monochrome imagery as the woman never appears. In terms of adding the sinister...I'm confused about why he showed up at the airport? is it because he thought the woman he met online would appear? I'm wondering if you could change the plot and perhaps make it that he has an illness that makes him think his wife is getting off the plane from a girls trip in Bali, but actually she died last year and he's retired and confused and has an illness. The airport staff escort him out because it happens every Sunday night. Perhaps you could make it that he jumped out of bed because that day he was going to become very rich, if his drug mule had managed to make it through customs. So he's waiting, and waiting, but as everyone else picks up their loved ones and leaves he's just left at the end, where police can easily identify him and arrest him. And they do so.
These are just ideas, but I think the crux of your problem is that the plot has a great crescendo, so much excitement and waiting and moving, only for the reader to be a little confused by the ending because it just all seems futile. Your writing isn't awful by any stretch, but hopefully I've given you direction about how to improve your plot line - and this will, in turn, make the creative longer :)
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 13, 2017, 02:39:44 pm
Well, let's take artistic license and hope the markers ignore that, or they assume he's part of the handful. I mean they have a lot of works to mark ;), surely this one isn't that important in their eyes and can be read without overthinking....
Thank you once again for all your help (we seem to miss each other every time, I didn't even know you replied!)
Do the clarifications I made make sense in your mind now, or do you think I still need more adjustment?
I've also made another comment about how to integrate aspects of the syllabus into the creative, and I'll just copy it below for your reference:
First time discovery: finding the bomb, changing his perception
Rediscovering something lost, concealed or forgotten: not really sure if it counts, but indirectly, a reconnection with his wife?
Sudden or unexpected: didn't expect Evie to come up with such a confronting argument that shook the foundations of his assumptions
Deliberate planning: the bomb was one created out of his personal wonder and necessity from the government
Emotional, spiritual: his realisation of the damage the bomb caused
Creative and intellectual: not sure about these ones either
Confronting and provocative: hope that's apparent ;)
New understandings and renewed perceptions of ourselves and others: not sure of this is communicated very well either
Personal, cultural, historical, social contexts: historical and social, I would say yes? Not sure about personal and cultural
Far reaching and transformative for the individual and broader society: the ending scene with the Japanese girl, and I think it was implicitly threaded throughout the piece
Ramifications: was the discovery and his own feelings about it enough to suit this dotpoint
Different perspectives/worth can be reassessed over time: Evie vs Protagonist at the start, protagonist throughout the piece
Challenge/affirm widely held assumptions and beliefs about aspects of human experience and the world: I feel like I'm being biased towards this but I find myself agreeing haha
New discoveries about: place-not at all, people-vaguely yes, relationships- wife and husband??, societies-American society in the 1950s was a bad place for one's conscience, events-not sure about this either
Generate new ideas: morals vs societal aims,
Do you have any ideas of what this work suits in terms of HSC questions and what it needs to be heavily adjusted to answer? I've tried breaking it down above but am always interested in your feedback
Sorry, you're right, we do keep missing each other!
So I think the biggest area to work on is the creative and intellectual discoveries. They asked last year for an intellectual discovery so I doubt they would do it again, but they could ask again (nothing is predictable in the HSC ;) ) So I'd focus on creative more, that's a little hole in your rubric response. To be honest I am a bit stumped. Unless you extend the end parts when looking to new ways of expression, and thinking, when he commits to no longer contributing to the bomb, maybe there needs to be something as an "instead" - like, what will he do instead? And this could be the creative discovery. I'm not sure, I really admit to be stumped on this one because I know the story hinges on that last narrator on the other side of the world so I don't want to create an ending that takes away from that.
On a side note - intellect is the faculty of reasoning, so there are definitely intellectual discoveries throughout your response because of the way Evie reasons with him, and he reasons with himself, to change!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 14, 2017, 04:08:43 pm
Hi, I'd be extremely grateful for any advice you could offer for my creative piece. Most critical feedback I've received had addressed overwriting and a confusing plot, so if you could suggest ways to fix these problems in particular, that'd be amazing! Thanks in advance :D
Spoiler
17 November 2010
My dearest daughter,
Sometimes, if I’m paying attention, I’ll see little pieces of her in you.
A sigh of tingling air scatters intricate frost patterns on the glass. Your small fingers wipes away a circle of winter’s breath from the pane to reveal a snow-blanketed town and nothing but a wonderful shade of white for miles into the distance.
Fiddling with the latch and sliding the window open, you inhale a gust of frigid oxygen, streaming through your red hair in its purest form. As a soft tinge of pink perfuses across your cheeks and the tip of your nose, you marvel at the thought of nothing but open ice and snow, all for you to explore.
In my contemplation of closing the window or letting you admire the view, I recall your mother’s quiet smile on that first morning.
Temperatures reached all time lows in the winter of 2007, yet she felt a warm tingling sensation on that morning and most mornings after.
“I don’t know what it is, but- but it’s like electric ecstasy whirling around my chest,” she hummed when I asked why she was smiling, “like a sort of enlivening warmth…”
To my dismay, nothing could ever translate her impulsive sentimentality into terms that I understood. Maybe she’s coming down with something, I thought, before returning to my paperwork while she blissfully watched the morning monotony unfold from the front porch. Just dropping in to say no feedback so far, a really smooth piece!
“Sure, just come in soon, honey. You’re going to catch a cold.” I mumbled, reaching to draw the window shut before she suddenly turned on her heels to face me.
“You’re going to be a great father, Truman” she remarked, round frost-coated glasses magnifying excitement in her olive green eyes.
The polished blueprint of my life seemed suddenly reduced to ashes. I analysed the pace of her breathing, the slight upward curl of her lips, the way that she anxiously fiddled with the ends of her vibrant red hair – all the symptoms of an overwhelming happiness.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I said,” she chuckled lightly, “you are going to be a great father!”
She repeated this reassurance for months, the words always laced with a sincerity that echoed her innately maternal compassion. I love this - you've moved from the initial hearing to the months ahead. Very smooth. I had trouble believing it, but her white-hot positivity was a kindness nonetheless. Her glowing, perhaps delusional, confidence may have even outshone my uncertainty at times. That’s simply how infectiously immune she was to my defeatist attitude. Hence the magnitude of the unexpected torment when she suddenly fell ill.
The word ‘eclampsia’ was a sudden burst of electric light that drowned out the rest of the doctor’s careful words into empty static. The medical statistics and subsequent uncertainties were the ravenous boom. And nothing - not a million self-care brochures or late-night Google searches - could conquer the helplessness and confusion that clouded your mother’s once-beaming sense of hope.
The mattress burned cold when she woke up each morning. Remnants of lucid nightmares would hang from her eyes as she adjusted to the synthetic hospital room glow. The scent of crisp sterility seeped into the bleak, white walls that confined her to disinfected bed sheets and non-solid foods for 2 eternal months. As if forgetting to nurture a flame before it dissipated into smoke, I watched as she declined rapidly, to the point where her brilliant smile was just a hazy memory with fading warmth. Your mother's body recovered in slow, turbulent progression after you were born, but what is there to do when your soul is poisoned?
You came to us 10 weeks too soon.
Suddenly the hospital became home. Every morning I would visit you. The neonatal intensive care unit that they kept you in was another world to your mother's hospital room. A kaleidoscope of delicate colours dispersed against anesthetic whites. The floral curtains were always spread, allowing sunlight to caress your skin in gentle Summer zephyr. On the best days you would hold my finger in your hand through a hole in the side of the incubator. You were, you are, phosphorescent, my dear. But oh, how you made me melt. After a cherished hour of watching you thrive, hanging onto life by a dozen winding tubes, I’d pry myself away to a part-time job at a nearby grocery store. A three-minute walk from the hospital through winding alleyways, often under callous rain.
And then every night, stumbling against the pavement in aching exhaustion, I would visit your mother.
"Lucille"
Meaning light, a French variation of Lucy. Your mother whispered it to me one night, squeezing my hand delicately with a kind smile that betrayed the melancholia in her eyes. Stroking the red hair that draped messily over her pale, porcelain skin, I breathed a shaky "okay” and said nothing more.
At first, I blamed myself for her death. Not eclampsia. Not postpartum depression. Not an intentional lithium overdose. Refusing to accept the bitter truth, I wondered; if I had somehow saw on that first morning how her last night would end, would I have been able to save her?
But even as I lost her, I found you. And I know now that I was the one needing to be saved.
I was the one trapped inside an isolated eternal winter of my own making. But ice melts, and so too do bittersweet delusions of security. She saved me from a dull, purposeless, comfortable existence simply by bringing me out into the world. By giving me the brightest sunshine. The light of my life.
I see so much of her in you.
“I’m sorry, Pa.” you mumble as the thermometer beeps softly and I place the warm cloth on your forehead.
“That’s okay, sweetheart. We’ll play outside together for as long as you’d like after you feel better. Say goodnight to your Mama, Lu.” I gesture towards the picture on the bedside table.
“Goodnight, Mama” you hum, revealing a smile identical to that of the woman in the photo – one that is glowing, kind and procures an enlivening warmth.
I do adore you, Lucille.
Love always,
Dad
My dearest daughter,
Sometimes, if I’m paying attention, I’ll see little pieces of her in you.
A sigh of tingling air scatters intricate frost patterns on the glass. Your small fingers wipes away a circle of winter’s breath from the pane to reveal a snow-blanketed town and nothing but a wonderful shade of white for miles into the distance.
Fiddling with the latch and sliding the window open, you inhale a gust of frigid oxygen, streaming through your red hair in its purest form. As a soft tinge of pink perfuses across your cheeks and the tip of your nose, you marvel at the thought of nothing but open ice and snow, all for you to explore.
In my contemplation of closing the window or letting you admire the view, I recall your mother’s quiet smile on that first morning.
Temperatures reached all time lows in the winter of 2007, yet she felt a warm tingling sensation on that morning and most mornings after.
“I don’t know what it is, but- but it’s like electric ecstasy whirling around my chest,” she hummed when I asked why she was smiling, “like a sort of enlivening warmth…”
To my dismay, nothing could ever translate her impulsive sentimentality into terms that I understood. Maybe she’s coming down with something, I thought, before returning to my paperwork while she blissfully watched the morning monotony unfold from the front porch. Just dropping in to say no feedback so far, a really smooth piece!
“Sure, just come in soon, honey. You’re going to catch a cold.” I mumbled, reaching to draw the window shut before she suddenly turned on her heels to face me.
“You’re going to be a great father, Truman” she remarked, round frost-coated glasses magnifying excitement in her olive green eyes.
The polished blueprint of my life seemed suddenly reduced to ashes. I analysed the pace of her breathing, the slight upward curl of her lips, the way that she anxiously fiddled with the ends of her vibrant red hair – all the symptoms of an overwhelming happiness.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I said,” she chuckled lightly, “you are going to be a great father!”
She repeated this reassurance for months, the words always laced with a sincerity that echoed her innately maternal compassion. I love this - you've moved from the initial hearing to the months ahead. Very smooth. I had trouble believing it, but her white-hot positivity was a kindness nonetheless. Her glowing, perhaps delusional, confidence may have even outshone my uncertainty at times. That’s simply how infectiously immune she was to my defeatist attitude. Hence the magnitude of the unexpected torment when she suddenly fell ill.
The word ‘eclampsia’ was a sudden burst of electric light that drowned out the rest of the doctor’s careful words into empty static. The medical statistics and subsequent uncertainties were the ravenous boom. And nothing - not a million self-care brochures or late-night Google searches - could conquer the helplessness and confusion that clouded your mother’s once-beaming sense of hope.
The mattress burned cold when she woke up each morning. Remnants of lucid nightmares would hang from her eyes as she adjusted to the synthetic hospital room glow. The scent of crisp sterility seeped into the bleak, white walls that confined her to disinfected bed sheets and non-solid foods for 2 eternal months. As if forgetting to nurture a flame before it dissipated into smoke, I watched as she declined rapidly, to the point where her brilliant smile was just a hazy memory with fading warmth. Your mother's body recovered in slow, turbulent progression after you were born, but what is there to do when your soul is poisoned?
You came to us 10 weeks too soon.
Suddenly the hospital became home. Every morning I would visit you. The neonatal intensive care unit that they kept you in was another world to your mother's hospital room. A kaleidoscope of delicate colours dispersed against anesthetic whites. The floral curtains were always spread, allowing sunlight to caress your skin in gentle Summer zephyr. On the best days you would hold my finger in your hand through a hole in the side of the incubator. You were, you are, phosphorescent, my dear. But oh, how you made me melt. After a cherished hour of watching you thrive, hanging onto life by a dozen winding tubes, I’d pry myself away to a part-time job at a nearby grocery store. A three-minute walk from the hospital through winding alleyways, often under callous rain.
And then every night, stumbling against the pavement in aching exhaustion, I would visit your mother.
"Lucille"
Meaning light, a French variation of Lucy. Your mother whispered it to me one night, squeezing my hand delicately with a kind smile that betrayed the melancholia in her eyes. Stroking the red hair that draped messily over her pale, porcelain skin, I breathed a shaky "okay” and said nothing more.
At first, I blamed myself for her death. Not eclampsia. Not postpartum depression. Not an intentional lithium overdose. Refusing to accept the bitter truth, I wondered; if I had somehow saw on that first morning how her last night would end, would I have been able to save her?
But even as I lost her, I found you. And I know now that I was the one needing to be saved.
I was the one trapped inside an isolated eternal winter of my own making. But ice melts, and so too do bittersweet delusions of security. She saved me from a dull, purposeless, comfortable existence simply by bringing me out into the world. By giving me the brightest sunshine. The light of my life.
I see so much of her in you.
“I’m sorry, Pa.” you mumble as the thermometer beeps softly and I place the warm cloth on your forehead.
“That’s okay, sweetheart. We’ll play outside together for as long as you’d like after you feel better. Say goodnight to your Mama, Lu.” I gesture towards the picture on the bedside table.
“Goodnight, Mama” you hum, revealing a smile identical to that of the woman in the photo – one that is glowing, kind and procures an enlivening warmth.
I do adore you, Lucille.
Love always,
Dad
Wow. Your careful control of language and features of language is really wonderful to read. It's so clear to me you've tried to capture a very delicate atmosphere in this work. There's absolutely nothing I want to say about your structure or your words, I only want to say how wonderful I think this is in terms of the way you've created a fragile and frosty, yet meaningful, tone. Classic!
In terms of discovery, we are seeing an emotional discovery, spiritual, and physical discovery. I think if you need to develop an intellectual discovery more, then you'd need to tap into his faculty of reasoning a bit more. The way he reasoned life and the meaning of life, and his responsibility to his wife's life. Obviously these aren't the only categories of discoveries, but it's a good place to analyse the ways you are looking at discovery (I took this from the rubric). Your next step is about looking at the rubric like I have here, and taking on little chunks and thinking "if this was my stimulus - could I adapt? How would I adapt?" And because your writing style is so delicate, it is important you practice adding little bits and pieces that is still in line with the work you have produced. I don't at all think you've confused the plot, nor do I think you have overwritten. But I'm wondering why the letter was written - could you engage with why the letter was written, with discovery? Like, could there be a particular discovery (emotional, physical, spiritual), that prompted the letter being written?
Great work! I hope this gives you an idea about where to take it next :)