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HSC Stuff => HSC Marking and Feedback => HSC Subjects + Help => Marking Thread Archives => Topic started by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 06:41:32 pm

Title: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 26, 2016, 06:41:32 pm
If you'd like your creative 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 Extension 1 Creative Marking Thread. This thread is here for you to get feedback on your Creatives 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 explaining" or "expand". 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
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: cmaatouk on July 26, 2016, 08:46:17 pm
Here is my extension creative writing, based on the area of Romanticism! It's pretty shit so as much feedback as possible would be awesome! Thank you  :D

   I followed the herd of men into the woods. The copper sky darkening as white moon light penetrated the forest. They all took turns to beat a man. They all cheered when his blood splattered, tainting the grass that was green as emerald. Then I did a hellish thing. I struck him down... and he didn’t get back up.
   I was left with the task of disposing the corpse. I’d never seen a dead man before that. His face was contorted in agony and his skin white as leprosy. I didn’t move the body right away, my shock weighing me down like chains. I stared at it for some time. I stared at it and searched for the appropriate feeling as a murderer. I began to feel vexed, why should I pity him? He did not deserve to live!
   But then a heavy sadness fell upon me. I was sad that I had killed a man who had done me no harm. I was sad that in killing this man I had taken him away from his wife and children. I was sad that in killing this man I had lost a part of me I can never regain. My pulse began to thump painful as I thought about my own family who would never survive without my humble income.

   This morning, imaginary chains tied me to the crowd who I followed like a coward, too afraid to stand up for justice. I helped drag one of the five cannons onto the courtyard, hidden by smoke. We aimed them at the Bastille. It wasn’t long before the flag was raised, like a wounded dove flapping in the sky. We stormed the prison. Seven prisoners were freed, joy plastered on their faces. But Bernard-René Jordan de Launay had fear shining in his eyes. He was dragged off, men tearing at him, blood lust burning in their eyes. I remember him looking at me and begging for mercy.
   “Please” he said, “spare me, for the sake of my wife and son-”
   But before he could seize my heart a man next to me slammed the butt of his gun on Launay’s face. He struck him down, and he got back up. Like a sheep, I followed the crowd, the chants of victory from my comrades downed out my conscious like a wall in my mind, suppressing the feeling that our actions were wrong.
   He was meant to be handed over to the Revolutionary Council, but instead we hauled him out to the woods and did the unthinkable. The mere thought of what I’ve done turns my stomach inside out.

   I looked down at the former Governor of the Bastille. This man did not deserve such a disgraceful death, I owe him a respectful burial. One I cannot afford. I dragged his body out of the woods and left him on the side of the road. But before I walked away I saw an Iris sprouting from the ground. A sign of life and renewal. Our national flower. I reach out meaning to pick the flower to place on Launay’s body. But I didn’t, because to pick that flower would mean killing another living thing. To pick that flower would cause it to decay and become not a symbol of life, but of death.
   When I arrived home, my wife had a meal laid out on the table for me. But I ignored the meaty soup and instead went into the small garden. I sat on the rickety bench, that my father build with his bare hands.
   The wind whispered comforting words into my ear. The stars twinkled, blinking with hope. A presence soothes my pained heart. I breathe out all of my hate and sadness and breathe in love and happiness.
   As a child when I fell over and bruised my knee, the only thing that made everything better was when my father walked me around the farm. But with age came change. That beautiful landscape that brought me joy had to be left behind. Father got a job in the factories. I always said that I would one day would go back to the place I loved so much. But I grew up and began to work in the factories. I was never able to escape them. The only solitude I have is here, in this small patch of green behind my humble abode.


   The next day, I walked the streets of Paris, to make my way to the factory in which I was to slave away. But upon this journey my attention was drawn to a crowd that was loud and growing. I had no interest in taking apart after the events of the day that had passed, but curiosity drew me to see what the hustle and bustle was for.
   I nearly threw up my breakfast at the sight before me. The butcher, Pierre, was parading around with a pike. Singing Viva la France. Upon that pike was the head of Governor de Launay. Horror gripped my frame. Nausea filled me. I fluttered like a limp leaf in the wind.
   I never made it to the factory that day. I went home and packed our bags. We moved back to the country. We ran away from the Revolution. I have learnt that the simple life is the best life.
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on July 26, 2016, 08:53:31 pm
Here is my extension creative writing, based on the area of Romanticism! It's pretty shit so as much feedback as possible would be awesome! Thank you  :D

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
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: Lauradf36 on August 02, 2016, 10:05:26 pm
Can I still post my creative here for feedback?? If not don't worry!
I got my mark back and I got 23/25, not exactly sure why (not much feedback  >:() but I need to do it for trials pretty soon anyway!

As free as a bird?

“Fanny Godwin? Do you present any knowledge to transform us this afternoon?”
The teacher’s biting tone stings my skin through the stagnant air of the classroom as his pipe dangles from protruding lips. A cane rests in his hand, ready for the slip of a chanting tongue.
Each boy’s pair of passive eyes stares as I heave myself out of my seat, knees quivering, lips hanging open with the suggestion of speaking. Trembling, I twirl a strand of coffee-brown hair around pallid fingertips.
Outside, newly sprouted buildings teeter into the sky, exhaling dusty fumes. I ignore them and glance up at the careful zig-zag of the chalkboard boring into my mind.
No more of this.
“As I sit, amidst the golden melodies of falling leaves, it is here I drink in the cry of the roaring river calling to the essence of my being. The wind begins to flow, with it’s fresh breath as free as a…”
“No, no, NO!” I jump as the teacher appears to slam his cane on my wooden desk like the very sword of Napoleon, face red and commanding in its fury. Savagely, he rips the slate from my lingering grasp. “What is this poetic nonsense?”
Titters of laughter fill the air in a derisive chorus. My eyes prickle with burning, fiery tears.
“Gentleman, please learn from our dear student,” the man drawls, puffing out streams of smoke with a sneering smile. Careless black eyes set my heart ablaze with dangerous fury — it yearns to be freed from this icy cage.
“Young ladies should not be writing fanciful or imaginative tales. Next time, Fanny, exercise your logic and restraint for us. Yes sir?”
“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Pain courses through my body as I struggle to lift a coffee-brown wing chained to the cold, metal floor. My claws scratch the silvery surface, screaming to escape from their fetters.

My world is one only of restraint. Logic. The vertical bars I have been forced to call my ‘home’. The occasional smattering of seeds thrown in by the monstrous human. Every now and then his eyes bulging in at my feathered form, perhaps giving a poke. My desperate pleas for help, for release, with a faltering cuckoo cry.
My words falling on dull, ignorant ears.
Time is irrelevant in this emotionless existence. The eternal monotony of dark, light, food, dark, sleep is all I can recall. Hope seems a dwindling promise at the end of a non-existent tunnel.

It wasn’t always like this.

I recall sorrowfully the clear azure of the sky, the dusky pink hues it would emit as the glowing light began to dim. The translucent waters waving beneath me, the flowing zig-zag of the grass, the flowers bending their heads in polite, gentle nods.
Time would flow effortlessly past as day gave way to the crisp, cool throngs of night. I can still imagine the stars raining their bright breath over me, blinking innocently as they twirled and spun in sublime expanses of speckled colours smeared through the clouds.
Complete freedom to explore every crack and crevice of mind and body, united with the natural realm, unrestrained by society.

Until: the caging.
That dreadful moment when a smoke-blowing, sneering human turned every colour to grey with one thrust of his red hands.

I still remember benevolent humans whose eyes would dampen to see my companions injured, or underfed. Some would scatter seeds and bread on nearby pathways, the small ones would clap in delight.
It is for these memories that I continue hoping. Hoping there is goodness in the essence of this complex human — who can be so kind and sympathetic one moment, so cold and cruel the next.

My spirits elevate as a lithe, pale girl emerges from the blackened sky behind her. Her infrequent visits bring innocent smiles and gentle benevolence.
It is her emotions alone that preserve my yearning for that same humanity.
“I am awfully sorry to have left you alone, beauty,” she sighs dispiritedly, extending a hand overflowing with nuts and seeds through the bars. “At last Mr Godwin let me finish all those dreadful chores…”
I am concerned to see her face slump at the words. These days, the names of William and Mary Godwin seem only to bring oppressive sadness.
Bending down, her brow furrows to see my rusting chains.
“As free as a bird,” she whispers. Tears filling her emerald eyes, she reaches in to stroke my brown, striped feathers. “If only it could change.”
“It can, it can!” I cry, helplessly rattling the chains grasping my claws. But her back is turned, and my visionary hope is swallowed once more into billows of smoke.

* * *

The evening breeze gestures me down to Winchester’s River Itchen as I enter the temple of it’s presence. Willow fronds brush my forehead gently as their curtains slide open. I smile as flecks of light bounce off the cool water onto sunburnt planks of wood. The sky is awash with the sun’s final blessing, misty clouds intermingled with mellifluous pink and orange light.
It is here, with time interrupted only by the comings and goings of the tide, that I am completely united with the essence of my being.
“Logic and restraint,” I mutter, turning reluctantly from the brilliant blushing light shining onto dancing waters. “Exercise your logic and restraint…”
I lean back on the delicately arching bridge with slate pencil poised for destruction.
Silence washes over me with a calming hand, soft and sonorous, far removed from the roar of authority. It’s a solitude that hangs on your every thought and feeling, allows them to transform the dictation of the social realm.

Grimly, I ravage my memory for vestiges of the logical ideas my teacher commands me to spit back in his face.
All the moment offers is bright blue water, wandering white clouds, gleaming red rays illuminating a rippling horizon. Three shades crying out for change.
As the sky begins to dance with a conglomeration of colour, my lips can no longer be silenced. The words fall easily from my tongue:
“My heart leaps up when I behold, a rainbow in the sky…
So was it when my life began; 
So is it now I am a man; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 
   Or let me die!” (W. Wordsworth, 1803)

My spirits are elevated by the poet’s glorious new words. As each willow sways freely around me, brushing delicate fingertips against my skin, I can only imagine a world released from the chains of authority into their warm embrace.
I hardly comprehend the sky slowly disappearing into a purple bruise of smoke, the streets beginning to rumble noisily without the sunshine urging them into their proper duty.

My eyes are firmly fixed on the horizon.

* * *

The girl’s face is clear as she bursts into the room with a stream of morning light. It transforms my cage with refracted colours, overwhelming the darkness that hides behind them.
“Hello, girl,” she beams unexpectedly. Green eyes glow with excitement. “Today is the day it will change, you hear me?”
Feverishly, she begins to fiddle with the rusting locks that bind me. Her hands tremble, face flushed inexplicably, as she utters — “Today you will have freedom.”

I am surrounded at once by air. Unhindered space. My heart beats faster, faster until I think it will burst out of my chest.

Is this — freedom?

I exhale a feeble “thank you” as her eyes open wide, watching for my jubilant egress.
Clenching my wings, I hobble determinedly to the edge of the grey expanse. For an instant I stumble and squawk in pain, but before long, my feathers are spread wide and soaring unchained through the open skies.

My heart leaps up with pure joy at the sight of the brilliant clear sky which had awaited me  so long, the sunlight dazzling my eyes as it bounces off glistening green leaves.
I glance down ecstatically to see a kaleidoscope of colour covering the ground beneath, red, blue, and white flashing before my eyes. Flowers are clustered in bright bunches that reach out, poking holes in the stratosphere to bask in golden rays of light. Each colour seems brighter, clearer than I had imagined, as if to cry out in happiness that it may freely shine!

Then — black.

Every ounce of joy vanishes as my body is flung into a magnanimous grey building protruding from the hazy air. It’s piercing zenith towers higher than the clouds, as if it were about to topple over from the weight of the burden it carried. Bursts of soiled air infiltrate the sky as they spit from grotesquely twisting pipes.
Everything is enveloped by an opaque smog dimming each colour with it’s own sooty hue. It is redolent of sulphur and coal, mingled with the faintly metallic flavour of blood.
Heart pounding, I swoop lower. Perhaps this is an oddity of nature I had never experienced.

It is then that I see the humans, pouring from every crack and crevice of creation. Humans that are swallowed into yawning black mouths beneath them. Marching with lumps of dark matter strapped to their tiny frames. Thrashing iron helplessly with terrifying weapons. Bending to be beaten by unrestrained men, red hands just like my captor’s.

Rarely reappearing into disappearing green meadows.

More red men stand to the left of the river, which by now appears ominously viscous and reeks of sewage. They point and laugh at large expanses of grass before them, fold their arms across protruding stomachs.
Beside them sit shrivelled figures wearing withered farmer’s hats. Disfigured bodies wracked by hacking coughs. Children left in their own waste as tears burn gashes in sooty flesh. Small damp huts which reek of rotting flesh and crying mothers.

All pleading for a simple human benevolence that doesn't appear to exist.

No one scatters them seeds. No one tears them bread. No one has a tear in their eye, only a plank of wood as they may bark orders while holding others in chains.
This blackened sky was no feat of the natural realm I had so naively yearned for.

Humans.

Without a cage like mine, humans had twisted nature’s perfect world into their own disfigured creature.

Their darkness had covered every inch of emerald grass until only spattered blood remained in vision.
And the colours. The beautiful colours of the flowers, red, blue, and white, are painted on a flag that is trampled in the dust on the side of the road.

Is this — freedom?

For at last, I have seen the freedom for what it is — a monster. A black, smoky monster allowed to permeate every emotion until all that remains is red blood of victory.

Somehow, a cold, logical cage seems only too inviting.

* * *

The bird soars high above me with coffee-brown wings outstretched. Amidst the din of steam engines and clanging metal, my heart is lifted to see her released from her own icy cage.
Time eludes us as I watch it scale the clouds, dive through streams of smoke to find each clear patch of sky, completely unbound by the jailer’s fetters.

My heart stops as my friend is stagnated by a thick haze. Flecks of dirt block my vision as the puffing billy rolls past, clouds billowing out of teetering nostrils.
The train hurtles dangerously into the future, never looking back to see the dark trails it leaves behind.
Disoriented, I peer frantically around for the bird’s small, feathered frame to reappear.

When the mist clears, all that remains is emptied, smoky skies.

Surely it is still basking in the warm embrace of willow fronds? Surely it has not returned to chains of reason?
Running, panting, I return to the village with bated breath. My mind races as red, blue, and white flashes past me in a blur of distorted and undefined shapes.
Yet when I reach the teacher’s house, the bird sits placidly on the cold, metal floor of her cage. I peer with horror into her tiny, yellow eyes.
No longer are they filled with restless pain, a creative yearning to be released from her chains. Now, all I see is a dutiful acceptance — that seems almost to long for the logic and restraint of vertical bars.

Grief is heavy on my tongue as I whisper: “As free as a bird?”

I cannot understand.
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on August 03, 2016, 05:36:40 pm
Can I still post my creative here for feedback?? If not don't worry!
I got my mark back and I got 23/25, not exactly sure why (not much feedback  >:() but I need to do it for trials pretty soon anyway!


23/25 before trials? Amazing! What a solid effort! It's only up from here :)

Spoiler
As free as a bird?

“Fanny Godwin? Do you present any knowledge to transform us this afternoon?”
The teacher’s biting tone stings my skin through the stagnant air of the classroom as his pipe dangles from protruding lips. Ooh! I love the pipe. A cane rests in his hand, ready for the slip of a chanting tongue.
Each boy’s pair of passive eyes stares as I heave myself out of my seat, knees quivering, lips hanging open with the suggestion of speaking. Trembling, I twirl a strand of coffee-brown hair around pallid fingertips.
Outside, newly sprouted buildings teeter into the sky, exhaling dusty fumes. I ignore them and glance up at the careful zig-zag of the chalkboard boring into my mind.
No more of this.
“As I sit, amidst the golden melodies of falling leaves, it is here I drink in the cry of the roaring river calling to the essence of my being. The wind begins to flow, with it’s fresh breath as free as a…”
“No, no, NO!” I jump as the teacher appears to slam his cane on my wooden desk like the very sword of Napoleon, face red and commanding in its fury. Savagely, he rips the slate from my lingering grasp. “What is this poetic nonsense?”
Titters of laughter fill the air in a derisive chorus. My eyes prickle with burning, fiery tears.
“Gentleman, please learn from our dear student,” the man drawls, puffing out streams of smoke with a sneering smile. Careless black eyes set my heart ablaze with dangerous fury — it yearns to be freed from this icy cage.
“Young ladies should not be writing fanciful or imaginative tales. Next time, Fanny, exercise your logic and restraint for us. Yes sir?”
“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Pain courses through my body as I struggle to lift a coffee-brown wing chained to the cold, metal floor. My claws scratch the silvery surface, screaming to escape from their fetters.

My world is one only of restraint. Logic. The vertical bars I have been forced to call my ‘home’. The occasional smattering of seeds thrown in by the monstrous human. Every now and then his eyes bulging in at my feathered form, perhaps giving a poke. My desperate pleas for help, for release, with a faltering cuckoo cry.
My words falling on dull, ignorant ears.
Time is irrelevant in this emotionless existence. The eternal monotony of dark, light, food, dark, sleep is all I can recall. Hope seems a dwindling promise at the end of a non-existent tunnel.

It wasn’t always like this.
At this point I just want to tell you how hard it is to flaw this.
I recall sorrowfully the clear azure of the sky, the dusky pink hues it would emit as the glowing light began to dim. The translucent waters waving beneath me, the flowing zig-zag of the grass, the flowers bending their heads in polite, gentle nods.
Time would flow effortlessly past as day gave way to the crisp, cool throngs of night. I can still imagine the stars raining their bright breath over me, blinking innocently as they twirled and spun in sublime expanses of speckled colours smeared through the clouds.
Complete freedom to explore every crack and crevice of mind and body, united with the natural realm, unrestrained by society.

Until: the caging. This came at a perfect time. Towards the end of the last paragraph, I was still following but my engagement was weakening. Then I was brought back into it wonderfully here. Excellent job!
That dreadful moment when a smoke-blowing, sneering human turned every colour to grey with one thrust of his red hands.

I still remember benevolent humans whose eyes would dampen to see my companions injured, or underfed. Some would scatter seeds and bread on nearby pathways, the small ones would clap in delight.
It is for these memories that I continue hoping. Hoping there is goodness in the essence of this complex human — who can be so kind and sympathetic one moment, so cold and cruel the next.

My spirits elevate as a lithe, pale girl emerges from the blackened sky behind her. Her infrequent visits bring innocent smiles and gentle benevolence.
It is her emotions alone that preserve my yearning for that same humanity.
“I am awfully sorry to have left you alone, beauty,” she sighs dispiritedly, extending a hand overflowing with nuts and seeds through the bars. “At last Mr Godwin let me finish all those dreadful chores…”
I am concerned to see her face slump at the words. These days, the names of William and Mary Godwin seem only to bring oppressive sadness.
Bending down, her brow furrows to see my rusting chains.
“As free as a bird,” she whispers. Tears filling her emerald eyes, she reaches in to stroke my brown, striped feathers. “If only it could change.”
“It can, it can!” I cry, helplessly rattling the chains grasping my claws. But her back is turned, and my visionary hope is swallowed once more into billows of smoke.

* * *

The evening breeze gestures me down to Winchester’s River Itchen as I enter the temple of it’s presence. Willow fronds brush my forehead gently as their curtains slide open. I smile as flecks of light bounce off the cool water onto sunburnt planks of wood. The sky is awash with the sun’s final blessing, misty clouds intermingled with mellifluous pink and orange light. Mellifluous is a word used to describe sound, and you've used it to describe light. Consider picking a new word :)
It is here, with time interrupted only by the comings and goings of the tide, that I am completely united with the essence of my being.
“Logic and restraint,” I mutter, turning reluctantly from the brilliant blushing light shining onto dancing waters. “Exercise your logic and restraint…”
I lean back on the delicately arching bridge with slate pencil poised for destruction.
Silence washes over me with a calming hand, soft and sonorous, far removed from the roar of authority. It’s a solitude that hangs on your every thought and feeling, allows them to transform the dictation of the social realm.

Grimly, I ravage my memory for vestiges of the logical ideas my teacher commands me to spit back in his face.
All the moment offers is bright blue water, wandering white clouds, gleaming red rays illuminating a rippling horizon. Three shades crying out for change.
As the sky begins to dance with a conglomeration of colour, my lips can no longer be silenced. The words fall easily from my tongue:
“My heart leaps up when I behold, a rainbow in the sky…
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
   Or let me die!” (W. Wordsworth, 1803)

My spirits are elevated by the poet’s glorious new words. As each willow sways freely around me, brushing delicate fingertips against my skin, I can only imagine a world released from the chains of authority into their warm embrace.
I hardly comprehend the sky slowly disappearing into a purple bruise of smoke, the streets beginning to rumble noisily without the sunshine urging them into their proper duty.

My eyes are firmly fixed on the horizon.

* * *

The girl’s face is clear as she bursts into the room with a stream of morning light. It transforms my cage with refracted colours, overwhelming the darkness that hides behind them.
“Hello, girl,” she beams unexpectedly. Green eyes glow with excitement. “Today is the day it will change, you hear me?”
Feverishly, she begins to fiddle with the rusting locks that bind me. Her hands tremble, face flushed inexplicably, as she utters — “Today you will have freedom.”

I am surrounded at once by air. Unhindered space. My heart beats faster, faster until I think it will burst out of my chest.

Is this — freedom?

I exhale a feeble “thank you” as her eyes open wide, watching for my jubilant egress.
Clenching my wings, I hobble determinedly to the edge of the grey expanse. For an instant I stumble and squawk in pain, but before long, my feathers are spread wide and soaring unchained through the open skies.

My heart leaps up with pure joy at the sight of the brilliant clear sky which had awaited me  so long, the sunlight dazzling my eyes as it bounces off glistening green leaves.
I glance down ecstatically to see a kaleidoscope of colour covering the ground beneath, red, blue, and white flashing before my eyes. Flowers are clustered in bright bunches that reach out, poking holes in the stratosphere to bask in golden rays of light. Each colour seems brighter, clearer than I had imagined, as if to cry out in happiness that it may freely shine!

Then — black.

Every ounce of joy vanishes as my body is flung into a magnanimous grey building protruding from the hazy air. It’s piercing zenith towers higher than the clouds, as if it were about to topple over from the weight of the burden it carried. Bursts of soiled air infiltrate the sky as they spit from grotesquely twisting pipes.
Everything is enveloped by an opaque smog dimming each colour with it’s own sooty hue. It is redolent of sulphur and coal, mingled with the faintly metallic flavour of blood.
Heart pounding, I swoop lower. Perhaps this is an oddity of nature I had never experienced.

It is then that I see the humans, pouring from every crack and crevice of creation. Humans that are swallowed into yawning black mouths beneath them. Marching with lumps of dark matter strapped to their tiny frames. Thrashing iron helplessly with terrifying weapons. Bending to be beaten by unrestrained men, red hands just like my captor’s.

Rarely reappearing into disappearing green meadows.

More red men stand to the left of the river, which by now appears ominously viscous and reeks of sewage. They point and laugh at large expanses of grass before them, fold their arms across protruding stomachs.
Beside them sit shrivelled figures wearing withered farmer’s hats. Disfigured bodies wracked by hacking coughs. Children left in their own waste as tears burn gashes in sooty flesh. Small damp huts which reek of rotting flesh and crying mothers.

All pleading for a simple human benevolence that doesn't appear to exist.

No one scatters them seeds. No one tears them bread. No one has a tear in their eye, only a plank of wood as they may bark orders while holding others in chains.
This blackened sky was no feat of the natural realm I had so naively yearned for.

Humans.

Without a cage like mine, humans had twisted nature’s perfect world into their own disfigured creature.

Their darkness had covered every inch of emerald grass This is being picky, but I think you described someone's eyes as emeralf above. If this is the case, try pick a new adjective here to keep it varied. until only spattered blood remained in vision.
And the colours. The beautiful colours of the flowers, red, blue, and white, are painted on a flag that is trampled in the dust on the side of the road.

Is this — freedom?

For at last, I have seen the freedom for what it is — a monster. A black, smoky monster allowed to permeate every emotion until all that remains is red blood of victory.

Somehow, a cold, logical cage seems only too inviting.

* * *

The bird soars high above me with coffee-brown wings outstretched. Amidst the din of steam engines and clanging metal, my heart is lifted to see her released from her own icy cage.
Time eludes us as I watch it scale the clouds, dive through streams of smoke to find each clear patch of sky, completely unbound by the jailer’s fetters.

My heart stops as my friend is stagnated by a thick haze. Flecks of dirt block my vision as the puffing billy rolls past, clouds billowing out of teetering nostrils.
The train hurtles dangerously into the future, never looking back to see the dark trails it leaves behind.
Disoriented, I peer frantically around for the bird’s small, feathered frame to reappear.

When the mist clears, all that remains is emptied, smoky skies.

Surely it is still basking in the warm embrace of willow fronds? Surely it has not returned to chains of reason?
Running, panting, I return to the village with bated breath. My mind races as red, blue, and white flashes past me in a blur of distorted and undefined shapes.
Yet when I reach the teacher’s house, the bird sits placidly on the cold, metal floor of her cage. I peer with horror into her tiny, yellow eyes.
No longer are they filled with restless pain, a creative yearning to be released from her chains. Now, all I see is a dutiful acceptance — that seems almost to long for the logic and restraint of vertical bars.

Grief is heavy on my tongue as I whisper: “As free as a bird?”

I cannot understand.

I think this piece is WONDERFUL!

I see no reason for this to not be 25/25. In saying this, I don't know your module very well so I can't comment on the requirements there. But the expression of the story, much alike to your expression in an essay, is wonderful. Everything is incredibly clear. You used the coffee-brown expression twice, if not three times. Consider if this is the most expressive way to convey a colour. Otherwise, I want to be incredibly picky and pull this apart so that you can put it back together but I just don't have enough to pick on. This was a wonderful story and I loved reading it, I was so engaged. Everything flowed so smoothly, the plot was set out wonderfully. You are a very skilled writer, do you know that?

Again, I'm sorry I can't help more. I really want to, but I don't know what to say! It's brilliant!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: Lauradf36 on August 04, 2016, 04:56:52 pm
Quote
I see no reason for this to not be 25/25. In saying this, I don't know your module very well so I can't comment on the requirements there. But the expression of the story, much alike to your expression in an essay, is wonderful. Everything is incredibly clear. You used the coffee-brown expression twice, if not three times. Consider if this is the most expressive way to convey a colour. Otherwise, I want to be incredibly picky and pull this apart so that you can put it back together but I just don't have enough to pick on. This was a wonderful story and I loved reading it, I was so engaged. Everything flowed so smoothly, the plot was set out wonderfully. You are a very skilled writer, do you know that?

Again, I'm sorry I can't help more. I really want to, but I don't know what to say! It's brilliant!

Haha thanks so much. I agree about the coffee-brown, I just wanted to create a really clear correlation between the girl & the bird and wasn't exactly sure what symbol to use!
Thanks again for your feedback  ;D
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on August 04, 2016, 05:17:26 pm
Haha thanks so much. I agree about the coffee-brown, I just wanted to create a really clear correlation between the girl & the bird and wasn't exactly sure what symbol to use!
Thanks again for your feedback  ;D

I figured you were trying to do this! Perhaps say something like, "The birds wings were coloured as though coffee had spilt on them" or something like that! That way you are using the imagery, but not being repetitious! :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: kassidyfisher on August 13, 2016, 10:10:08 pm
Is it okay to post my creative here? I am desperate for help, as it only got an 18/25 in the area of science fiction. Is it only 5 posts required for creative feedback? My exam is on monday :(
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: ssarahj on August 14, 2016, 10:48:09 am
Hi! Here is a Life Writing creative that I wrote, and I would love some feedback/marking!

This is the rubric:
In this elective, students explore and evaluate nonfiction texts composed in a range of media
that represent lives or aspects of lives. Texts such as biographies, autobiographies, memoirs and documentaries may record a life story and may at the same time examine the processes and conventions of representing that life or aspects of it. Many examples of life writing address the question of whether
or not the facts, events and experiences of an individual’s life can ever be comprehensively portrayed
in a single text: they explore the diverse ways in which a life can be represented, interpreted and
valued. Although texts within this genre may include fictional elements, they are characteristically nonfictional accounts.

Here is the criteria: (For an A range mark [13-15/15])
* Shows sophisticated ability to shape an original narrative that reflects knowledge and understanding of interpretation/values/progress in the elective
* Demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of the elective
* Displays sophisticated control of language

Response is attached

Thank you in advanced!!



Is it okay to post my creative here? I am desperate for help, as it only got an 18/25 in the area of science fiction. Is it only 5 posts required for creative feedback? My exam is on monday :(

Hey guys! Unfortunately you both haven't met the posting requirements to receive feedback. The post exchange policy is explained here Free Essay Marking Explanation and Policies but in short it's 15 posts per essay/creative, so if you hang around the forums for a bit longer you'll be up to 15 in no time! We're all really keen to help you out so just let us know when you reach the post count and your creative pieces will be marked. Thanks!  ;D
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: heliosmusic on September 14, 2016, 09:28:38 pm
Amazing!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: melprocrastinator on September 14, 2016, 10:00:01 pm
HEY Elyse,
i was wondering, for extension english creative pieces, how sophisticated does the language need to be? Should i be trying to incorporate alot of imagery?
For example, one of my character's is a bit rowdy and "uneducated" so i dont see it fitting to use big words with him.
Also, there is alot of dialogue in my story, do you think thats an issue?

My module is Comedy btw, it presents certain challenges for sure. Although im sure every module does :D

Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 15, 2016, 02:13:34 pm
HEY Elyse,
i was wondering, for extension english creative pieces, how sophisticated does the language need to be? Should i be trying to incorporate alot of imagery?
For example, one of my character's is a bit rowdy and "uneducated" so i dont see it fitting to use big words with him.
Also, there is alot of dialogue in my story, do you think thats an issue?

My module is Comedy btw, it presents certain challenges for sure. Although im sure every module does :D

Hey! I think that you've made the right choice about your rowdy character. So much of characterisation can come from dialogue. One example I always think of is how people tend to call character's parents "mothers" when that's more of a rarity than "mums." It's usually because we like to use our own formal language, even though it doesn't represent the character's communication. So definitely keep the language as you can imagine it coming from the mouth of your character!

As for dialogue.... the problem with a very dialogue-dense story is that it can be monotonous. Of course, if what is being expressed in the dialogue is the opposite of monotonous, you've already counteracted part of that problem. If you're breaking up the dialogue with actions, thoughts, and other physical forms of communication, there shouldn't be an issue. If you think the dialogue is limiting your creative expression (showing off your best stuff to the marker) then reconsider if dialogue is the best way of describing particular parts of the story. Essentially, don't stress that dialogue is too overpowering. Consider more, "is dialogue the best way to convey this section?" And, "As a reader, am I still engaged at this point?"
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: melprocrastinator on September 15, 2016, 04:20:26 pm
Hey! I think that you've made the right choice about your rowdy character. So much of characterisation can come from dialogue. One example I always think of is how people tend to call character's parents "mothers" when that's more of a rarity than "mums." It's usually because we like to use our own formal language, even though it doesn't represent the character's communication. So definitely keep the language as you can imagine it coming from the mouth of your character!

As for dialogue.... the problem with a very dialogue-dense story is that it can be monotonous. Of course, if what is being expressed in the dialogue is the opposite of monotonous, you've already counteracted part of that problem. If you're breaking up the dialogue with actions, thoughts, and other physical forms of communication, there shouldn't be an issue. If you think the dialogue is limiting your creative expression (showing off your best stuff to the marker) then reconsider if dialogue is the best way of describing particular parts of the story. Essentially, don't stress that dialogue is too overpowering. Consider more, "is dialogue the best way to convey this section?" And, "As a reader, am I still engaged at this point?"

I see your point, ill have to take another look at it. Maybe ill post it when i build up  enough "points" Thankyou for all the advice x
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on September 17, 2016, 03:23:04 pm
I see your point, ill have to take another look at it. Maybe ill post it when i build up  enough "points" Thankyou for all the advice x

Whatever way you find creates an engaging, thoughtful, voice in a text, is the best way! My advice is of course given without knowing your story or the voice you are creating. Whatever creates a voice that is accessible and engaging, is the best!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: Lauradf36 on October 03, 2016, 08:01:23 pm
This is my second creative piece that took me ages to write, but I finally got out of writers block today and motored through it! So it is still technically ~in progress~ but if anyone has time to have a read, it'd be cool to get some opinions.
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: ml125 on October 05, 2016, 11:07:14 pm
Here is my creative piece for After the Bomb! This got me a 25/25 in trials, however I'd like to see what areas I could possibly improve on to make sure I can maintain this mark. My objective with this piece was to mirror the 'House Un-American Activities Committee' (HUAC) within the domestic sphere. Is this made obvious enough, or do I need to include further detail? Thanks :)

Spoiler
Compose a piece of original imaginative writing using the following statement as the start of a character’s reflection on an important event in his or her life.

The true enemy is within; I can see that now.

In your response, draw on your knowledge and understanding of After the Bomb. (HSC 2011)


It was the last of the meetings. It had gotten down to one’s words against another’s. Some really ugly business, left a putrid taste in my mouth. Annie had told me what to say. I just had to follow whatever the hell she told me to do and be done with it. I wasn’t in the position to do anything else, really. My track record left me right at the edge of safety. There was a fine line between refuting and reprimanding I’d been accused much too often of crossing; any further and I’d be right in that chair. I’d be in the centre of the room, my existence undermined by the lifeless stares and soulless glares from all directions. Insults hurled at me in such a barrage, too fast for me to understand. Yet, I would know it to be unkind in its nature. Lucky, I’m on the other end of all this. If not, I’d likely perish. My social life, gone. My ‘friends,’ gone. All my life, all I could do was the laundry and the dishes as I dreamt of something greater. Waiting and waiting… for nothing to ever come. There was nothing I would do about it. I, myself, knew for a fact that every Wednesday I’d be sitting right in this very room, spending the day chatting away. I’d never escape. They wouldn’t be so kind as to let me go so soon. Oh, no. Until my skin sags and my curls come undone, this will be my place.

   McCarthy: Now, Is that testimony true?
   Moss: No sir, it is not. Not at any time have I been a member of a Communist Party, and I
   have never seen a Communist card.

Usually, all we’d talked about were trivial matters; our husbands, our husbands’ jobs, our husbands’ money, and what we could get with that money. The television would always be booming in the background, talking of how to spot a Pinko and the right hair products. Same, old. Same, old. Nothing ever really changed. Nothing really could. They would keep going on and on about anything and everything, constantly avoiding our reality. There was no substance in any of this. It was as if they were all afraid of something. I just didn’t know what. No one ever seemed visibly affected by the politics of our society but I knew – somehow it had taken control of our thoughts and actions. At the slightest change in our daily lives – the equilibrium of our little world had distorted our perceptions in such a manner to conform to a lingering fear. They knew nothing.

   McCarthy: You have never seen a Communist card?
   Moss: No sir, I haven’t…

It was a habit of Annie’s to pick on new members of our community, the women at least. I never really minded it, helped me pass the time. Distract me from my misery. A relief from the usual drama. Her newest target was a woman that moved in down the block. Fairly regular, I must say. She never really talked much, always kept to herself. Annie watched her every move, I heard all kinds of things about her. What she was wearing, where she was going, who she was talking to. There was never anything wrong. Yet, it was likely because she wouldn’t consider our company – that’s what drove Annie mad. Every second day she’d go out for lunch with her friends from out of town, perhaps dinner. Anne said she’d been talking about us, conspiring, or something along the lines of it. I thought it was ridiculous. There was nothing I could really do, though. I was the highest of her little lackeys. I just need to keep this act up before my time is up. I just waited for it all to unfold.

   McCarthy: Have you ever attended any Communist meetings?
   Moss: No sir, I’ve never attended any Communist meetings.

Annie somehow took it upon herself to invite the woman over to one of the usual meetings. She accepted. God knows why. She’d turned up in her nicest clothes, yet a bit unruly. Her petticoat stuck out, the fabric a bit tacky – the floral pattern in particular. Her hair simply rested on her shoulders. No curls. Nothing. I could hear the snide remarks, the scoffs of disbelief and the questionable “Who in the world is that?” comments, seeing as she’d been the subject of our discussions over the past few weeks. She simply sat by herself, before being approached by her neighbours on either side. I could see the emptiness in her eyes as she became consumed in conversation, concealed by a false enthusiasm in her expressions. It was loneliness. I would know. She put on a good act, I must say. I applaud her for that. I was probably the only person who could do any better around here. Perhaps Annie.

   McCarthy: Have you ever subscribed to the Daily Worker?
   Moss: No sir, I didn’t subscribe to the Daily Worker, and I wouldn’t pay for it.

She kept coming. I had no idea why. If I were given the chance I’d be out of here. This room is toxic. These conversations are toxic. Yet, this was the only way I could survive suburbia. It was my elixir – to numb the pain of it all. Annie would sit next to me, at the far end of the room, eyeing her down. She’d be criticising the way she dressed and the way she acted. It took a while to get Annie to stop talking about this woman. Most of the time, I’d felt absolutely horrid sitting there. I’d distract her with tea and talk of washing machines. For the most part, it worked. To some extent, at least. I think after a few tries she’d come to realise it. She’d try to lead the conversation back to my dress, my hair and how I was starting to look more and more like that lady. I was simply starting to stop caring. I’d realised it long before, but I never really felt this fear all the other women did. I was indifferent. I feel like it was the same for that new woman. I wouldn’t know, to be sure. Her husband would always drop by to pick her up and walk her home before I got the chance to make conversation, if I was ever given permission to do so. Would anything be different if I had? In the end, there was nothing I could really do but wait until Annie made her move. Then I’d follow her plan, whatever it was. She was about to make her move. I could see it. She’d been spreading all kinds of rumours by now – all sorts. She’d really gone all out this time around. It’s great. I’d be able to save this girl soon enough. I needed to do it. It wouldn’t feel right any other way. I needed her to escape. It wouldn’t be long, now. I could taste the end of it all.

   McCarthy: Now, Mrs. Markward, who was working for the FBI who joined the Communist
   Party under orders from the FBI has testified that while she never met you personally at a
   Communist meeting that your name was on the list of Communists who were paying dues.
   Can you shed any light upon that?
   Moss: No, sir. I don’t even know what the dues are or where they were paid.

It finally came to today. There she was, sat upon that chair. The true enemy is within; I can see that now. Annie told me what to say. She told me what to do. I couldn’t stop her – yet at this point did I really want to? Annie was so easy to fool. I made her get the job done. There was nothing to do – nothing I was willing to do to change any of this. She deviated from the script a bit. It was all fine. I’ve acted enough anyway.A little bit of improvisation would be nothing. It wouldn’t affect the quality of our little performance. The other women caught on. They knew. They accepted it. They went along with it. It was all routine by now. This would happen too often to count. I can’t ever remember what I said. It was a shame, though. This woman didn’t last long. She broke down, tears streaming down her face. For once I could see the life in her eyes. Then, I knew. She was different.
   Oh, I’m sorry. I mistook you for the other women that come and go. My sincere apologies.
For some reason, I’d really hoped for her and I to be similar. I think I just wanted to... You know, be more ‘human.’ She was a genuine one, that lady. There wasn’t much else I could do to help. This was enough. She was out, she would find her happiness elsewhere, soon enough. This was how it was meant to be. All the while, I’ll be stuck here, this room tainted with the staunch smell of perfume, hairspray, the rumours and the lies. Every week I’d be here, talking of my husband, his business. Only to be asked and to ask the same the week next. Really, it was alright… I couldn’t have any better. No, I didn’t deserve better. I have no chance at any better. That was probably it. I’m a rotten case anyway.
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 07, 2016, 11:58:06 am
This is my second creative piece that took me ages to write, but I finally got out of writers block today and motored through it! So it is still technically ~in progress~ but if anyone has time to have a read, it'd be cool to get some opinions.
This is my second creative piece that took me ages to write, but I finally got out of writers block today and motored through it! So it is still technically ~in progress~ but if anyone has time to have a read, it'd be cool to get some opinions.

Hey Laura! So so so sorry this took longer than I hoped to get to you. Here's your feedback, in the spoiler :) (It looks a bit funny because it was copied and pasted from a PDF, which does some weird stuff to formatting! So if I comment on something format related - disregard it if it is because  of the PDF conversion)

Spoiler
“Pull! Pull! Pull!”
The chanting pervades all my senses as my hands slide nervously over the rope.
Perspiration lubricates my fingers, until dark red blood begins to be drawn from my
quivering grasp.
I glance around through the smoky air, my gaze gasping for a sight of clarity.
All that greets me are the beady, black eyes of Jacques Roux. Ooooh I love this name.
Grinning, he gestures upwards at the large, wooden frame of the guillotine looming above
me menacingly.
I cannot wrench my eyes away from the body, abhorrent in its flowery white blouse and
short ballooning trousers though it may be.
It is the hanging, limp limbs that sicken me the most. The same animalistic, lifeless
desperation of the eyes that surpasses all class divisions and cries out to my basest
humanity.
“Well, are you going to pull?” Roux murmurs through clenched teeth. I can feel his hot
breath on the outer surface of my ear as his Herculean frame is illuminated by the
disappearing sunlight.
Breathing deeply, my fingers gear for the thudding drop, my stomach lurching in
preparation for the ghastly release. This is so far, so dark, sinister and really engaging. I'm excited for more!
* * *
Beyond the couchant gendarmes I traverse a long, winding passage cut out of stone. The
sky is dark and awash with sooty clouds as the walls begin to close in with suffocating
ease. The place emanates with smells of rotting flesh and the faintly metallic flavour of
blood that seem to have crawled in a couple of hundred years ago, died without the benefit
of a clergy, and remained there ever since.
As I begin to reach its zenith, bodies clutter the passage, with their brown rotting rags
hanging off shrivelling limbs that extend out to me.
Beside them sit children left in their own waste as tears burn gashes in sooty flesh. oooh, goood one!Grime
and rot festers in their flesh as each fingertip pleads to me for some gentle benevolence.
I know the hunger all too well, but there is a distance between them and my own sturdy
boots.
“I have nothing,” I whisper quietly as I push the hands away.
Wasting women cling like twisted weeds to my ankles, limbs contorted in odd positions
from the tight clothes bearing pale skin. Somehow, the haunting desperation in their darkly
shadowed eyes draws me in.
I know what they request.
Yet the sliver of silver clinking angrily in my pocket turns me onward.
I begin to reach a vague suggestion of the day’s final rays peering through cracks in the
stone-cobbled walls. It illuminates each particle of dust that floats freely before me through
the murky air.
With the light comes a familiar cacophony of shouting piercing the air somewhere in the
distance. The constant rumbles of unhappiness and uncertainty are the perpetual melody
of this city, drowning out the gentle murmur of the River Seine.
Yet the intermingled rose pink and orange flood the sky with glorious light. Surely, with
nature guiding my way, I cannot stumble.
I reach the markets at last, just as the final sellers are beginning to store their produce in
overflowing woven baskets. Tables unending of produce eaten in France?
Before me, a tall man in short trousers and a sweeping blue coat, delicately curved at its
tale, smiles sneeringly and gestures at the empty bench. His basket is laden high with the
afternoon’s still steaming offering of bread. We've got the setting really down pat here. This is what I've got: France, in a past time, classic bakery has some nice bread, set in Paris near the River Seine - great! And this is coming from someone who doesn't know much about Parisian history, so I'm assuming that to your marker this will be even more powerful.
I cannot help but wish that I, too, could be united with such lavish wealth.
I shiver as the air grows colder, and the evening sky begins to groan under the weight of a
steadily appearing black bruise.
Breathing heavily, I press my precious coin into the gnarled hands of a grinning lady. My
eyes graze over the delectable pastries, delicately crafted breads, and suddenly my
stomach is bitten with gnawing pain.
“One loaf, please,” I sigh.
To my horror, the lady shakes her head firmly and presses the silver back in my hand.
“Nine sous,” she croaks, pushing the steaming bread out of my reach.
“That’s half a day’s wage!” I protest. My voice begins to waver — I cannot tell whether for some reason this is sticking out to me as being awkward? Perhaps, "I cannot tell if it is prompted by anger or tears? What do you think? Maybe I'm being fussy, but I know you'd like me to be fussy on little things! This might just be a little irrational on my part. with
anger or tears.
“Unjust, is it not?” A loud voice pierces the tense air, and I turn in astonishment to see a
short, rotund man wearing long, striped trousers and a short-skirted coat. I love, "is it not?" This rhetorical negation works really well to capsure a voice of the era.
“Absolutely, sir,” A capital letter for Sir, usually :) I echo, eyes drinking in his strange attire. I pull my own tattered cloak
closely around my lanky figure.
It is then that I notice the pointed red cap atop his head, and the yellow clogs adorning his
feet.
“Sir, you are of… the Sans-culottes?” I voice as the curiosity boils within me. I can't tell you how much this imagery is exciting me - being wrapped in a coat, suddenly noticing some colourful clogs, this works wonderfully!
The small man smiles then, and grabs my blackened hand with ease.
“Adrien Durand,” I stammer with uncertainty.
“Jacques Roux, of the Enrages faction,” he murmurs, eyes glittering. “Young man, we are
those who will get your bread back from those bastards.”
In one swift movement, he presents to me a pair of striped pants and a shining vermillion
cap. I open my mouth, lips moving in harmony with my steadily beating heart, yet
somehow no sound of acknowledgement escapes.
“Would you care to join us?” he offers with a charming smile. His sagacious black eyes
seem to stare into my very being — yet with their darkly seductive passion, I cannot look
away. You've described this mystique wonderfully.
My mind is swirling. The stars twirl above me in unison, crying out for me to leap into their
secure and warm arms, and the moonlight illuminates the crimson hat I finger gently in my
sooty hands. It doesn't have to be here, but at some point I'd like to know what the hat is made of, it seems to be the only bit of imagery I'm missing. I wouldn't put it here, because by fingering the hat you've already identified a sensory experience, but perhaps later if the hat comes up again, I'd like to know if it's felt, velvet, cotton, whatever it may be. Is it soft? Scratchy? etc
The passionate ambience deepens until the murky air is pervaded by an entrancing,
vermillion glow.
* * *
The sun’s beaming rays are just beginning to unite with the bright azure of the sky as
crowds swarming loudly around the Tuileries Palace. At first I read this as though the clouds were swarming loudly, and I loved it!! What an interesting piece of imagery! The crowds swarming definitely makes more sense, of course! Trees gather us in as the streets
slowly fill with a conglomeration of bodies, young and old, tall and short, all dressed in the
pinstripe pants and pointed red hat of my benefactor.
A statement of change. A statement of oneness for those who had been so long ignored.
It sets my heart alight with a burning fire, a spontaneity, that can be extinguished by no
Girondin or upper class statesman or merchant.
Roux stands closely by my side now, somehow reaching to place a firm hand on my
shoulder, intertwined between the perspiring bodies and rumbling voices.
“Be prepared, young man,” he murmurs in my ear. “It may become passionate.” This is some V for Vendetta type stuff! I love your use of passionate here. Not violent, not crazy, but just full of passion. Amazing. Excellent word cgoice.
“Passionate?” I inquire with a grin, readjusting my short coat with a flick of the wrist. I am
overwhelmed by the energy that instantly flows through my veins.
“Indeed,” he smiles, as his eyes glint with the dark orbs glowing brightly as the moon. “For
at last you and I, your family, your neighbourhood — we will all be avenged.”I also love the smiles that follow the mention of passion - you've really captured the way of thinking in this story. You've captured an essence of human experience.
There is a strength to this crowd that I cannot explain. I am sure every stone, every
building must feel the vigour beginning to fill the gardens. The Palace seems almost to
quake before us with its statuesque towers twisting as they reach the slowly clouding
horizon.
“Give us our bread!” a shrill cry sounds. One Sans-culotte has leapt into the icy air, raising
his red cap to the sky as his lithe body quakes with a fury that courses through my own
body.
At once, an alarm sounds loud and clear through the crowd. My limbs are rendered
motionless with terror until I feel a hard tug on my arm.
“Hurry, Durand,” mutters Roux, his brow furrowed and darkening by the second, his dark
eyes not wavering from the Palace. I am pulled suddenly A general rule of thumb is to not use the word "suddenly" without considering if it is truly the best word for the piece. Suddenly, is a missed opportunity for description of a swift and often unexpected change of events. Consider if you can extend this, or if suddenly is the right word. I'm not suggesting that it needs to be changed - but prompting you to consider this as an opportunity. into a swarming mass of people,
almost beast-like as it raises its collective fist in deafening, thunderous rebellion.
Palms begin to drum on the sturdy wooden doors of the Palace. The building seems to
shake and quiver with energy matching my own as the cry is raised to the heavens.
“Girondins out! Girondins out! Enrages in!”
Everything becomes motionless for an instant except the rushing blood my head, the
sternly beating heart beneath my short-skirted coat, angrily pleading for equality and
justice.
With a fiery passion beginning to stir in my chest, I find my own voice joining the cry.
“Give us unity!” my shaking voice calls into the throng.
From a distance, I perceive tall men in frilled cream blouses and tight white pants pushed
outwards into the crowd. Sans-culottes surround them with foaming, ravenous mouths,
arms tearing at their helpless limbs like wild animals on a hunt for their pray.
All I can see is a flurry of red, blue, and white blocking out the fiercely beaming rays of
sunshine. We do not notice that the sky has begun to seep, water gently falling from the
oncoming purple bruise, almost as if weeping for past. omg. Are you incredibly proud of this line? I would be!
“Girondins out! Girondins out!” comes the cry once more.
At once, their is another tug on my arm. Roux’s eyes are alight as his mouth moves
incomprehensibly.
“You will do it?” he roars above the tumultuous shouts of the crowd. It moves as one,
singular beast, pushing me ever closer to Roux’s Herculean figure. Pushing a Girondin
toward me like a piece of meat, blue coat in tatters and stained with congealed patches of
someone’s blood as it floats behind him.
I open my mouth to reply, brow furrowed in confusion.
But the roar of the crowd acquiesces for me. Their eyes gleam in delight at the sight of his
withering frame submitted to pain they had known too long.
“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”
I am pushed towards a towering wooden object. The beams are splattered with a dark
crimson stain of blood, and my stomach churns at the sudden knowledge of my role.
The rope is placed in my hand, the body stomped to a lying position, hands tied behind his
back as the crowd laughs raucously at his pain.
It pains my heart to see the eyes eager for suffering of those they are divided from, just
like the very enemy they had aimed to subvert.
Roux grins at me and claps me on the back cheerily. This time, his smile seems alive with
a savage passion that sends a chill through my body. I love that you've changed it from an exciting passion, to savagery.
“Pull! Pull! Pull!” comes the cry now, lifted up to the sky as it seeps with rain. Fingers
pointed in my direction as the body hangs limply over the wooden beams, the sharp edges
of the rope cutting my blackened fingers.
“Well, are you going to pull?” whispers Roux with a sinister smile. His Herculean figure
suddenly seems to dwarfs the one hanging beneath us. I love that we've been taken back to the start. Love. It.
The one with eyes seeming to plead desperately for the human underneath.
Just like in the slums I call home, I know what he requests.
He requests to be treated not as the enemy. For me to recognise our common humanity, to
forget that my trousers are striped, and his are not.
I turn to Roux and shake my head.
“No,” I say firmly.
The crowd groans angrily beneath me, throws tattered flags of red, blue, and white at my
feet. Roux’s dark eyes grow stormy and cold, his mouth forming a hard, disconcerting line.
I take off the red cap and rest it at his feet.
To edit/other ideas
- Symbolism
- guillotine - more throughout?
- red
- imagination & nature as the catalyst for social change: interjections of
imagining…?
- Flashback to childhood - “one life”?
- include
- a Romantic poet/revolutionary’s words? (rousseau etc?)
- a newspaper article/announcement - “anarchy ensues in…”

I can't believe this was the product of a push through writer's block! This is simply astounding. I loved reading this, it was a total pleasure. I don't know enough about the Romantic period but I adore this because it took  me on a journey of passion, cause, emotion, fight and fall. Your vocabulary is ON POINT - just the right amount of sophistication paired with ordinary discussion to allow for an accessible piece. You also capture the voice and times of the era well. The cream frilled blouses, to the red white and blue, to the desperate limbs, the savagery, all of it spoke to me in a very real way. You should be stoked.

In terms of elevating the work now - I see that you've got some suggestions down the bottom about a newspaper article, a poet's words, etc. With the correct execution, this could be exactly what you need to give your creative piece that extra grip to nail the demands of the module. Always be aware with extension that the stimulus could change everything. They could specify you write a particular text type as well. So as much as I want to tell you to replicate this almost exactly in an exam, I'm of course aware of the demands of the course and suggest you consider it as well. I also knew perfectly well what was happening with the hanging before it had even been said, which is a credit to you as a writer. I'm reading this on a train with a lady behind me watching Dr Phil without earphones, and I was still so enthralled in every single sentence you had written, even the parts that were shown and not told. So this is a real credit to your work.

Where to from here for you? Have you adjusted this since I've looked at it or are you intending to keep it this way, and just prepare applying to a stimulus?

Again, you've done a stellar job here.
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: Lauradf36 on October 07, 2016, 05:41:27 pm
Quote
Where to from here for you? Have you adjusted this since I've looked at it or are you intending to keep it this way, and just prepare applying to a stimulus?

Again, you've done a stellar job here.

Thank you so much!! I'm so glad to hear it came out well. And emotionally moving people with words is always the best feeling ever :)
 
I haven't really looked at it since I'm focussing on advanced right now, but I will probably do some tightening up & editing before the exam.

Thanks for taking a look! :D
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on October 07, 2016, 11:42:07 pm
Hi everyone! So exams are right around the corner, and unsurprisingly, there are a HEAP of people wanting feedback on 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 creatives you would like marked. Note that this does not apply to creatives before this point, meaning no one is in post debt. It just means that feedback 'costs more' for the next week. We appreciate your understanding :)


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 :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: kb123 on October 08, 2016, 12:05:15 pm
Hi!
I was just wondering if I should keep Extension 1 English right until up to the HSC next year. It is my 11th unit and my other subjects are Physics, Chemistry, Ext 2 Maths and English Advanced. I am considering dropping it after trials since I don't really like writing essays or creative writing... Like I ranked 2nd this year in Ext English (4th in Advanced), but in Phys and Maths Ext 1 I ranked 1st (and I would've have topped Chem if I hadn't f***** up one test damn it aha)...
What do you think?
Is it worth putting in another heap of effort (I had spent nearly the same amount of time for Ext English as I had for Adv, and it's worth half the units...) just for 1 safety unit that might not even count? Or should I keep it so half of my advanced mark is replaced by a hopefully higher extension mark?
 

Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: ssarahj on October 08, 2016, 12:16:12 pm
Hi!
I was just wondering if I should keep Extension 1 English right until up to the HSC next year. It is my 11th unit and my other subjects are Physics, Chemistry, Ext 2 Maths and English Advanced. I am considering dropping it after trials since I don't really like writing essays or creative writing... Like I ranked 2nd this year in Ext English (4th in Advanced), but in Phys and Maths Ext 1 I ranked 1st (and I would've have topped Chem if I hadn't f***** up one test damn it aha)...
What do you think?
Is it worth putting in another heap of effort (I had spent nearly the same amount of time for Ext English as I had for Adv, and it's worth half the units...) just for 1 safety unit that might not even count? Or should I keep it so half of my advanced mark is replaced by a hopefully higher extension mark?

In my opinion, if you don't love it, drop it.
Extension English is a big commitment, it takes a lot of time and a lot of effort, since its completely different from Advanced. And since you don't like writing essays and creative writing it doesn't make sense to put yourself through an extra 2 pieces of writing in the HSC.

At the end of the day you've done FANTASTIC in everything else in Prelim, (and you're doing Extension 2 Maths) so if you keep that up marks and scaling aren't going to be an issue for you at all. Some people like having a 'safety unit' but in the end it can be a waste of time.

Minimise your work load, enjoy what you're studying and you'll maximise your results  ;D

Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: kb123 on October 08, 2016, 01:27:24 pm
In my opinion, if you don't love it, drop it.
Extension English is a big commitment, it takes a lot of time and a lot of effort, since its completely different from Advanced. And since you don't like writing essays and creative writing it doesn't make sense to put yourself through an extra 2 pieces of writing in the HSC.

At the end of the day you've done FANTASTIC in everything else in Prelim, (and you're doing Extension 2 Maths) so if you keep that up marks and scaling aren't going to be an issue for you at all. Some people like having a 'safety unit' but in the end it can be a waste of time.

Minimise your work load, enjoy what you're studying and you'll maximise your results  ;D

Awesome, thanks for the advice :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 09, 2016, 10:40:50 am
Here is my creative piece for After the Bomb! This got me a 25/25 in trials, however I'd like to see what areas I could possibly improve on to make sure I can maintain this mark. My objective with this piece was to mirror the 'House Un-American Activities Committee' (HUAC) within the domestic sphere. Is this made obvious enough, or do I need to include further detail? Thanks :)


I'm so keen to read this! I love domestic sphere stories, they genuinely make me excited! I only knew a little bit about HUAC in my studies of Ext 1, so that should be enough to have it run through here :)

Spoiler
t was the last of the meetings. It had gotten down to one’s words against another’s. Some really ugly business, left a putrid taste in my mouth. Annie had told me what to say. I just had to follow whatever the hell she told me to do and be done with it. I wasn’t in the position to do anything else, really. My track record left me right at the edge of safety. There was a fine line between refuting and reprimanding I’d been accused much too often of crossing; any further and I’d be right in that chair. I’d be in the centre of the room, my existence undermined by the lifeless stares and soulless glares from all directions. Nice rhyme! Works really well. Insults hurled at me in such a barrage, too fast for me to understand. Yet, I would know it to be unkind in its nature. Lucky, I’m on the other end of all this. If not, I’d likely perish. My social life, gone. My ‘friends,’ gone. All my life, all I could do was the laundry and the dishes as I dreamt of something greater. Waiting and waiting… for nothing to ever come. There was nothing I would do about it. I, myself, knew for a fact that every Wednesday I’d be sitting right in this very room, spending the day chatting away. I’d never escape. They wouldn’t be so kind as to let me go so soon. Oh, no. Until my skin sags and my curls come undone, this will be my place. I love that curls being undone is on similar level to skin sagging - lol! love it!

   McCarthy: Now, Is that testimony true?
   Moss: No sir, it is not. Not at any time have I been a member of a Communist Party, and I
   have never seen a Communist card.

Usually, all we’d talked about were trivial matters; our husbands, our husbands’ jobs, our husbands’ money, Great use of identifying that the money belongs to the husband. and what we could get with that money. The television would always be booming in the background, talking of how to spot a Pinko and the right hair products. Same, old. Same, old. Nothing ever really changed. Nothing really could. They would keep going on and on about anything and everything, constantly avoiding our reality. There was no substance in any of this. It was as if they were all afraid of something. I just didn’t know what. No one ever seemed visibly affected by the politics of our society but I knew – somehow it had taken control of our thoughts and actions. At the slightest change in our daily lives – the equilibrium of our little world had distorted our perceptions in such a manner to conform to a lingering fear. They knew nothing.

   McCarthy: You have never seen a Communist card?
   Moss: No sir, I haven’t…

It was a habit of Annie’s to pick on new members of our community, the women at least. I never really minded it, helped me pass the time. Distract me from my misery. A relief from the usual drama. Her newest target was a woman that moved in down the block. Fairly regular, I must say. She never really talked much, always kept to herself. Annie watched her every move, I heard all kinds of things about her. What she was wearing, where she was going, who she was talking to. There was never anything wrong. Yet, it was likely because she wouldn’t consider our company – that’s what drove Annie mad. Every second day she’d go out for lunch with her friends from out of town, perhaps dinner. Anne said she’d been talking about us, conspiring, or something along the lines of it. I thought it was ridiculous. There was nothing I could really do, though. I was the highest of her little lackeys. I just need to keep this act up before my time is up. I just waited for it all to unfold.

   McCarthy: Have you ever attended any Communist meetings?
   Moss: No sir, I’ve never attended any Communist meetings.

Annie somehow took it upon herself to invite the woman over to one of the usual meetings. She accepted. God knows why. She’d turned up in her nicest clothes, yet a bit unruly. Her petticoat stuck out, the fabric a bit tacky – the floral pattern in particular. Her hair simply rested on her shoulders. No curls. Nothing. I could hear the snide remarks, the scoffs of disbelief and the questionable “Who in the world is that?” comments, seeing as she’d been the subject of our discussions over the past few weeks. She simply sat by herself, before being approached by her neighbours on either side. I could see the emptiness in her eyes as she became consumed in conversation, concealed by a false enthusiasm in her expressions. It was loneliness. I would know. She put on a good act, I must say. I applaud her for that. I was probably the only person who could do any better around here. Perhaps Annie.

   McCarthy: Have you ever subscribed to the Daily Worker?
   Moss: No sir, I didn’t should this say, "haven't?" or is it intentionally "didn't" because he's about to say "I didn't, until..."subscribe to the Daily Worker, and I wouldn’t pay for it.

She kept coming. I had no idea why. If I were given the chance I’d be out of here. This room is toxic. These conversations are toxic. Yet, this was the only way I could survive suburbia. It was my elixir – to numb the pain of it all. Annie would sit next to me, at the far end of the room, eyeing her down. She’d be criticising the way she dressed and the way she acted. It took a while to get Annie to stop talking about this woman. Most of the time, I’d felt absolutely horrid sitting there. I’d distract her with tea and talk of washing machines. For the most part, it worked. To some extent, at least. I think after a few tries she’d come to realise it. She’d try to lead the conversation back to my dress, my hair and how I was starting to look more and more like that lady. I was simply starting to stop caring. I’d realised it long before, but I never really felt this fear all the other women did. I was indifferent. I feel like it was the same for that new woman. I wouldn’t know, to be sure. Her husband would always drop by to pick her up and walk her home before I got the chance to make conversation, if I was ever given permission to do so. Would anything be different if I had? In the end, there was nothing I could really do but wait until Annie made her move. Then I’d follow her plan, whatever it was. She was about to make her move. I could see it. She’d been spreading all kinds of rumours by now – all sorts. She’d really gone all out this time around. It’s great. I’d be able to save this girl soon enough. I needed to do it. It wouldn’t feel right any other way. I needed her to escape. It wouldn’t be long, now. I could taste the end of it all.

   McCarthy: Now, Mrs. Markward, who was working for the FBI who the use of "who" twice is a bit awkward, try rephrasing this. joined the Communist
   Party under orders from the FBI has testified that while she never met you personally at a
   Communist meeting that your name was on the list of Communists who were paying dues.
   Can you shed any light upon that?
   Moss: No, sir. I don’t even know what the dues are or where they were paid.

It finally came to today. There she was, sat upon that chair. The true enemy is within; I can see that now. Fabulous! Annie told me what to say. She told me what to do. I couldn’t stop her – yet at this point did I really want to? Annie was so easy to fool. I made her get the job done. There was nothing to do – nothing I was willing to do to change any of this. She deviated from the script a bit. It was all fine. I’ve acted enough anyway.A little bit of improvisation would be nothing. It wouldn’t affect the quality of our little performance. The other women caught on. They knew. They accepted it. They went along with it. It was all routine by now. This would happen too often to count. I can’t ever remember what I said. It was a shame, though. This woman didn’t last long. She broke down, tears streaming down her face. For once I could see the life in her eyes. Then, I knew. She was different.
   Oh, I’m sorry. I mistook you for the other women that come and go. My sincere apologies.
For some reason, I’d really hoped for her and I to be similar. I think I just wanted to... You know, be more ‘human.’ She was a genuine one, that lady. There wasn’t much else I could do to help. This was enough. She was out, she would find her happiness elsewhere, soon enough. This was how it was meant to be. All the while, I’ll be stuck here, this room tainted with the staunch smell of perfume, hairspray, the rumours and the lies. Every week I’d be here, talking of my husband, his business. Only to be asked and to ask the same the week next. Really, it was alright… I couldn’t have any better. No, I didn’t deserve better. I have no chance at any better. That was probably it. I’m a rotten case anyway.

The writing of this piece is beautiful, everything flowed wonderfully and I truly enjoyed it all! The incorporation of HUAC in a domestic sphere was really fresh and I enjoyed it, I definitely think markers will too.

Now I'll give my opinion as a reader. I really thought the protagonist was a communist. I think the ending was a tiny bit of a let down and not because it didn't reveal her communism, but because it suddenly just got real! Throughout we had been suppressing humanism, reality, a vocation, and instead it was all caught up in superficial nonsense that passed the time, gave some women a purpose for the state, etc. Earlier on, you mentioned how the state had become such a tight knit little community that even without paying attention to politics, it was certain that something was rocking underneath the surface. That's great - an excellent touch to the ways of thinking! I'd be inclined to bring that into the ending. Because, I'm also confused about the chair. I thought it was an electric chair for suspected communists, but then she said, "She was out, she would find her happiness elsewhere, soon enough." and it made me think - wait, is the chair just a questioning chair? I assumed that these women reported the victimised women to the authorities and they were questioned, and then killed in an electric chair, and the women's club all gathered around to watch their dutiful death. But just that little sentence implies that the woman lives on and finds happiness elsewhere, which makes me think that perhaps she didn't die in the chair.
Ok I just gave you a lot of convoluted thoughts and I hope it doesn't frighten you because I promise all of these things are easy to fix, it's just about identifying them and making clear links in the writing. The actual plot is wonderful, the idea of a domestic version of HUAC is GREAT! It's just the ending that I want to iron out to make it super wholesome.

So to summarise:
-Not sure about the purpose of the chair, I thought it was to kill suspected communists.
-I think a little more about the way that these stupid, petty pastimes of reporting suspected communists and making rumours about them - a little more about the way that this is a response to an unsafe world. They were trapped in suburbia, they needed to make the best of it, and reporting communists was doing their little part for the greater good. That'll touch on the way of thinking a bit more - tying together suburbia, communism, patriotism and the Cold War tensions circling about.
-The character's intentions and existence needs to be identified really clearly in the conclusion. Is she just musing over the hilariously vacuous existence? Is she deep down planning a coup and waiting for the moment she can depose Annie? Is she literally just a 2D woman, who loves gossip and just plays her cards right? Is she actually a communist? All of these motives are completely acceptable - I think the ending just needs to clarify further exactly who she is and why she is there. That'll be the "ahh" moment. Perhaps a bit of tongue-in-cheek would be great for the ending?

I know I've just given you so many convoluted ideas, so I am totally open to you posting back and ironing out anything I've said that doesn't make sense. You should be immensely proud of this, it is definitely worth the top mark - I'm just trying to iron out any doubts a marker could have so that you can maintain that level! :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: ml125 on October 09, 2016, 12:32:26 pm
I know I've just given you so many convoluted ideas, so I am totally open to you posting back and ironing out anything I've said that doesn't make sense. You should be immensely proud of this, it is definitely worth the top mark - I'm just trying to iron out any doubts a marker could have so that you can maintain that level! :)
Thank you so much!! Everything you've said has made complete sense – I honestly wasn't so definite about my creative since I wasn't sure about whether or not I'd be able to portray it correctly. I'll definitely go over it to refine everything you've said :D

Also, my initial intention with the chair was for it to be for questioning - however reading over it now I realise how the idea of liberation doesn't fit in with that idea either. I'd considered it to be an electric chair but I wasn't sure how I would portray it that way. For this portrayal, where I have "She was out, she would find her happiness elsewhere, soon enough." would I be able to replace it with something along the lines of this?

"She would find her happiness elsewhere, soon enough," is what I told myself in an attempt to paint my actions as righteous. I knew it wasn't true. She was gone - for good.
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 09, 2016, 04:05:26 pm
Thank you so much!! Everything you've said has made complete sense – I honestly wasn't so definite about my creative since I wasn't sure about whether or not I'd be able to portray it correctly. I'll definitely go over it to refine everything you've said :D

Also, my initial intention with the chair was for it to be for questioning - however reading over it now I realise how the idea of liberation doesn't fit in with that idea either. I'd considered it to be an electric chair but I wasn't sure how I would portray it that way. For this portrayal, where I have "She was out, she would find her happiness elsewhere, soon enough." would I be able to replace it with something along the lines of this?

"She would find her happiness elsewhere, soon enough," is what I told myself in an attempt to paint my actions as righteous. I knew it wasn't true. She was gone - for good.

That sounds like a perfect replacement for the other sentence! Really really good. To me, the chair was an electric chair all along! It seemed very American. I'm glad it makes sense - and I definitely think that the sentence there you've suggested also ties in really well with the protagonist's own way of thinking, the consoling of herself even though she knew it was wrong deep down!

Great work! :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: Blissfulmelodii on October 17, 2016, 01:59:28 pm
Hey Elyse!
Just wondering if i could get some feedback on my ext 1 creative piece whenever you can. My study this year was of Science fiction which personally I hate and can probably be reflected in my piece as I know it's not really the best. My teacher has told me that the plot is kind of cliche but I plan to use this piece for my HSC anyway (just because I could not bring myself to write another science fiction story) and was just wondering how well you thought it could do?

Spoiler
Synopsis: In a totalitarian society set 100 years in the future where cold hard logic is the only accepted expression of personality, a brother and sister grow up with a passion for creativity which becomes a secret that they must keep between themselves or be executed and used as an example for the rest of society. When political strife arises the two set out to hack into the government's system and globally share musical performance videos which becomes a means of uniting a torn and dystopian society which has long since forgotten the importance of personal expression.

A fine line between right and wrong
“Father you cannot be teaching her this, if anyone was to find out we would all suffer! What you are doing is completely dangerous and I will not have my daughter involved!”

“If you remember correctly, you loved performing. You used to play for your mother and I after supper every evening.”

“Times have changed. We are no longer living in a free will society, this isn’t the 21st century anymore and it certainly isn’t the same government as when I was growing up. She is my daughter and what I say goes, you need to respect my wishes. No more music, understand?”

There was a brief silence to what I assumed meant an untold agreement, my heart dropped and I felt tears welling up in my eyes. A moment passed and then I heard shuffling coming from the other side of the door, i quickly ran upstairs and hurried down the hall towards my room, closing the door softly behind me, hoping I hadn’t been caught eavesdropping. 


“- he is so cool and I’m so jealous he has the latest holographic 360 watch! I’ve been asking my parent for months to get it for me-“
“Kayla are you okay?”

When my group of my friends noticed that I had stopped, they joined me and followed the direction of my eyes. The remarkable lines and intense detail in the image painted on the white brick wall of the school's entrance captivated everyone. None of us in our lifetimes had ever seen such colours and such beauty, in fact none of us had ever seen a piece of art before, not even in the history books. I remember my grandfather telling me about it, I believe they called it graffiti art and it was apparently very big in the 21st Century. As my eyes continued to wonder over the image, taking in as much detail as I could, the bell rang shattering our moment of wonder and in a daze we were swept by the tide of students into the school grounds, my friend Laura guiding me as I stumbled along continuing to stare.

xxx

“You sound really good.”

My head whipped up and my heart began to beat rapidly, my eyes widened and my brain began to swirl with a million thoughts as I attempted to come up with an explanation.

“I’m not going to tell anyone.”

The breath I hadn’t known I had been holding was released as I took in that small sentence. I didn’t speak – I didn’t know what to say – what could I say? I had just been caught in a crime, something so remarkably illegal that death was the penalty. How are you supposed to respond?
He lifted his finger and swept out of the room the bottom of his coat flying behind him, my eyebrows creased as I continued to sit in silence, utterly confused and slightly afraid. He returned a moment later holding his computer, software manufacturer and what looked like our grandfathers old sketching pad. He silently set the pad in front of me, I placed the acoustic guitar next to me and lifted the pad, opening the pages and flipping through. The further I went the further a sense of familiarity washed over me, I stopped on the last page and gasped. I looked up at my brother, eyes wide and mouth open.

“I have my own secrets to keep.”

“The image on the wall, that was you.” He nodded, a small, nervous smile on his face. “What you do is amazing, I’d give anything to be able share my music with the world”

“Maybe you can…”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me along beside him, I had no idea where he was taking me. He lead me down the hall and into the basement. He released the hold he had on my hand and began to move things around the room like a tornado sweeping through. I stood in the centre spinning in circles watching his every move, still completely confused. The darkness from the lack of windows and the cobwebs and layer of dust that covers every inch of the room made for an eerie atmosphere. He placed a chair in the centre and ran back upstairs leaving me to stare behind. He returned with my guitar and pushed me down on the chair, placing the guitar in my lap.

“Play something.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

I didn’t hesitate, it was like my body had a mind of its own, the music flowed naturally filling the empty silence of the room and in that moment nothing mattered. Getting caught didn’t cross my mind, in that single space of time, it was just me and my guitar. When the song faded out, the silence returned, I looked back over to my brother who was wildly smiling.

“Be prepared to silence the world.”
xxx

As I made my way to school the following week, it felt like any other ordinary day. I met up with Laura and the rest of the group and we stopped off at our usual coffee house before making a beeline to the school gates. The idle chatter between us seized as we noticed a commotion up ahead. The front of the school’s entrance was packed with people. We ran the rest of the way to school and stopped just short of the back of the group and that was when I allowed my other senses to work. Everything was quiet for a split second before I began to hear my voice but it wasn’t me. And it hit, that was what Johnny had meant by silencing the world. He had recorded me and used his computer engineering skills to send the video viral. A sense of elation spread through every cell of my being, he had made the impossible happen and my one desire come true. Ultimately he had today the best day of my life and I couldn’t ask for more.  Suddenly my phone began to ring, I parted from the crowd and quickly answered my parents call but I really wished I hadn’t.

“Kayla, you need to come home right now! It's your brother. He's been taken!”
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 17, 2016, 05:16:19 pm
Hey Elyse!
Just wondering if i could get some feedback on my ext 1 creative piece whenever you can. My study this year was of Science fiction which personally I hate and can probably be reflected in my piece as I know it's not really the best. My teacher has told me that the plot is kind of cliche but I plan to use this piece for my HSC anyway (just because I could not bring myself to write another science fiction story) and was just wondering how well you thought it could do?


Hey! A lot of people feel this way about Science Fiction :( I didn't study it, thankfully, but I did dystopian texts for Ext 1 in Year 11 so I have some ideas about the topic :)

Spoiler
Synopsis: In a totalitarian society set 100 years in the future where cold hard logic is the only accepted expression of personality, a brother and sister grow up with a passion for creativity which becomes a secret that they must keep between themselves or be executed and used as an example for the rest of society. When political strife arises the two set out to hack into the government's system and globally share musical performance videos which becomes a means of uniting a torn and dystopian society which has long since forgotten the importance of personal expression.

A fine line between right and wrong
“Father you cannot be teaching her this, if anyone was to find out we would all suffer! What you are doing is completely dangerous and I will not have my daughter involved!”

“If you remember correctly, you loved performing. You used to play for your mother and I after supper every evening.”

“Times have changed. We are no longer living in a free will society, I think this is too much telling and not enough showing :) this isn’t the 21st century anymore and it certainly isn’t the same government as when I was growing up. She is my daughter and what I say goes, you need to respect my wishes. No more music, understand?”

There was a brief silence to what I assumed meant an untold agreement, my heart dropped and I felt tears welling up in my eyes. A moment passed and then I heard shuffling coming from the other side of the door, i quickly ran upstairs and hurried down the hall towards my room, closing the door softly behind me, hoping I hadn’t been caught eavesdropping. 


“- he is so cool and I’m so jealous he has the latest holographic 360 watch! I’ve been asking my parent for months to get it for me-“ A holographic 360 watch seems like something in 20 years time for me, not 100 years. If you're trying to replicate the entering of a conversation, perhaps use an ellipsis rather than a hyphen at the start?
“Kayla are you okay?”

When my group of my friends noticed that I had stopped, they joined me and followed the direction of my eyes. The remarkable lines and intense detail in the image painted on the white brick wall of the school's entrance captivated everyone. None of us in our lifetimes had ever seen such colours and such beauty, in fact none of us had ever seen a piece of art before, not even in the history books. I remember my grandfather telling me about it, I believe they called it graffiti art and it was apparently very big in the 21st Century. Again, telling instead of showing :) You've showed in the start of the sentence, so it's suitable to drop this bit :)As my eyes continued to wonder over the image, taking in as much detail as I could, the bell rang shattering our moment of wonder Two uses of "wonder" in a sentence - consider adjusting.and in a daze we were swept by the tide of students into the school grounds, my friend Laura guiding me as I stumbled along continuing to stare.
xxx

“You sound really good.”

My head whipped up and my heart began to beat rapidly, my eyes widened and my brain began to swirl with a million thoughts as I attempted to come up with an explanation.

“I’m not going to tell anyone.”

The breath I hadn’t known I had been holding was released as I took in that small sentence. I didn’t speak – I didn’t know what to say – what could I say? I had just been caught in a crime, something so remarkably illegal that death was the penalty. How are you supposed to respond?
He lifted his finger and swept out of the room the bottom of his coat flying behind him, my eyebrows creased as I continued to sit in silence, utterly confused and slightly afraid. He returned a moment later holding his computer, software manufacturer and what looked like our grandfathers old sketching pad. He silently set the pad in front of me, I placed the acoustic guitar next to me and lifted the pad, opening the pages and flipping through. The further I went the further a sense of familiarity washed over me, I stopped on the last page and gasped. I looked up at my brother, eyes wide and mouth open.

“I have my own secrets to keep.”

“The image on the wall, that was you.” He nodded, a small, nervous smile on his face. “What you do is amazing, I’d give anything to be able share my music with the world”

“Maybe you can…”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me along beside him, I had no idea where he was taking me. He lead me down the hall and into the basement. He released the hold he had on my hand and began to move things around the room like a tornado sweeping through. I stood in the centre spinning in circles watching his every move, still completely confused. The darkness from the lack of windows and the cobwebs and layer of dust that covers every inch of the room made for an eerie atmosphere. He placed a chair in the centre and ran back upstairs leaving me to stare behind. He returned with my guitar and pushed me down on the chair, placing the guitar in my lap.

“Play something.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

I didn’t hesitate, it was like my body had a mind of its own, the music flowed naturally filling the empty silence of the room and in that moment nothing mattered. Getting caught didn’t cross my mind, in that single space of time, it was just me and my guitar. When the song faded out, the silence returned, I looked back over to my brother who was wildly smiling.

“Be prepared to silence the world.”  Love this!!!!
xxx

As I made my way to school the following week, it felt like any other ordinary day. I met up with Laura and the rest of the group and we stopped off at our usual coffee house before making a beeline to the school gates. The idle chatter between us seized as we noticed a commotion up ahead. The front of the school’s entrance was packed with people. We ran the rest of the way to school and stopped just short of the back of the group and that was when I allowed my other senses to work. Everything was quiet for a split second before I began to hear my voice but it wasn’t me. And it hit, that was what Johnny had meant by silencing the world. He had recorded me and used his computer engineering skills to send the video viral. A sense of elation spread through every cell of my being, he had made the impossible happen and my one desire come true. Ultimately he had today the best day of my life and I couldn’t ask for more.  Suddenly my phone began to ring, I parted from the crowd and quickly answered my parents call but I really wished I hadn’t.

“Kayla, you need to come home right now! It's your brother. He's been taken!”

I really like this story, I got chills at the end. I didn't predict the brother, I predicted she was going to be in trouble. So I enjoyed the twist! I think there are a few incidents of you explicitly telling what was happening when I could have worked it out anyway (I pointed them out) - so just remember, there is a balance you have to find here with a scifi story. I think to elevate your work, you should add in some jargon. Something that's true to your own world that you've created. I think you might find that making up some simple terminology (something for big brother, maybe something for intelligencia, something like that) will elevate your story into a new time!!

You should be proud of this! I didn't think it was cliche :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: Blissfulmelodii on October 17, 2016, 06:42:28 pm
Hey! A lot of people feel this way about Science Fiction :( I didn't study it, thankfully, but I did dystopian texts for Ext 1 in Year 11 so I have some ideas about the topic :)

Spoiler
Synopsis: In a totalitarian society set 100 years in the future where cold hard logic is the only accepted expression of personality, a brother and sister grow up with a passion for creativity which becomes a secret that they must keep between themselves or be executed and used as an example for the rest of society. When political strife arises the two set out to hack into the government's system and globally share musical performance videos which becomes a means of uniting a torn and dystopian society which has long since forgotten the importance of personal expression.

A fine line between right and wrong
“Father you cannot be teaching her this, if anyone was to find out we would all suffer! What you are doing is completely dangerous and I will not have my daughter involved!”

“If you remember correctly, you loved performing. You used to play for your mother and I after supper every evening.”

“Times have changed. We are no longer living in a free will society, I think this is too much telling and not enough showing :) this isn’t the 21st century anymore and it certainly isn’t the same government as when I was growing up. She is my daughter and what I say goes, you need to respect my wishes. No more music, understand?”

There was a brief silence to what I assumed meant an untold agreement, my heart dropped and I felt tears welling up in my eyes. A moment passed and then I heard shuffling coming from the other side of the door, i quickly ran upstairs and hurried down the hall towards my room, closing the door softly behind me, hoping I hadn’t been caught eavesdropping. 


“- he is so cool and I’m so jealous he has the latest holographic 360 watch! I’ve been asking my parent for months to get it for me-“ A holographic 360 watch seems like something in 20 years time for me, not 100 years. If you're trying to replicate the entering of a conversation, perhaps use an ellipsis rather than a hyphen at the start?
“Kayla are you okay?”

When my group of my friends noticed that I had stopped, they joined me and followed the direction of my eyes. The remarkable lines and intense detail in the image painted on the white brick wall of the school's entrance captivated everyone. None of us in our lifetimes had ever seen such colours and such beauty, in fact none of us had ever seen a piece of art before, not even in the history books. I remember my grandfather telling me about it, I believe they called it graffiti art and it was apparently very big in the 21st Century. Again, telling instead of showing :) You've showed in the start of the sentence, so it's suitable to drop this bit :)As my eyes continued to wonder over the image, taking in as much detail as I could, the bell rang shattering our moment of wonder Two uses of "wonder" in a sentence - consider adjusting.and in a daze we were swept by the tide of students into the school grounds, my friend Laura guiding me as I stumbled along continuing to stare.
xxx

“You sound really good.”

My head whipped up and my heart began to beat rapidly, my eyes widened and my brain began to swirl with a million thoughts as I attempted to come up with an explanation.

“I’m not going to tell anyone.”

The breath I hadn’t known I had been holding was released as I took in that small sentence. I didn’t speak – I didn’t know what to say – what could I say? I had just been caught in a crime, something so remarkably illegal that death was the penalty. How are you supposed to respond?
He lifted his finger and swept out of the room the bottom of his coat flying behind him, my eyebrows creased as I continued to sit in silence, utterly confused and slightly afraid. He returned a moment later holding his computer, software manufacturer and what looked like our grandfathers old sketching pad. He silently set the pad in front of me, I placed the acoustic guitar next to me and lifted the pad, opening the pages and flipping through. The further I went the further a sense of familiarity washed over me, I stopped on the last page and gasped. I looked up at my brother, eyes wide and mouth open.

“I have my own secrets to keep.”

“The image on the wall, that was you.” He nodded, a small, nervous smile on his face. “What you do is amazing, I’d give anything to be able share my music with the world”

“Maybe you can…”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me along beside him, I had no idea where he was taking me. He lead me down the hall and into the basement. He released the hold he had on my hand and began to move things around the room like a tornado sweeping through. I stood in the centre spinning in circles watching his every move, still completely confused. The darkness from the lack of windows and the cobwebs and layer of dust that covers every inch of the room made for an eerie atmosphere. He placed a chair in the centre and ran back upstairs leaving me to stare behind. He returned with my guitar and pushed me down on the chair, placing the guitar in my lap.

“Play something.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

I didn’t hesitate, it was like my body had a mind of its own, the music flowed naturally filling the empty silence of the room and in that moment nothing mattered. Getting caught didn’t cross my mind, in that single space of time, it was just me and my guitar. When the song faded out, the silence returned, I looked back over to my brother who was wildly smiling.

“Be prepared to silence the world.”  Love this!!!!
xxx

As I made my way to school the following week, it felt like any other ordinary day. I met up with Laura and the rest of the group and we stopped off at our usual coffee house before making a beeline to the school gates. The idle chatter between us seized as we noticed a commotion up ahead. The front of the school’s entrance was packed with people. We ran the rest of the way to school and stopped just short of the back of the group and that was when I allowed my other senses to work. Everything was quiet for a split second before I began to hear my voice but it wasn’t me. And it hit, that was what Johnny had meant by silencing the world. He had recorded me and used his computer engineering skills to send the video viral. A sense of elation spread through every cell of my being, he had made the impossible happen and my one desire come true. Ultimately he had today the best day of my life and I couldn’t ask for more.  Suddenly my phone began to ring, I parted from the crowd and quickly answered my parents call but I really wished I hadn’t.

“Kayla, you need to come home right now! It's your brother. He's been taken!”

I really like this story, I got chills at the end. I didn't predict the brother, I predicted she was going to be in trouble. So I enjoyed the twist! I think there are a few incidents of you explicitly telling what was happening when I could have worked it out anyway (I pointed them out) - so just remember, there is a balance you have to find here with a scifi story. I think to elevate your work, you should add in some jargon. Something that's true to your own world that you've created. I think you might find that making up some simple terminology (something for big brother, maybe something for intelligencia, something like that) will elevate your story into a new time!!

You should be proud of this! I didn't think it was cliche :)

Makes complete sense, good thing extension isn't for another 2 weeks hahaha plenty of time to fix this up.  Thank you so much!!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 17, 2016, 07:21:00 pm
Makes complete sense, good thing extension isn't for another 2 weeks hahaha plenty of time to fix this up.  Thank you so much!!

Not a worry! If you want to run with the jargon idea, feel free to run it past me if you want opinions on what is too far fetched and what makes a good word, etc. :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: Blissfulmelodii on October 17, 2016, 07:23:27 pm
Not a worry! If you want to run with the jargon idea, feel free to run it past me if you want opinions on what is too far fetched and what makes a good word, etc. :)

I most definitely will! The idea of making words up may seem thrilling but I find it completely daunting lol
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: biancadunn_ on October 24, 2016, 05:00:05 pm
Hi!!
This is my creative writing piece for the Romanticism elective. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!!
Thank you  :) :)

Dearest May,

It takes every strength within my soul to grasp such an undoing letter with the same love as I did before. I hoped to pen this letter to you, my sweetest love, in the solace of the English afternoon sunset, but rather I find myself in the anguish of fervent rainfall, attempting to evade the watery bullets as they target the marks on my page and provoke the bleeding ink to run. It is only when I receive your letters that I allow myself to become one with nature and transcend to a world beyond machinery and production. A world I knew once before. A world that knew me. I only hope this letter will fill my loneliness as I attempt to become apart of the soft roots under me and draw my connection closer to you. However as I write these words I can’t help but realise the dwindling connection I have with my world as it falls away. The dwindling connection I share with you my dear. It feels like an eternity between each moment I share with what is left of the world I once knew; a longer eternity than before. And so on this ninth day of August, I close my eyes and I wonder.

I brushed the corners of your letter with my fingertips and breathed in what could be the last physical traces of your scent from the boundless escapes within your piece. But do not be mistaken my love, they are embedded within me, and from them I will never travel far. It is truly magnificent my dearest May, the worlds you are able to so eloquently create from the confines of a home we once shared together. It makes me long for such a connection with my previous world. Within your script you have captured the very essence of my current landscape and my separation from this world which encompasses me daily. Please do tell me my love, how you understood the image of my town? How you could capture the rolling hills which have been forced to become one with the red brick establishments, which have stolen the beauty of the land. How you could capture the thick smoke which puffs from the chimneys like billies and joins with the now poisoned sky. I do so hope you do not tell me you have; as I have, faced your impending nightmare of this working world.

I began work two months ago this Sunday, but none of the sort you could imagine my fairest Lady. Rather, the prints of my hands have been stained with the strenuous fruits of our labour and the tears which cross my face at the agonising reality of my days. Truly I tell you, the smoke is a dear friend of my lungs and the thick black stain on my hand, as dark as the hull on the barge from which your farewelled me; cannot be removed. Perhaps not without the tender care of your touch to remove it. Or maybe even just the tender care of your touch to return home too. Truly I ask of you, to please not curse at my reluctance to bring you aboard with me. My sorrow eats at me deeper as the days blend into one long lifetime. I could not introduce you to an unnatural world away from the beauty of our dear farm in Saville.

We are alone here, however. Each day I stop and stare at the frame of the opening to what they call here a factory. It is my barnhouse, but not the kind you know dear May, it is cold and damp, sterile. It smells of old oils and the beaten sorrows of fathers who worked here; whose cries echoed and become trapped within the hollow metal foundations. In the privacy of my own mind, I consider it’s opening as the passage to my impending nightmare. It haunts me in my dreams, a hellish kind of prison I am bound to both day and night.  The previous tortures scream at me as I touch my hands to metal. I never wish such a life upon you. I hope your days are filled with the wonders of our previous world, are enhanced with the blessed mysteries performed by the secret ministry of the wind dancing across the blooming blocks of green on our trees.

I miss the dear rolling fields of green like a spool on your threaded wheel. I felt at one with the mountains, danced on by the midday sun, dressed with the snow of the winter solstice and washed in the autumn showers. Here, there is no such thing. You would hate it here. My mind is filled with awe at every thought of you May. It entrances me in every consideration. My old landscape encompassed you. Without such, my life is soulless. Man was not made to be alone.  It is our achilles heal, our strongest weakness, that we are nothing without the most basic human interactions.

This arduous labour draws to it a ferocious kind of master, one that is cold and ruthless; driven by the shallow gratification of wealth and power. Ours is a time of servitude and despair. The other men mirror my internal mourning for the delights of our families and the flourish splendours of the spring time heat. Day in, day out, my dearest love, we are choked by the chimney’s of change and progress which in each turn of the gears corrupt the lungs and souls of humanity; as did power corrupt the souls of those above us.

But my sweetest love, all I can seem to ponder is the corrupted love of ours, tainted by our separation and the harsh reality of our very days, alone.  Love is merely the absence of hate and yet all that is absent is the truest of true loves, ours. Once I was defined by my love for you, but my world has encompassed me and sent me to a realm of new perspective. Love and consolation are not one my dear. It was through my love for you, that I was consoled. My love for you is no longer merely an emotional reciprocation of your love, but rather based on your greatness; the life you lead; my desire for you. I imagine a corrupted landscape. If our love for one another is based on the lives we lead in our physical world, evergreen and built through us; then why can all I see are ruins and a destroyed world. I cannot help but allow my mind to ponder around this very world, analysing the rolling rubble rather than the rolling hills, the broken foundations and wonder if maybe my dearest May, all we are is but the same. Rubble, broken foundations. Please in your next letter tell me it is not so. That I am wronger than wrong. That you too are consoled by my love. The detriment of our physical environment matches with the detriment of our love and our emotional landscape and that is a world that I do not wish to live in.

I beg of you to remember that I work in the name of you sweetest May. So I may come home to you one day and bear children with our love. So we may escape in the boundless lands and become one with the mountains which stare at us when we wake and when we rest, and the trees that sustain themselves for our living breath.
I must rest now, to arise in the cool dawn of morrow. Please hold me closer to you now more than ever, so I may feel your warmth through the kindness of nature.
Look at the moon my dearest may, so for a brief moment we may be holding our gaze through the same moon; and the boundless escapes of the sky.

Yours,
Thomas ‘Saville’ Easton
   xx
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 24, 2016, 10:09:56 pm
Hi!!
This is my creative writing piece for the Romanticism elective. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!!
Thank you  :) :)

Heya! My thoughts are in bold font throughout, and then some comments at the end :)
Spoiler
Dearest May,

It takes every strength within my soul to grasp such an undoing letter with the same love as I did before. I hoped to pen this letter to you, my sweetest love, in the solace of the English afternoon sunset, but I'd start this as a new sentence, it adds suspense and prevents it from being an overall too-long sentence. rather I find myself in the anguish of fervent rainfall, attempting to evade the watery bullets as they target the marks on my page and provoke the bleeding ink to run. It is only when I receive your letters that I allow myself to become one with nature and transcend to a world beyond machinery and production. A world I knew once before. A world that knew me. I only hope this letter will fill my loneliness as I attempt to become apart of the soft roots under me and draw my connection closer to you. However as I write these words I can’t help but realise the dwindling connection I have with my world as it falls away. The dwindling connection I share with you my dear. It feels like an eternity between each moment I share with what is left of the world I once knew; a longer eternity than before. And so on this ninth day of August, I close my eyes and I wonder. Loving this so far!

I brushed the corners of your letter with my fingertips and breathed in what could be the last physical traces of your scent from the boundless escapes within your piece. But do not be mistaken my love, they are embedded within me, and from them I will never travel far. It is truly magnificent my dearest May, the worlds you are able to so eloquently create from the confines of a home we once shared together. It makes me long for such a connection with my previous world. Within your script you have captured the very essence of my current landscape and my separation from this world which encompasses me daily. Please do tell me my love, how you understood the image of my town? How you could capture the rolling hills which have been forced to become one with the red brick establishments, YASSSwhich have stolen the beauty of the land. How you could capture the thick smoke which puffs from the chimneys like billies and joins with the now poisoned sky. I do so hope you do not tell me you have; as I have, faced your impending nightmare of this working world.

I began work two months ago this Sunday, but none of the sort you could imagine my fairest Lady. Rather, the prints of my hands have been stained with the strenuous fruits of our labour and the tears which cross my face at the agonising reality of my days. Truly I tell you, the smoke is a dear friend of my lungs and the thick black stain on my hand, as dark as the hull on the barge from which your farewelled me; cannot be removed. Perhaps not without the tender care of your touch to remove it. Or maybe even just the tender care of your touch to return home too. Truly I ask of you, to please not curse at my reluctance to bring you aboard with me. My sorrow eats at me deeper as the days blend into one long lifetime. I could not introduce you to an unnatural world away from the beauty of our dear farm in Saville.

We are alone here, however. Each day I stop and stare at the frame of the opening to what they call here a factory. It is my barnhouse, but not the kind you know dear May, it is cold and damp, sterile. It smells of old oils and the beaten sorrows of fathers who worked here; whose cries echoed and become trapped within the hollow metal foundations. In the privacy of my own mind, I consider it’s opening as the passage to my impending nightmare. It haunts me in my dreams, a hellish kind of prison I am bound to both day and night.  The previous tortures scream at me as I touch my hands to metal. I never wish such a life upon you. I hope your days are filled with the wonders of our previous world, are enhanced with the blessed mysteries performed by the secret ministry of the wind dancing across the blooming blocks of green on our trees.

I miss the dear rolling fields of green like a spool on your threaded wheel. Good contextual link. I felt at one with the mountains, danced on by the midday sun, dressed with the snow of the winter solstice and washed in the autumn showers. Here, there is no such thing. You would hate it here. My mind is filled with awe at every thought of you May. It entrances me in every consideration. My old landscape encompassed you. Without such, my life is soulless. Man was not made to be alone.  It is our achilles heal, our strongest weakness, that we are nothing without the most basic human interactions.

This arduous labour draws to it a ferocious kind of master, one that is cold and ruthless; driven by the shallow gratification of wealth and power. Ours is a time of servitude and despair. The other men mirror my internal mourning for the delights of our families and the flourish splendours of the spring time heat. Day in, day out, my dearest love, we are choked by the chimney’s of change and progress which in each turn of the gears corrupt the lungs and souls of humanity; as did power corrupt the souls of those above us.

But my sweetest love, all I can seem to ponder is the corrupted love of ours, tainted by our separation and the harsh reality of our very days, alone.  Love is merely the absence of hate and yet all that is absent is the truest of true loves, ours. Once I was defined by my love for you, but my world has encompassed me and sent me to a realm of new perspective. Love and consolation are not one my dear. It was through my love for you, that I was consoled. My love for you is no longer merely an emotional reciprocation of your love, but rather based on your greatness; the life you lead; my desire for you. I imagine a corrupted landscape. If our love for one another is based on the lives we lead in our physical world, evergreen and built through us; then why can all I see are ruins and a destroyed world. I cannot help but allow my mind to ponder around this very world, analysing the rolling rubble rather than the rolling hills, the broken foundations and wonder if maybe my dearest May, all we are is but the same. Rubble, broken foundations. Please in your next letter tell me it is not so. That I am wronger than wrong. That you too are consoled by my love. The detriment of our physical environment matches with the detriment of our love and our emotional landscape and that is a world that I do not wish to live in.

I beg of you to remember that I work in the name of you sweetest May. So I may come home to you one day and bear children with our love. So we may escape in the boundless lands and become one with the mountains which stare at us when we wake and when we rest, and the trees that sustain themselves for our living breath.
I must rest now, to arise in the cool dawn of morrow. Please hold me closer to you now more than ever, so I may feel your warmth through the kindness of nature.
Look at the moon my dearest may, so for a brief moment we may be holding our gaze through the same moon; and the boundless escapes of the sky.

Yours,
Thomas ‘Saville’ Easton
   xx

I hardly commented throughout the story and that is simply because I was just taken on a journey the entire way through. I was really following the story closely and emotionally. You've certainly captured the language of the Romantic period really well, and channelled in on nature and love as a muse. I didn't study romanticism, so I'm not sure which other conventions you are or aren't ticking. I can say, that you've created a wonderful voice. It was really authentic and smooth, and the narration was conveyed beautifully because of that. This comment could be ignorant because I didn't study the course - but, would your creative be lifted by references to romantic scholars/philosophical notions? I'm only suggesting this because I read a creative that was about a young girl who learned to think in ways outside of the romantic, strict, notions her father taught. So, I'm wondering if that is something you'd be interested in to elevate the work - bringing in a philosophical dimension? Again, take this with a grain of salt because I studied ATB and not romanticism, but overall, I think this was really great!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: biancadunn_ on October 27, 2016, 10:59:31 pm
I hardly commented throughout the story and that is simply because I was just taken on a journey the entire way through. I was really following the story closely and emotionally. You've certainly captured the language of the Romantic period really well, and channelled in on nature and love as a muse. I didn't study romanticism, so I'm not sure which other conventions you are or aren't ticking. I can say, that you've created a wonderful voice.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read it and let me know your thoughts! I did a lot of research and spent a lot of time developing the character's voice so I'm really glad it's payed off and you were able to follow along the way you did (especially because you did ATB!) I love that you were able to feel as strongly as I do about this story. I'll definitely take on your advice and incorporate a romantic scholar, I had been trying to think of all different things to add in but couldn't think of anything. I think that'd work really well and is such a great idea, thank you! :) xx
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 28, 2016, 03:30:19 pm
Thank you so much for taking the time to read it and let me know your thoughts! I did a lot of research and spent a lot of time developing the character's voice so I'm really glad it's payed off and you were able to follow along the way you did (especially because you did ATB!) I love that you were able to feel as strongly as I do about this story. I'll definitely take on your advice and incorporate a romantic scholar, I had been trying to think of all different things to add in but couldn't think of anything. I think that'd work really well and is such a great idea, thank you! :) xx

So stoked to help! You have done a wonderful job with the piece, you must feel really proud. The scholar or something of that nature has potential to really lift the work :)

Best of luck!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: cmbarnes on October 29, 2016, 01:27:31 pm
Hi!!
This is my creative writing piece for the Romanticism elective. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!!
Thank you  :) :)


I love it B! (Not stalking you I swear  ;D) X
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 29, 2016, 03:27:22 pm
I love it B! (Not stalking you I swear  ;D) X

You're so full of the ATAR Notes spirit :) :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 30, 2016, 06:56:36 pm
hello! :) I was wondering if someone could please have a looked at my creative and give me some feedback? I do Module C- Elective 2 Language and Gender. I can see that my story is nowhere near the standard it should be for extension :( But with the exam tomorrow, I realise that it's too late to worry bout it so I was wondering if you could give me some pointers on how to fix this up and push it into a B range or so? THankyou so much! :)

Hey! What did you think of Language and Gender? It looks like a super interesting mod/elective!

Here's some feedback in bold font:
Spoiler
Fresh garlands of white jasmines, yellow and orange chrysanthemums and red roses hung, weaved across the hallway. Chairs covered in rich, red silky material were arranged in meticulous circles around the hall. The loud chanting of Vedic mantras could barely be heard above the chatter of the guests as they caught up. Screaming little children ran around the hall, playing hide-and-seek with the tail ends of the women’s saris, occasionally running to the entrance where a mini mountain of sugar crystals lay on a brass plate.  Wonderful - so much rich imagery. The colours are so vibrant here.
Meera, a young girl, of thirteen years, stood smiling on the stage, surrounded by a flock of women gushing over her. Though she didn’t understand why a celebration had to be held to mark her coming of age, she didn’t question what was happening and obeyed all the instructions she was given. That was the one thing she had observed from the puberty ceremonies she had attended- the girl’s only responsibility was to smile and look pretty.
Amidst the hustle and bustle of the festivity, Rani, Meera’s mother stood near the periphery of the stage, leaning against a pillar coated in cheap metallic paint. Her face glowed with a sense of achievement yet the long look of her eyes spoke of haunt almost.
The haunt soon crept over the woman’s tender face. Her daughter’s body no longer ceased to be an object. Her daughter was now a decorated object, fixed and identical to the determined shape of a traditional Indian woman. And as a mother, she had done nothing to stop that.
She glanced over the stage, where her mother stood besetting over Meera, as proud as a peacock. Love this. Rani’s breath fell short for a moment as she recalled her own mother’s quest to objectify her.
***
Rani had awoken to the rambunctious blasting of the auto rickshaw’s horn that day. The sound of her mother’s chappals slamming against the linoleum tiles had warned the twenty-year-old that her mother was heated. The door adorned with mango leaves and neat lines of sandalwood flung open, letting in Indian sun’s amber tinged rays which bled like fire, before it was slammed shut.
“WHY Rani? Why are you like this? Why are you doing this to me?” yelled Rani’s mother, frustrated. “Every girl in this town has gotten her period. I'm wondering - is this the best language to use? Would they says menses, menstruation, bled, etc? Is "period" colloquial Western terms? Even the babies you carried have now had their ceremonies. Yet you …” she paused, pacing to the window to shut it to ensure their neighbours wouldn’t hear the conversation.
“You’re twenty donkey years of age and you’re still yet to hit puberty.” Dejected, the woman slumped down against the pillar, with her small head in her hands. “People are asking Rani; I can’t do this. A daughter yet to hit puberty is worse that a daughter that eloped with a boy from a different caste. At least people will say that daughter is a female. You ... I don’t know any more Rani ... I … I… I… really don’t know.”
Her mother’s words and the silence crept onto through or under? I think this works nicer with "poison" because I imagine poison as a liquid, so this brings the imagery of it running through her veins. Rani’s skin like poison.
For a moment, everything stopped. Then slowly, her mother’s words and the silence crept through the Rani’s skin like poison, seeping into her blood, turning it cold.
Still faced, Rani had motionlessly walked out to the tea stall nearby. She reached into the fourth plastic jar and picked out a biscuit. Handing the owner a few paisa’s, she gently hummed along to the yesteryear melody playing from the stall owner transistor radio, picturing the actress dancing in the movie. She wondered how the actresses did it. How they performed so … desirably feminine. Explain their movements - soft elbows, raised chins, subtle smiles?
Lost in her own thoughts, Rani solemnly walked back home. 
“Aii Rani! Raaanii!”
Startled, Rani turned around to locate where the sound was coming from. A lanky boy seemed to be the one calling her. Stopping, Rani gestured ‘what?’ As the boy came closer, Rani recognised the boy to be Shekar, from the neighbouring town who had tried to speak to her on numerous occasions.
“What, do you think you’re Aishwarya Rai or something? Do you think you’re that beautiful that all the boys in town will chase after you like dogs?” asked Shekar, rather timidly. “The men know of your problem- so be a good little girl and accept my proposal,” he demanded, smirking before riding off on his cycle.
Rani walked up to the terrace that night. Surrounded by various pots of blooming flowers, she laid down on the yoga mat. She looked up at the night sky which resembled a blank ocean, blanketed by a canopy of shining stars. Not a single star looked odd. Each shone in the same way, creating a perfect uniformity- which Rani desperately yearned for.
***
As Rani looked back at the stage to see the ladies doting on Meera, she felt relief. She was thankful that her daughter wouldn’t be ostracised like she had been, by the very women who stood proudly beside Meera.
Rani melancholically reminisced the trip she had made as a twenty-one-year-old to her mother’s native village. The names, the gossip, the slurs and the curses. It had hurt; to hear such things from her own relatives. Day by day, she was forcibly transformed.
They had taught her how to speak; how to walk; how to talk and the list went on. When they realised that she was inept to conventional femininity, Rani was told to act. “Pretend it’s a performance.”
The women had succeeded. They had managed to mould Rani into shape. Yet Rani stood on the stage today, feeling defeated and depleted. What little she had, she had lost. And today she merely became just another mother. Just another strand of hair that could be destroyed in one go.


* are the hyphens needed?

I think that this is actually a really wonderful piece - the impact of gender is so clear. This if the first piece from this elective I've given feedback on (I've been so excited for one!), so I don't have a lot to compare to in terms of what the best creatives look like. But, I do think it's wonderful. You've really planted the female experience into a cultural experience - and that's powerful. I don't know if this is a suggested thing for your elective, is it suggested to compare male and female experiences? The menstruation thing is powerful, it brings in not only the experience of the 20 year old, but also the way that the mum experiences her gender.

I love your reflection at the end - although I don't understand the last bit about the hair?

I think it's ironic that she wants to be amongst the uniformity of the stars, yet by being a girl, she is just a part of a plain platform: the same archetype repeated over and over. That's powerful- and I think you could emphasise it a little more even! :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: bholenath125 on November 15, 2016, 05:20:01 pm
How long would it typically take for the creative to get marked?
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: jamonwindeyer on November 15, 2016, 05:34:43 pm

How long would it typically take for the creative to get marked?

Normally between 24-48 hours, allow more during busy times like half yearly exams and stuff like that! ;D
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: QC on February 07, 2017, 12:15:54 am
Hi, I was reading the HSC EE1 Creative question for ATB and I was thinking wth. How on earth would you use a person from your prescribed text as a character if you pre-prepared a creative without someone from a prescribed text. I'm assuming that was like 99.999% of the candidature, what could anyone have done? Just write an entirely new creative on the spot?
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on February 07, 2017, 02:04:34 am
Hi, I was reading the HSC EE1 Creative question for ATB and I was thinking wth. How on earth would you use a person from your prescribed text as a character if you pre-prepared a creative without someone from a prescribed text. I'm assuming that was like 99.999% of the candidature, what could anyone have done? Just write an entirely new creative on the spot?

Extension 1 creative writing questions in the HSC are notorious for causing you to have to change important elements of your prepared creative! It's all about being able to adapt - it isn't enough to have a prepared piece for Extension 1, the standard is higher in this course. Of course, prepared pieces are wonderful, but only if you are willing to adapt enormous sections of your work. It could be that the question forces you to change your setting entirely, or it could be that you need to adjust your characters - or hell, even your plot or text type! It's sad news that I deliver, Extension 1 creative writing requirements in the HSC are difficult.

I had a prepared speech, and in the lead up to the exam I looked at all the past papers and prepared adjusting me story as much as possible. Testing out that flexibility before the exam is super important for Extension! I hate that I can't offer you fool-proof advice, and that's because Extension 1 isn't fool proof. It's really tricky! Perhaps the more alternate endings you can prepare, the better. Or, alternate beginners. Flexibility is key, and that comes with being a confident writer, and being confident with the era you're writing about!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: carolinewang206 on March 19, 2017, 01:36:27 pm
how many creatives do you recommend having prepared? I have 2 but at the moment one is way better than the other and its the one that I wrote for half yearlies.

What are your thoughts?
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on March 19, 2017, 08:46:19 pm
how many creatives do you recommend having prepared? I have 2 but at the moment one is way better than the other and its the one that I wrote for half yearlies.

What are your thoughts?

In AOS, I recommend only one and having it very adaptable - like preparing alternate endings and what not! But In E1, I see why students would be interested in preparing two texts. The creative prompts in the HSC are notoriously difficult to prepare for so maybe you'd have better luck adapting if you have two to choose from. However, I only prepared one! It's really about what will make you feel most confident in the lead up to the exams. If you prepare one, and then the day before the exam you can see yourself panicking and reaching for another creative, then save yourself the stress and prepare that creative from early on. But, if you think you can predict you'll feel safe with the one, then go for it :) Being so early in the year, you have the luxury to plan out what you'll commit yourself to! But in the end, y'know, towards the final exams, it's far more limiting what you can apply yourself to. So make the call now :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: Lizzy999 on May 02, 2017, 04:46:17 pm
Hey!

I do After the Bomb. I am working on three creative writing pieces and am not very happy with any of them. All feedback welcome!

Thanks!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: bsdfjnlkasn on May 26, 2017, 09:18:17 pm
Hey there!

I'm just working on the beginning of a creative writing piece about post-WWII Japan (not assessed or anything, but would like to produce something i'm proud of) and was wondering if I could get some feedback on the introduction. The prompt is detailed in the attachment  8)

I'm thinking of structuring the piece in 3 fragments where the first and last will both be set in the remains of Hiroshima, as if continuations of one another. The middle section will probably involve some scene at home as it'll allow me to examine US influences after they occupied Jap, in particular changing gender roles and intergenerational conflict (which i've tried to hint at in the beginning). This will help me weave in a discussion of guilt as I can capture the youths' resent (and general disillusionment) for older generations as they were thought to have "wasted" the lives of the younger generations in the war efforts (a common theme in Ishiguro's An Artist of the Floating World). Wow, maybe I could include a diary entry, but that might restrict how well I can exhibit the creative part of creative writing. A diary entry will probably just tell too much - thoughts?

I'm having the most difficulty with establishing a consistent voice that elaborates on the setting to capture the despairing mood without telling too much. Let me know if you get lost when reading - I know I definitely have a few convoluted/unnecessary sentences and I'm finding it difficult to streamline them but still communicate the same meaning. So, if you could suggest some alternate ways of writing these sentences, or suggest ways of improving what seems unnaturally phrased/difficult to read I'd really appreciate it. This is by no means a refined piece but i'd like to get the foundations set before I pursue any further writing. If any ideas spark for new direction of plot, I'll definitely love to hear your suggestions, because as you can probably tell, I haven't got a solid vision yet and am very flexible at this stage ;D

Thank you so much! (I'm happy to give 15 posts for this :D)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: bananna on June 17, 2017, 08:24:53 pm
Hi Elyse!

This is my creative for Ways of thinking- After the Bomb.

I'm not sure if what I've written makes sense or if there are too many time shifts/ flashbacks.
Or, if my ending should be made clearer.
Also, do you see this as a character or a plot based text?
AND (sorry for so many questions) is the bit about the pamphlet confusing? Should I introduce it earlier?


I'm freaking out because I feel like the writing is a bit confusing or I've attempted to portray a conceptually difficult idea haha


Spoiler
A gust of wind tousled Valeriya's brown locks as she traipsed along the ill-lit alley. The young woman stood paralysed when she heard deep voices and laughter in the distance. She looked up at the starless night sky—not even the lustre of the moon could break through the impervious mask. She thought back one week—when the darkness signified pleasure...
*
The lights dimmed and the fluttering of Tchaikovsky’s flutes echoed throughout the theatre. Valeriya looked up at her father; he grinned back at her. The curtains revealed a familiar setting; a white tree decorated with candles, and a group of characters lining the stage. The Nutcracker was her favourite show; to watch it with her ever-busy father made it even more special. As the characters leaped on the staccato, Valeriya's leg bounced in time too; as the dancers extended their arms in third position, a smiling Valeriya mimicked them in the balcony.

The ballerinas moved with unbending spines as if they were puppets, wowing the crowd. The sudden diminuendo caused Valeriya to lean onto the railing, anticipating the mice. Instead, gun-wielding men leaped on-stage, and pirouetted.

The crowd was in awe.

Valeriya cocked her head to the right, confused. This isn’t part of the story.

In the fog appeared a dancer with a Kennedy face mask and the expletive ‘Kapitalist’ branded across his chest. The audience chortled; Valeriya felt a black cloud hover ominously over her head. She looked to her father who applauded the genius of the modification, while her fingers tingled, gripping the sides of her seat. Soldiers brandishing bayonets marched forward, battling the Capitalists, while the audience hollered their support of the Red Stars. Valeriya clutched her arms with both hands and cowered into her father’s shoulder. The audience cheered when Kennedy was beheaded, while Valeriya’s stomach dropped.

 She shut her eyes and imagined her late mother reciting the bedtime story:

“The nutcracker turns into a handsome prince who whisks Clara away to his kingdom.”

But the nutcracker turned into a communist leader, presenting the ballerina his collection of Capitalists’ heads. 

“Snowflakes dance around them and the new prince and princess embrace.”

Blood-red tutus encircled the prince and princess.

Valeriya distracted herself by listening to the conversation of the couple behind her, “How wonderful does that uniform look? Look at the huge flag! We must get something like that for outside the house!”

But what about the dancing? The music…they don’t care.

She wanted to scream and shout at the top of her lungs.

She didn’t utter a word.
 
Valeriya knew Communism was the right way—father told her and he never lies! But no one even watched the dance—they watched the politics.

*


Now cowering behind a bench, legs shaking, her life stuffed inside a raggedy backpack, Valeriya felt pathetic.

Should I leave? I must leave!
Why am I doing this? Why not? 
I can’t leave. I can.


Valeriya squinted; making out two silhouettes belonging to men with rifles slung across their bodies. They guarded the wall that separated capitalism from communism; private from public. She didn't understand it like she understood dance--she didn't understand anything like she understood dance. All she knew was that her country wanted to restrict her dancing and she needed to escape.

She inched closer, seeing the two figures engaged in conversation. Valeriya locked her gaze on a nearby shrub and scurried to find sanctuary behind it. She steadied her breathing and focussed on being still. Noxious fumes made their way to Valeriya’s nose—Belomorkanal cigarettes. She covered her mouth muffling her coughs as the toxins settled in her lungs. She was reminded of home—the soldiers smoked the same cigarettes as her father. The father who would be disappointed his daughter ran away from her problems. Would he even miss me? The memory transported her to when she was a child…


*


Young Valeriya crept up to her father’s office, a small gift in hand. Some residual smoke hung in the air, shifting like ghosts in the hallway. She heard haughty voices babbling on and hearty, sporadic laughter. For the first time the door was slightly ajar, so she peered into the room full of a party of suited men hunched over a table strewn with papers, cigarettes and cigars. Her father’s distinct voice emerged from the babbling, asking if they should “sparen” a fellow member or accuse him; a chorus of voices imparted their opinions. Valeriya inched forward, causing a creaking from the door. Twenty pairs of eyes met hers. The fuming father plodded to the door, his eyes never leaving the girl. “You know you can’t be in here” his eyes said.

The door slammed shut in her face.

Her dark lashes brimmed with tears; all she wanted was to wish her papa a happy birthday…


*

 
She didn’t feel safe in the night-time; she never did. Her father always said the capitalists capture young people at night time and make them suffer. Valeriya shuddered…is he right? I don’t see any Capitalists? Did he…lie? No—he can’t lie…he’s papa!

After deliberating for minutes, she decided her father exaggerated the truth.

Valeriya hummed the melodic tune of Copeland’s Orchestral Suite, yearning to dance. She longed the day she could dance to Copeland in front of the world—she had hidden the tapes from her father. But as long as he was a Communist, she would stay dreaming. 

She reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, but instead felt a crumpled paper. She unfolded it and instinctively held it against her chest. She scanned her surroundings and opened the pamphlet once again, running her cold fingers over the course, discoloured edges of the letter. She felt the creases, fluffy from being folded and unfolded so many times. The paper was soft to the touch while the words in the slightly worn blue ink hardened her heart. What she held in her youthful hands was a powerful weapon; a priceless weapon; she held the power to end a life. If only she had realised that sooner.

If only she had realised that if she had dropped the pamphlet, someone would pick it up. If only she had realised that that person would be beaten and taken away. If only she had realised how serious it was. If only…

“Begleitien Sie uns,” Valeriya read aloud the only words on the pamphlet which was littered with Capitalist symbols. She scoffed; why would I want to join you? So, you can fight with another country and destroy my art? So you can make my country think its citizens are turning against them?

Valeriya shuddered at the thought of her actions costing someone’s freedom, or even life. That was why she had to escape.

She was being robbed of her life—robbed of her freedom to dance.

 Valeriya shoved the decrepit pamphlet back into her pocket and sighed. She looked up; and saw the two soldiers deeply engaged in conversation. She spotted a dingy area hidden by a heap of rubbish. It was close to the guards but she had to move soon. Valeriya took a deep breath, stretched her legs, and scampered to the spot. The putrid odour of rotting scraps stained her clothes and the darkness engulfed her.

She felt as vulnerable as she did the day she tried to make a difference; the day she tried to change the world. When the lilting strains of Clair de Lune played and Valeriya swiftly leaped and performed multiple pirouettes on pointe, emphasising her precise landing with strong arms and elegant upper body movement. When she pushed the gun away and picked up flowers instead. When the thing that motivated her were the voices telling her the French styles and composers were inferior, that we use our prowess as dancers not for its beauty but for Communism—for politics. When her final fouette ended Valeriya’s routine and she concluded with reverence, and as her chest rose and fell, the throng of spectators stayed silent. The darkness engulfed the frail light pointed towards her just as the night continued stealing the light. When the silence lingered in the air, when her father rose in disgrace and the whispers grew to loud conversation. When she felt like a white skull, eaten by weedy greens. When someone shouted “Kapitalist!” and shortly afterwards, the entire audience began to chorus.   

Valeriya yearned the freedom to choose what music to listen to and what style to dance in. She yearned emancipation from politics. She yearned the West.

Valeriya stayed behind the rubbish heap, remembering her father’s disappointment. Remembering the way he looked at her, and the way he spat on her. Remembering that as the night wore on, a much deeper, chilling darkness wrapped around her and recalling how she felt as though she were submerged in a dark sea, slowly sinking into the abyss.

But, she couldn’t let go of her dream—she couldn’t.

Valeriya stood up.

She ran towards her freedom.





Thank you so much !

Best regards,

bananna
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on June 18, 2017, 07:04:54 pm
Hey there!

Hey! I'm genuinely really sorry, I've never left a post unmarked for this long before, I didn't even see it I swear! It's only now a new creative has been posted that I've seen it. Would you still like this marked? Have you got an updated version? Apologies times a thousand, I really am so sorry!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: bsdfjnlkasn on June 19, 2017, 09:18:11 pm
Hey! I'm genuinely really sorry, I've never left a post unmarked for this long before, I didn't even see it I swear! It's only now a new creative has been posted that I've seen it. Would you still like this marked? Have you got an updated version? Apologies times a thousand, I really am so sorry!

Hey there :)

Don't worry! I forgot about it too if i'm being honest haha :') I may publish the final version if that's ok with you? I'm sort of experimenting with my narrative voice at the moment and recognise the piece shows barely anything and has very little plot development. I've posted the prompt in addition and would really love to hear some ways I could improve - it was inspired by last years question and I wasn't sure of how to include a character without rewriting a scene from the novel (not exactly, of course). I was wondering if you could tell me whether the guilt comes through and what elements of the story could be enhanced to support this exploration. Like I said, this omniscient third person work is merely a trial and hopefully something I can master so that I don't have to rely on memorising a creative piece for the HSC. It's not anything particularly amazing, just the beginning on some work in style, content and length.

Any feedback would be super appreciated.

Thanks again Elyse, and don't worry - it's been busy for all of us! :D
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on June 20, 2017, 08:43:17 am
Hi Elyse!

This is my creative for Ways of thinking- After the Bomb.

I'm not sure if what I've written makes sense or if there are too many time shifts/ flashbacks.
Or, if my ending should be made clearer.
Also, do you see this as a character or a plot based text?
AND (sorry for so many questions) is the bit about the pamphlet confusing? Should I introduce it earlier?
I'm freaking out because I feel like the writing is a bit confusing or I've attempted to portray a conceptually difficult idea haha
Thank you so much !

Best regards,

bananna

Hey bananna! I'll point out any parts that confuse me or anything like that! :)
Spoiler
A gust of wind tousled Valeriya's brown locks as she traipsed along the ill-lit alley. The young woman stood paralysed when she heard deep voices and laughter in the distance. She looked up at the starless night sky—not even the lustre of the moon could break through the impervious mask. She thought back one week—when the darkness signified pleasure...
*
The lights dimmed and the fluttering of Tchaikovsky’s flutes echoed throughout the theatre. Valeriya looked up at her father; he grinned back at her. The curtains revealed a familiar setting; a white tree decorated with candles, and a group of characters lining the stage. The Nutcracker was her favourite show; to watch it with her ever-busy father made it even more special. As the characters leaped on the staccato, Valeriya's leg bounced in time too; as the dancers extended their arms in third position, a smiling Valeriya mimicked them in the balcony.

The ballerinas moved with unbending spines as if they were puppets, wowing the crowd. I've got some weird imagery here...unbending spines, so I'm thinking they are straight and sturdy. But they are ballerinas, and if they're wowing the crowd they are doing a good job? So I'm not sure if you want me to read that the ballerinas are rigid or fluid? The sudden diminuendo caused Valeriya to lean onto the railing, anticipating the mice. Instead, gun-wielding men leaped on-stage, and pirouetted.

The crowd was in awe.

Valeriya cocked her head to the right, confused. This isn’t part of the story.

In the fog appeared a dancer with a Kennedy face mask and the expletive ‘Kapitalist’ branded across his chest. The audience chortled; Valeriya felt a black cloud hover ominously over her head. Not sure if this is metaphorical or real? She looked to her father who applauded the genius of the modification, while her fingers tingled, gripping the sides of her seat. Soldiers brandishing bayonets marched forward, battling the Capitalists, while the audience hollered their support of the Red Stars. Valeriya clutched her arms with both hands and cowered into her father’s shoulder. The audience cheered when Kennedy was beheaded, while Valeriya’s stomach dropped. I think I want to know more about the audience. There's so much commotion on stage and all I'm really getting is an audience that's agreeing in awe. I'd love to know more about the audience...their sounds, the energy, their faces.

 She shut her eyes and imagined her late mother reciting the bedtime story:

“The nutcracker turns into a handsome prince who whisks Clara away to his kingdom.”

But the nutcracker turned into a communist leader, presenting the ballerina his collection of Capitalists’ heads. 

“Snowflakes dance around them and the new prince and princess embrace.”

Blood-red tutus encircled the prince and princess.

Valeriya distracted herself by listening to the conversation of the couple behind her, “How wonderful does that uniform look? Look at the huge flag! We must get something like that for outside the house!”

But what about the dancing? The music…they don’t care.

She wanted to scream and shout at the top of her lungs.

She didn’t utter a word.
 
Valeriya knew Communism was the right way—father told her and he never lies! But no one even watched the dance—they watched the politics. Until I read this sentence I was feeling confused: why are people not riled up more about the fact their dance was hijacked? But now I'm seeing it more clearly -
 it's the way of thinking being explored. I'm empathising with this character now more too - she's confused.


*


Now cowering behind a bench, legs shaking, her life stuffed inside a raggedy backpack, Valeriya felt pathetic.

Should I leave? I must leave!
Why am I doing this? Why not? 
I can’t leave. I can.
Ok, I think I got lost here because the flashback was so full of action that I couldn't actually remember when and where the protagonist was before the flashback begun. Perhaps this is because the part before the flashback was too short to be significantly framed? I'm not sure.

Valeriya squinted; making out two silhouettes belonging to men with rifles slung across their bodies. They guarded the wall that separated capitalism from communism; private from public. She didn't understand it like she understood dance--she didn't understand anything like she understood dance. All she knew was that her country wanted to restrict her dancing and she needed to escape.

She inched closer, seeing the two figures engaged in conversation. Valeriya locked her gaze on a nearby shrub and scurried to find sanctuary behind it. She steadied her breathing and focussed on being still. Noxious fumes made their way to Valeriya’s nose—Belomorkanal cigarettes. She covered her mouth muffling her coughs as the toxins settled in her lungs. She was reminded of home—the soldiers smoked the same cigarettes as her father. The father who would be disappointed his daughter ran away from her problems. Would he even miss me? The memory transported her to when she was a child…


*


Young Valeriya crept up to her father’s office, a small gift in hand. Some residual smoke hung in the air, shifting like ghosts in the hallway. She heard haughty voices babbling on and hearty, sporadic laughter. For the first time the door was slightly ajar, so she peered into the room full of a party of suited men hunched over a table strewn with papers, cigarettes and cigars. Her father’s distinct voice emerged from the babbling, asking if they should “sparen” a fellow member or accuse him; a chorus of voices imparted their opinions. Valeriya inched forward, causing a creaking from the door. Twenty pairs of eyes met hers. The fuming father plodded to the door, his eyes never leaving the girl. “You know you can’t be in here” his eyes said.

The door slammed shut in her face.

Her dark lashes brimmed with tears; all she wanted was to wish her papa a happy birthday… She only wanted to* sounds nicer in accordance with the tone you've set, I think.


*

 
She didn’t feel safe in the night-time; she never did. Her father always said the capitalists capture young people at night time and make them suffer. Valeriya shuddered…is he right? I don’t see any Capitalists? Did he…lie? No—he can’t lie…he’s papa!

After deliberating for minutes, she decided her father exaggerated the truth.

Valeriya hummed the melodic tune of Copeland’s Orchestral Suite, yearning to dance. She longed the day she could dance to Copeland in front of the world—she had hidden the tapes from her father. But as long as he was a Communist, she would stay dreaming. 

She reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, but instead felt a crumpled paper. She unfolded it and instinctively held it against her chest. She scanned her surroundings and opened the pamphlet once again, running her cold fingers over the course, discoloured edges of the letter. She felt the creases, fluffy from being folded and unfolded so many times. The paper was soft to the touch while the words in the slightly worn blue ink hardened her heart. What she held in her youthful hands was a powerful weapon; a priceless weapon; she held the power to end a life. If only she had realised that sooner.

If only she had realised that if she had dropped the pamphlet, someone would pick it up. If only she had realised that that person would be beaten and taken away. If only she had realised how serious it was. If only…I think the narration gets somewhat childish here. Can you imagine who is reading this story? Imagine

“Begleitien Sie uns,” Valeriya read aloud the only words on the pamphlet which was littered with Capitalist symbols. She scoffed; why would I want to join you? So, you can fight with another country and destroy my art? So you can make my country think its citizens are turning against them?

Valeriya shuddered at the thought of her actions costing someone’s freedom, or even life. That was why she had to escape.

She was being robbed of her life—robbed of her freedom to dance.

 Valeriya shoved the decrepit pamphlet back into her pocket and sighed. She looked up; and saw the two soldiers deeply engaged in conversation. She spotted a dingy area hidden by a heap of rubbish. It was close to the guards but she had to move soon. Valeriya took a deep breath, stretched her legs, and scampered to the spot. The putrid odour of rotting scraps stained her clothes and the darkness engulfed her.

She felt as vulnerable as she did the day she tried to make a difference; the day she tried to change the world. When the lilting strains of Clair de Lune played and Valeriya swiftly leaped and performed multiple pirouettes on pointe, emphasising her precise landing with strong arms and elegant upper body movement. When she pushed the gun away and picked up flowers instead. When the thing that motivated her were the voices telling her the French styles and composers were inferior, that we use our prowess as dancers not for its beauty but for Communism—for politics. When her final fouette ended Valeriya’s routine and she concluded with reverence, and as her chest rose and fell, the throng of spectators stayed silent. The darkness engulfed the frail light pointed towards her just as the night continued stealing the light. When the silence lingered in the air, when her father rose in disgrace and the whispers grew to loud conversation. When she felt like a white skull, eaten by weedy greens. When someone shouted “Kapitalist!” and shortly afterwards, the entire audience began to chorus.   

Valeriya yearned the freedom to choose what music to listen to and what style to dance in. She yearned emancipation from politics. She yearned the West.

Valeriya stayed behind the rubbish heap, remembering her father’s disappointment. Remembering the way he looked at her, and the way he spat on her. Remembering that as the night wore on, a much deeper, chilling darkness wrapped around her and recalling how she felt as though she were submerged in a dark sea, slowly sinking into the abyss.

But, she couldn’t let go of her dream—she couldn’t.

Valeriya stood up.

She ran towards her freedom.

I think the essence of your story is clear: the setting is understandable, I can follow the ways of thinking, even if the plot gets confusing at times. So like I said, I don't know that I could flip back after the concert because the establishment at the beginning wasn't strong enough. Perhaps you should change narrator between those parts to make it clearer that we are moving between the stages?

Also, just to talk specifically about the ways of thinking - I think there could be a distinction made about politics. So, she says "it's just about politics for them." But I wonder if it's more powerful for her to acknowledge, "It's so much more than just politics to them, it's all they can see" to kind of implicate how blinded they are. At the moment, it's like they've all chosen to be this way. But I personally think they chose to be this way a while ago, and now they're stuck this way, without choice, and it's not just politics, it's their entire life now. I think this will make a stronger contrast between her and "them" - what do you think?

I think when the plot has a little more fluidity between the flashes, the ways of thinking will come to the surface a whole lot more. Let me know if you wanna chat about anything here in particular and happy to do that!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 03, 2017, 10:30:52 pm
Hey there :)

Don't worry! I forgot about it too if i'm being honest haha :') I may publish the final version if that's ok with you? I'm sort of experimenting with my narrative voice at the moment and recognise the piece shows barely anything and has very little plot development. I've posted the prompt in addition and would really love to hear some ways I could improve - it was inspired by last years question and I wasn't sure of how to include a character without rewriting a scene from the novel (not exactly, of course). I was wondering if you could tell me whether the guilt comes through and what elements of the story could be enhanced to support this exploration. Like I said, this omniscient third person work is merely a trial and hopefully something I can master so that I don't have to rely on memorising a creative piece for the HSC. It's not anything particularly amazing, just the beginning on some work in style, content and length.

Any feedback would be super appreciated.

Thanks again Elyse, and don't worry - it's been busy for all of us! :D

I'm embarrassed this took so long, again! I hope this helps you out :)

Spoiler
Compose an original imaginative text that incorporates one of the characters from An Artist of the Floating World and is set in post WW2 Japan. In your piece you are to explore the complex nature of guilt. Your response should reflect your knowledge and understanding of the elective ‘After the Bomb’.

The Shadows

“Perhaps if we hadn’t known of the pleasure district, we could have found pleasure in ourselves” Masuji Ono mused with a reminiscent tone. 

He had arrived over the imposing hill and saw the same limp branches of the Sakura trees, slowly emerge over the crest. Their sharp, angular arrangement protruding as though proving themselves worthy of being seen.

The clouds which swirled with reverence, saw their grace swallowed by the jagged battlefield of buildings lying below. The chipped paint on crumbling walls, forced the vibrant canvas above to reduce into a mournful wash of indistinguishable greys. A backdrop for the desolate, only to be seen by the desperate. Beautiful imagery - very delicate. Just what we need. It's smooth yet it packs a punch!

Looking out again, there were the subtleties of age’s elusive fingertips marking the fallen taverns and melted benches with it’s tightening grip. It was a distorted reflection of the Naragaku district Ono had ventured through in the summer of 1953, seeking some intangible desire which led to nothing. And so, he resigned to visit this district in all it’s dissolved beauty, to seek a certain nostalgia that the rest of Japan had failed to deliver. Wonderful.

Of course, there was no one to hear his musings except the wind, which left as quickly as it had come; both conjured by the sea and silenced by it. He preferred to wander out alone, finding comfort in places where others could only see shame. Love this. It was solitude, not loneliness he would assert, but no one could be sure without even a flicker of a question to ask. Perhaps people would always keep to themselves.

Approaching the remnants of the Tagashi Bar, Ono was met with the disconcerting sight of rubble lying, as if a grave and no longer some dishevelled heap of concrete. It had fallen with intent, surely knowing the destruction it would lay on those who had committed decades to it’s memory.

Turning away, as though the sight was the sun, he bowed his hat and ventured on, shielding the whips of dust from his sombre eyes.

Seeing a flailing poster suffer on the floor, Ono stooped down to collect its frail edges. Torn, the bright red graphic had seen it’s colour fly with the relentless sun beating of summer days.  The rising flag may have deserved it’s beating, but it was the the scattered rays along the sheet that could only conjure despair. Spanning the page, their distorted colours were surely unrecognisable to the men who would have hung it upon a board with distinct purpose.

It was the youth now who could have stood, for all intents and purposes, as the next Hirohito with their pride and direction, but would only manage to deliver a distortion of arrogance and spite. Enough to convince a laughing audience to laugh harder, it was these same men who, having seen so little, would seek to convince the world of their wisdom. And, if there was one thing that lent their pride a tone of the inauthentic, or rather invented, it was the swiftness with which they went to dismiss the foundations of any truth in Japan’s own pride. The same image on the leaf as it was always intended – uncorrupted and clean.

Turning to face the town he had sought to leave, he heard a faint cry call: “Ono!”

Forgetting the dust which encircled and sneered at his eyes, Ono released his grip almost as quickly as the sense of recognition had consumed him. It had always been the same but the compulsion was enough to feel, to be real. This rhyme allows this last sentence to really resonate wonderfully.

“Kenji!” He quickly reverted, his exclamation quickly reducing to a choked sob.

***
Kenji was opening a bottle of Sake as he kneeled onto the tatami, “Chichi, there have been some disputes at work, over the -” he trailed off, seeing Setsuko return with the full tray.

Coming into Ono’s view she muttered a quick apology, as though trying to preserve the silence. Placing the tray down, she held onto the encaging silence before realising the equal dangers of action and inaction. Left with nothing else, she bowed her head.

Feeling some sympathy, Ono nodded, giving her permission to leave and so forgiving the rude intrusion. Hearing the tap of the wooden frames against one another, Ono turned his gaze towards Kenji who was expectantly holding out the glass with both arms outstretched.

“You were saying …?” Ono prompted grabbing the glass.

The tension hung in the air like the floating nobori boasting bold swishes of calligraphy. Begging to be heard but standing delicately in the corner, the work could only ever be uncovered at the discretion of those in the room. Its message silenced but insistent.

“Oh, it’s no pressing matter.” He darted his gaze, hastily raising the glass as if according to some, strict agenda.

“Tell me about your recent work” Kenji led, passing a smile as if spontaneous, exciting even.

“Well, as you know I have been working on a few pieces with our nation’s future in mind. It’s been busy, but Torikosan and I have already sent a print in to be reviewed.”

“How exciting” Kenji mused feeling an immediate flush of relief. Whether it was the sake’s or his own he could not know.

The swift diversion to Ono’s life made Kenji feel glad, he hadn’t asked the question and felt no need to bring it up again.

“It was designed with great expectations, a symbol for the effort and spirit growing each and every day. Japan…” he trailed, directing Kenji’s towards the sliding shoji. The softness of his voice concealed a harsh scorn captured by the unexpected silence, one he hoped Setsuko would hear.

The faint outline of her body pressed forward, peeked from the corner of the room where the shoji began to cross their periphery. Barely decorated, she might as well have walked past the entire room and for Ono’s timidness, earned the same silent drift and stare. Both kneeling men were at least content knowing that she had in some way been honest, and revealed herself. These last three words aren't making sense to me: and revealed herself? I don't think it makes sense with the syntax. Maybe I've read it over so many times that I'm making it more confusing than it needs to be, I'm not sure. "And so she revealed herself" maybe? I'm not sure what you're trying to say. Their business, although necessarily private was a matter of the nation and a shield of pride. Whether they would direct it at her or show her the handle, they wouldn’t have to consider as time had already passed, allowing Setsuko to escape. It was easier that way, she decided and they could only pretend to have allowed it. It was only the beginning, perhaps she could have known for some time. He hadn’t told Kenji everything but a glimpse was often enough in the confines of the four walls they claimed their own.   

***
The days of the war had begun to fall into the back draws of every mind wise enough to become blind to pain.

Memories would often appear to Ono and assault his thoughts, he knew years had gone by yet it was more likely that decades had slipped by unacknowledged. The sight of desolation began to flood in like the light which fought against the smoke-grey clouds floating above. They had warned him against approaching the floating district with the scars still fresh, but it seemed to him that the painless had somehow forgotten what pain was. It would never heal, only hopefully fade and if not, distort with new decades of memories.   

What an absolute pleasure to read - the writing is gentle, yet it really brings a lot to the surface. I think the way you've handled the narration is stellar. It's smooth, sophisticated, and gives juuuust enough information to the reader. I'm obsessed with your writing style. A few times I read the same paragraph over because I wanted to absorb every word again. What leaves me puzzled is a little part of the plot - mainly the third last paragraph. I'm confused by the female figure and what she stands for? The way she is described is almost erotic, but I can't grasp exactly why she's being portrayed this way. Her body was pressed forward, and she revealed herself. This kind of erotic imagery has confused me and her place in the story. Don't get me wrong, it was a pleasure to read for it's creative merit, but the plot became a little bit cloudy for me at this point, and it became harder to follow the ways of thinking. On this note, can you identify the ways of thinking that you've either thoroughly explored or only just touched upon? I'd be interested to know if we think the same ways of thinking are being addressed.

Overall, an amazing piece that's almost where it needs to be for the top band. You should be very proud of this project!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: AJ123 on July 07, 2017, 07:45:47 pm
Hey guys, if i was to post a creative, how long would it take approx to get some feedback, providing I meet the post threshold?
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: bsdfjnlkasn on July 10, 2017, 08:34:03 pm

On this note, can you identify the ways of thinking that you've either thoroughly explored or only just touched upon? I'd be interested to know if we think the same ways of thinking are being addressed.

Overall, an amazing piece that's almost where it needs to be for the top band. You should be very proud of this project!

Hey Elyse!

Now I should be the one apologising, I didn't even realise you had sent me a reply - thank you so much for your encouraging words :)

Your feedback aligns exactly with my teachers in terms of the plot :) - she didn't understand the place of the middle fragment and in all honesty, I only included it because fragmenting of narrative structure is something that i've come across in my study of other texts. From my understanding, the creative has to include structural elements to reflect the postmodern ways of thinking (still getting a grasp on this) so that's why I wrote it this way.

So in terms of plot, it begins with Ono revisiting the destroyed sight of some unnamed city (and that's the point, it's relevant to anyone who suffered the catastrophes of the atomic bombs, it's just manifested physically here for Ono, but I try to focus more on his psychology through the environment). He then hears the apparent call of his son, Kenji who actually passed away in the war. I know this isn't clear but I'm not sure where to include it in the first fragment.

Your ideas on the second fragment are intriguing since I think it would be worth exploring the changing gender roles/perception in Japan through her (although they're all family so i'm not sure if the erotic interpretation works now, will have to work a few things around if I can figure out how to integrate it - plus I have 200 words more to play with anyway :) ). I was focusing on the suspicion and distrust which permeated the personal but I think I need to expand this fragment anyway so please do suggest a few things that would be good to work with :). Plus I just need more ways of thinking in general - I just feel like I don't know many at all!

I'm glad my writing style isn't too big of an issue (thank you for your encouragement!), I was wondering though, do I tell too much? I'm trying to show more but i'm not so sure if it's working. I still need to write a piece or two before trials (2 weeks time) as a way to clarify the ways of thinking I want to explore. Let me know if you have any suggestions for how I could make clearer the ways of thinking I'm going for/if there are more that I should include.

Thank you so much :D
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 16, 2017, 10:08:04 am
Hey,
Just wondering if you have any tips on preparing for the creative. I have written one but it is very restrictive in the sense that it is set on a ship so there isn't much room to move if the stimulus given is a setting like that in the 2015 HSC. Should I prepare a couple of other general stories in my head too? I'm currently just going through past papers and writing down examples of how I would manipulate my story to fit the criteria. For example, do you think when it is the one about including a significant character from one of your prescribed texts, I could include a visit in a dream from the Mariner from the Rime of the Ancient Mariner? My story is about a slave ship and basically as the captain throws more slaves overboard (for $$$), the storm gets stronger and stronger and eventually takes retribution upon man's wrongdoings (sort of like the supernatural aspect in the Rime). So I was thinking if that came up in a trial, obviously not the HSC since it was done last year, could I include the Mariner appearing in a dream, warning of the dangers of his actions. I'm just mostly concerned for the trial because our teacher always shows us photos of random houses and crap and will say this could be something you could get as a stimulus for the trial and if so I'd be screwed haha!
Thanks!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 16, 2017, 11:07:51 am
Hey Elyse!

Now I should be the one apologising, I didn't even realise you had sent me a reply - thank you so much for your encouraging words :)


Thank you so much :D

We just keep missing each other! With the lectures this week we've been so busy I'm just getting back to this now I apologise.

I think that religion and gender are interesting constructs you can approach more closely in the text even if just in the most subtle ways. I see what you are trying to do with the fragmented structure to reflect the surroundings but it's definitely not the only way to do this - if it were the case then all of our creatives would be in a similar structure, when in fact some are speeches, some are linear narrative form, etc. So don't stress about that, you can reflect ways of thinking in gender and religion with connotations, allusions, sentence structure, and tone. Perhaps by this time you've updated your piece. If so, happy to discuss anything! :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: stephjones on July 19, 2017, 12:14:27 pm
hey guys! I would absolutely love if I could get some feedback on my creative for sci-fi, it got 23/25 for the half yearlies but atm i'm really unhappy with it just because it feels really overdramatic in some places but I can't figure out how to fix it! Thanks so much in advance for taking the time to read it xx

Spoiler
“There is no human life more sacred than another, just as there exists no human life qualitatively more meaningful than another.” – Pope Francis.

* * *

Artificial moonlight trickled through the gap in the beige curtains, casting mottled shadows over the bleached marble floor. The man woke as pain assaulted his chest, a hoarse groan of agony slipping from his throat. He struggled into a sitting position, eyes watering as the ache intensified with each gasp of air he took in attempt to placate it. Shaking fingers found the red button on the side of his cot, desperation forcing his fingers to clench as pain laced through his abdomen.

The light over his head glared crimson, the siren interrupting the silence of the ward. Immediately, the wall beside his bed folded outwards, an indistinct figure speeding towards him, a blur of silver and white. The bitter scent of chemicals was overwhelming, agonising, and pinpoints of black began to obscure his vision, and his screams drowned out the blaring siren and he didn’t know what was real anymore except for the pain, the darkness that blanketed him, the shadows that crept in from the corners of his vision, suffocating him. 

And then suddenly, it was as if he was floating.

The man blinked, forcing his vision to come back into focus, barely noting the lifelines now stapled to his chest, a white tube pumping liquid that disappeared into smooth skin. A nurse hovered over him, its blonde hair spilling over thin, metal shoulders as its unblinking cerulean eyes scanned the length of his body. He was numb, and the shadows were almost too bright as he gazed, disorientated, around his room, flinching from the icy fingers that ran over his forehead.

The curve of each nurses’ body was designed to calm the men, but they never could manage to get the body temperature right. But it was a price he was willing to pay – the Domestic Services Act of 2034 had retired human women from high-stress occupations, to spare them from the potential of emotionally-provoked errors.

The nurse made no noise as it grabbed a clipboard from the desk, scrawling indecipherably along thin black lines. “The sedatives won’t last much longer, Mr Archibald. This is it,” it informed him, and the voice was clipped, indifferent, dispassionate. The man swallowed, as a hollowness settled deep within his chest. “Your body is effectively eating itself.”

The man’s vision began to blur, and he blinked furiously to fend away the shadows lurking at the edges of his gaze. His mind flooded with images, a photo album of the previous thirty years, of a family, of a dishevelled two-year-old boy waiting stubbornly by the window for him, of the desperation settled deep within his wife’s blue gaze as she kissed his knuckles.

He took in a trembling breath, eyes flicking desperately around the ward, yearning for the warmth of human comfort, but the sterile walls ignored him as he felt the images, the life slip from his grasp.

“Of course, you are eligible for a Life Extension,” the nurse continued, “The serum has a ninety-eight per cent success rate – exposing the body cells to cryogenic environments decelerates the aging process and destroys tumours, and has the potential to double the average human life expectancy. The population surplus is dealt with accordingly and immediately, and for a small price, it’s as though your body never malfunctioned.” It listed the benefits methodically, monotonous, voice a drone against the unnatural silence of the ward. He thought again of his family, of tears he would be unable to catch, of dreams never realised. What was the value of his life, his family, his family’s future, to the value of a man he’d never met? But still his heart clenched painfully. The shadows continued to writhe, waiting in his peripheral vision.

“Surplus? Someone… killed…” But his eyes were drifting shut, voice slurring as his head sagged back to the pillow. The nurse finished printing details, placing the clipboard in front of him. The letters swam before his eyes, “ExtendiLife™ - Your life is too valuable to lose!” His hands began to shake, and the ache began to blossom in his chest once more, an agony that ran deeper than his illness.

“Retired, yes,” the nurse corrected, “But someone less significant than you, Mr Archibald – someone from the colonies. As useful to our society as an ant is,” the nurse assured, pressing the pen into the man’s limp fingers, guiding his hands to the signature line, and it was all too much. And as the pressure built within his chest again, and the shadows reached greedily across his vision, the last thing he saw was the cold, silver hand signing his name.

* * *

The sky outside was an angry kaleidoscope of charcoals and greys as large droplets pelted relentlessly against the window, the smog suffocating the city, pressing up against the glass. A skeleton of skyscrapers loomed over the small house, the plethora of wires entangling them within the rubble that littered the ground. Hundreds of people scurried over the dusty hillside, as frightened insects in a foreign nest. The woman turned away.

“Mama, I did it!”

The child beamed up at her, a toothless grin that made his wide hazel eyes sparkle as he held the dusty, coloured cube triumphantly in his hand. The old wheelchair whined to a halt as he stopped in front of the woman, panting, exhilarated, pressing the puzzle into her palm, and his smile was infectious. She knelt, sweeping the auburn hair from the side of his face tenderly.

“Jimmy said you gotta be really, really smart to make the sides the same colours and I did!” he repeated, voice a squeal, a giggle bursting from his lips that lit the shadowy grey world beyond the window. “I’m gonna be a space man, Mama, because you gotta be smart to be a space man! Mr Abacus at school said I couldn’t because I can’t walk, but I read a book that said in space you fly so I wouldn’t even need my chair!”

And as the boy chattered on her thoughts turned to the cities that floated, invisible, miles above the industrial smog, where the stars were painted in the sky, where the space man was the man in the tie who sat on his throne and watched the ants scurry below. But she smiled, again, at the innocence of dreams which threatened to break the cover of clouds and nodded sincerely. “You can be whatever you want to be, Toby,” she affirmed, a lie, and the grin that split his face overshadowed the twisting anguish in her gut.

((I'm trying to include something here bc next para is too sudden imo))

The ancient telecommunications machine behind her whirred to life, spluttering as it spat out the clean, white paper. A government seal branded the top right corner, long cursive letters decorating the pristine page. Her stomach dropped as the bitter scent of chemicals wafted from the document, blood turning to ice at the boy’s excited cry of recognition of his own name penned in the scathing black ink.

“We regret to inform you that the individual TOBIUS BROWN is to be retired at noon tomorrow as a result of the population surplus. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Kind regards,
Archibald Enterprises.”

And suddenly the walls of the small home were suffocating, the dust that rose from the wooden floorboards choking her throat as the boy watched on, brows furrowed in an innocent frown of confusion. Her knees buckled, the toy cube thudding to the floor, the manuscript trembling in her hand as her mind flashed forward, to the tears she would never be able to catch, to dreams never realised. How could the value of one man’s life overshadow the dreams, the future of a family?

And miles above them, the space man raised his foot above the ants, and stepped down.
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 26, 2017, 06:19:57 pm
Hey Elyse, I got teacher feedback recently, his main concerns with a) the part by the slave was unrealistic as he's not that well educated (i 100% agree with that but was trying to get another perspective in my story and also i actually based it off a slave narrative from the romantic period but that slave did go back to england first and received an education) so firstly, any feedback/advice there would be great. b) he wanted sign offs on each of the letters which i agree with in part but i like the way they end and finally c) he said i need a clearer ending but like with my discovery i like the subtlety of it, but i won't ruin it for you ;)
Spoiler
First Mate James Kelsall’s Journal (1807)
On a setting sun, bequeathed a freedom few men had ever beheld. A rekindling of elevated thoughts soothed by subdued whispers of the ocean, and in such tranquil restoration laid a peace from deep within. A moment of relief from the undeniable guilt which I cannot escape, even in kipping. The rattling of chains and fateful moans of the four hundred and forty-two souls aboard brings upon an abhorrent disgust. A case of the ‘blue devils’ I can no longer deny. Beyond the horizon looms a rolling sea of grey and my dear Liverpool is now a monstrous town whose pitiful theft of its own humanity is of grave concern. I cannot truly console myself when men such as Sir Richard Arkwright are still revered as creative geniuses. For in his opening of Shudehill Mill in Manchester came the subsequent sacrifice of the free will of mankind. Yet, I do have hope, for past the thick plumes of smoke there must be a sea of marigold, a voice to be heard. Rousseau’s words echo a boundless source of promise that we can break the shackles of poverty and rise above injustice, for I too prefer liberty with danger than such peace with slavery.
James Kelsall’s Journal
Captain Luke Collingwood, of steady age and character, rarely had second thoughts about any given matter. Any discrepancies were scarcely made public, and, if so, Mr. Collingwood prided himself in simple facts and realities which disproved what few ideas opposed the constancy of his opinions.
“British-built ships typically carry 1.75 Black Ivory per ton of the ship's capacity…” he would recount with absolute precision, “on the Aurore, our ratio is 4.0 per ton.”
Sir Collingwood worshipped his creator and, for his own amusement, found occupation for an idle hour by compelling the poor wretches to sing psalms – which often entailed melancholy lamentations of their exile from their native country. When weather permitted, they would be obliged to dance, which, if they go about reluctantly, was punishable by whipping.
James Kelsall’s Journal
My beloved Lucy, it has occurred to me that the pathway from slavery to freedom is founded in the gift of education, which is something I have taken for granted for much of my life. Such lofty ambitions, however, are not without danger, for I feared that if I disobeyed Sir Collingwood’s orders, I may too come to the same fate as these forlorn foreigners we transport. Only once the below decks were obscured by darkness, did I begin teaching them the basics of a good Christian education. I scarcely had much time to do so however as the rest of the crew would often rise suspicious as to my location. Surprising as it may seem, I found myself somewhat indebted to the slaves. They were noble souls; who not only possessed loving hearts, but contained brave ones. Although secured together by iron legs, they were more strongly interlinked by the mutual hardships that they were subjected to in their condition as slaves. Soon they grew in wisdom as the sea of marigold appeared ever closer.
James Kelsall’s Journal
My dearest Lucy, perhaps Rousseau was quite correct in saying that “man is born free, but is everywhere in chains” for it brings me no deal of pleasure to open to you such events as what unfolded only a few nights ago:
The messengers which had gathered since dawn slowly sank to smother the winter sun. The storm, as it always does, appeared in various parts of the heavens and echoed across the Pacific Ocean, the most violent storm hung just north of Cape Verde whilst the Azores were enlightened by a series of faint flashes, playing on the peaks of Mount Pico in the most beautiful figures. I could not logically explain the sensation, as, although it was approaching ever so quickly, I had no urge to retreat. Yet, even as the messengers hung ominously in the distance, the lashing winds slowly soothed into a soft melody similar to that of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Such splendour of nature, however, were disturbed by piercing screams from the hold. What horrors that I beheld with my very eyes! The slaves were growing restless, fifty or sixty… fastened to one chain, I thought I must have been off my onion! Unfortunately, such was not the case. Frail, scurvy-infected bodies limped over one another as if a bunch of Lushingtons. Futile cries rang out from the front deck, distorted by undulating waves as human limbs were soon swallowed whole under a deep swell of sickly indigo, as Mr Collingwood, once a man of great respectability, simply watched. The few that remained sprang disdainfully from Mr Collingwood’s grasps and leaped into the ocean, triumphantly embracing death rather than tyrannical subjugation.
James Kelsall’s Journal
The wind descended in the south now as restless waves ascended to magnificent heights while the tempest raged within the heavens. Mr. Collingwood has disposed of even more of the hapless souls below and now only few remain. Even the echoing tempest cannot divert my mind from the awful truth of this cursed voyage, for it too seems to scorn down upon us. Perhaps it is only in the most natural of states that we can truly experience contentment? I only hope that these poor souls view their tragic end with similar sentiments.
James Kelsall’s Journal
Dearest Lucy! How I will covet the day when this grave sin against humanity is at last eradicated! The news of the passing of the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act in March gave me new life and spirits; a hope felt even by the poor few slaves who still remained. Alas, months have passed and still their cries for liberty remain ignored. I share with you a letter I found from Quaco, one of my more learned students:
I cannot help but feel as if learning had been a curse rather than a blessing. Freedom has now consumed my greatest desires, breathing in every wind and echoing in every storm, calling us to come and share in its hospitality. Yet, it also tormented me with a sense of my wretched condition. Is it not enough that I have been torn from my own country to toil for the luxury and lust of another man’s gain? The restless waves frighten me no more; rather they seem to understand. In them, I may finally find the peace I have been longing for.
At this point, I imagine, Quaco was swept away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
James Kelsall’s Journal
I can hear it coming. Its roar echoes across the ocean floor to the peaks of Blue Hills, a signal that nature is decreeing its retribution, the Aurore will not reach the ports of Liverpool. It is not long before we shall plummet into the vast, empty abyss, reunited in death with the two hundred and forty eight already below. From a dense blanket of grey shines a light so glorious words cannot encompass, opening the depths of the heavens to my very soul. Yet, the light is now engulfed by the wrath of the raging forces above. Man is a sinful creature, but redemption awaits him if he repents his wrongdoings. How sad to think that nature speaks and mankind does not listen.
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 28, 2017, 02:56:00 pm
hey guys! I would absolutely love if I could get some feedback on my creative for sci-fi, it got 23/25 for the half yearlies but atm i'm really unhappy with it just because it feels really overdramatic in some places but I can't figure out how to fix it! Thanks so much in advance for taking the time to read it xx

Hi Steph - I'm incredibly sorry this took too long. I completely missed this in the rush we had and Jamon pointed it out to me before. So I'm really sorry! I hope this is still handy for you :) In saying this, I didn't study sci-fi so there may be particular conventions you need to adhere to that I'm not 100% up with, but nonetheless I'll look for grammar, structure, engagement, development, etc... :)


Spoiler
“There is no human life more sacred than another, just as there exists no human life qualitatively more meaningful than another.” – Pope Francis.
 Love this quote, but also love the love the way it's planted at the beginning before the story begins.
* * *

Artificial moonlight trickled through the gap in the beige curtains, casting mottled shadows over the bleached marble floor. The man woke as pain assaulted his chest, a hoarse groan of agony slipping from his throat. He struggled into a sitting position, eyes watering as the ache intensified with each gasp of air he took in attempt to placate it. Shaking fingers found the red button on the side of his cot, desperation forcing his fingers to clench as pain laced through his abdomen.

The light over his head glared crimson, the siren interrupting the silence of the ward. Immediately, the wall beside his bed folded outwards, an indistinct figure speeding towards him, a blur of silver and white. The bitter scent of chemicals was overwhelming, agonising, and pinpoints of black began to obscure his vision, and his screams drowned out the blaring siren and he didn’t know what was real anymore except for the pain, the darkness that blanketed him, the shadows that crept in from the corners of his vision, suffocating him. 

And then suddenly, it was as if he was floating.

The man blinked, forcing his vision to come back into focus, barely noting the lifelines now stapled to his chest, a white tube pumping liquid that disappeared into smooth skin. A nurse hovered over him, its just not sure about its - unless there's a reason that gender cannot be assigned to certain characters in this story. In which case, I'll find out shortly blonde hair spilling over thin, metal shoulders as its unblinking cerulean eyes scanned the length of his body. He was numb, and the shadows were almost too bright as he gazed, disorientated, around his room, flinching from the icy fingers that ran over his forehead.

The curve of each nurses’ body was designed to calm the men, but they never could manage to get the body temperature right. But it was a price he was willing to pay – the Domestic Services Act of 2034 had retired human women from high-stress occupations, to spare them from the potential of emotionally-provoked errors.

The nurse made no noise as it grabbed a clipboard from the desk, scrawling indecipherably along thin black lines. “The sedatives won’t last much longer, Mr Archibald. This is it,” it informed him, and the voice was clipped, indifferent, dispassionate. The man swallowed, as a hollowness settled deep within his chest. “Your body is effectively eating itself.” It's not dialogue, but I think this would resonate more if it were put on its own line, the quotation.

The man’s vision began to blur, and he blinked furiously to fend away the shadows lurking at the edges of his gaze. His mind flooded with images, a photo album of the previous thirty years, of a family, of a dishevelled two-year-old boy waiting stubbornly by the window for him, of the desperation settled deep within his wife’s blue gaze as she kissed his knuckles.

He took in a trembling breath, eyes flicking desperately around the ward, yearning for the warmth of human comfort, but the sterile walls ignored him as he felt the images, the life slip from his grasp.

“Of course, you are eligible for a Life Extension,” the nurse continued, “The serum has a ninety-eight per cent success rate – exposing the body cells to cryogenic environments decelerates the aging process and destroys tumours, and has the potential to double the average human life expectancy. The population surplus is dealt with accordingly and immediately, and for a small price, it’s as though your body never malfunctioned.” It listed the benefits methodically, monotonous, voice a drone against the unnatural silence of the ward. This last sentence doesn't make sense. "It listed the benefits methodically and monotonously, the voice was a drone again the unnatural silence of the ward." Perhaps this works better? He thought again of his family, of tears he would be unable to catch, of dreams never realised. What was the value of his life, his family, his family’s future, to the value of a man he’d never met? But still his heart clenched painfully. The shadows continued to writhe, waiting in his peripheral vision.

“Surplus? Someone… killed…” But his eyes were drifting shut, voice slurring as his head sagged back to the pillow. The nurse finished printing details, placing the clipboard in front of him. The letters swam before his eyes, “ExtendiLife™ - Your life is too valuable to lose!” An excellent contrast to the quote at the beginning! Love this! His hands began to shake, and the ache began to blossom in his chest once more, an agony that ran deeper than his illness.

“Retired, yes,” the nurse corrected, “But someone less significant than you, Mr Archibald – someone from the colonies. Two things here - I'm wondering if it should be capitalised, and also wondering if it isn't wise to use the same name as Atwood does in the Handmaid's Tale. Get your teacher's opinion on this - I don't know if it borders into being unoriginal or it works as creative textual integration. As useful to our society as an ant is,” the nurse assured, pressing the pen into the man’s limp fingers, guiding his hands to the signature line, and it was all too much. And as the pressure built within his chest again, and the shadows reached greedily across his vision, the last thing he saw was the cold, silver hand signing his name.

* * *

The sky outside was an angry kaleidoscope of charcoals and greys as large droplets pelted relentlessly against the window, the smog suffocating the city, pressing up against the glass. A skeleton of skyscrapers loomed over the small house, the plethora of wires entangling them within the rubble that littered the ground. Hundreds of people scurried over the dusty hillside, as frightened insects in a foreign nest. The woman turned away.

“Mama, I did it!”

The child beamed up at her, a toothless grin that made his wide hazel eyes sparkle as he held the dusty, coloured cube triumphantly in his hand. The old wheelchair whined to a halt as he stopped in front of the woman, panting, exhilarated, pressing the puzzle into her palm, and his smile was infectious. She knelt, sweeping the auburn hair from the side of his face tenderly.

“Jimmy said you gotta be really, really smart to make the sides the same colours and I did!” he repeated, voice a squeal, a giggle bursting from his lips that lit the shadowy grey world beyond the window. “I’m gonna be a space man, Mama, because you gotta be smart to be a space man! Mr Abacus at school said I couldn’t because I can’t walk, but I read a book that said in space you fly so I wouldn’t even need my chair!”

And as the boy chattered on her thoughts turned to the cities that floated, invisible, miles above the industrial smog, where the stars were painted in the sky, where the space man was the man in the tie who sat on his throne and watched the ants scurry below. But she smiled, again, at the innocence of dreams which threatened to break the cover of clouds and nodded sincerely. “You can be whatever you want to be, Toby,” she affirmed, a lie, and the grin that split his face overshadowed the twisting anguish in her gut.

((I'm trying to include something here bc next para is too sudden imo))

The ancient telecommunications machine behind her whirred to life, spluttering as it spat out the clean, white paper. A government seal branded the top right corner, long cursive letters decorating the pristine page. Her stomach dropped as the bitter scent of chemicals wafted from the document, blood turning to ice at the boy’s excited cry of recognition of his own name penned in the scathing black ink.

“We regret to inform you that the individual TOBIUS BROWN is to be retired at noon tomorrow as a result of the population surplus. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Kind regards,
Archibald Enterprises.”

And suddenly the walls of the small home were suffocating, the dust that rose from the wooden floorboards choking her throat as the boy watched on, brows furrowed in an innocent frown of confusion. Her knees buckled, the toy cube thudding to the floor, the manuscript trembling in her hand as her mind flashed forward, to the tears she would never be able to catch, to dreams never realised. How could the value of one man’s life overshadow the dreams, the future of a family?

And miles above them, the space man raised his foot above the ants, and stepped down.

What I love about this piece:
-The way the initial quote comes from an authority like the Pope, because it's powerful yet also comes from an authority that's been criticised for hypocrisy before. Then, the way it's referenced and explored implicitly and explicitly throughout is just wonderful!
-The comparison between the two narratives is clever enough that I'm never thinking, wait, what happened to that first guy?
-It definitely explores speculative fiction in all the right ways.

What I want to suggest for improvements:
-I struggled to understand the nurse. Was it a woman dressed as a man? Why did she or he have silver hands? And from what I noticed, the nurse was only referenced as an "it" twice, meaning that I wasn't ready to commit to the fact that this was a genderless being instead of a potential typo.
-The legislation that is put in earlier, it also confused me a bit. I definitely like the implementation of the legislation, but it didn't answer questions for me, nor prompt them, but just kind of confused me. When it came to looking closely at the nurse figure, I was unsure of what to make of the nurse in general. So the act kind of just made it a little bit more muddy for me.

The second half of the story was very clear to me, although you said you felt like it jumped too far in that one bit where you want to add something else, I didn't particularly read it that way. I do wonder that when she receives the note about the termination, should it perhaps use some kind of hypocritical statement in there that's a little ironic? The inconvenience thing threw me a bit - because although it works in its own calculated and callous way, I wonder if something like, "We trust that you understand the needs of the nation." Or something like this...I wonder if this prompts more questions about the national needs about the individual needs, which in itself is another link to the original quote.

I hope this gives you another valuable perspective!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 29, 2017, 10:13:26 am
Hey Elyse, I got teacher feedback recently, his main concerns with a) the part by the slave was unrealistic as he's not that well educated (i 100% agree with that but was trying to get another perspective in my story and also i actually based it off a slave narrative from the romantic period but that slave did go back to england first and received an education) so firstly, any feedback/advice there would be great. b) he wanted sign offs on each of the letters which i agree with in part but i like the way they end and finally c) he said i need a clearer ending but like with my discovery i like the subtlety of it, but i won't ruin it for you ;)

Heya! The feedback is in the spoiler but also at the end. I've read your teachers feedback and I'll keep that in mind :) I love that you haven't spoiled it for me! haha. (Also...I didn't study romanticism. So there might be some contextual things I miss, I'm sorry! but I'll be able to help with grammar, structure, development, engagement...etc  :))

Spoiler
First Mate James Kelsall’s Journal (1807)
On a setting sun, bequeathed a freedom few men had ever beheld. A rekindling of elevated thoughts soothed by subdued whispers of the ocean, and in such tranquil restoration laid a peace from deep within. A moment of relief from the undeniable guilt which I cannot escape, even in kipping. The rattling of chains and fateful moans of the four hundred and forty-two souls aboard brings upon an abhorrent disgust. A case of the ‘blue devils’ I'm wondering if a person writing this would use the "" around the blue devils, or if they'd just write it, seeing as it's not particular jargon to them and is common language?
 (I'm assuming this - I don't know for certain about the regular use of this term, I'm just assuming it's contextual :))
I can no longer deny. Beyond the horizon looms a rolling sea of grey and my dear Liverpool is now a monstrous town whose pitiful theft of its own humanity is of grave concern. I cannot truly console myself when men such as Sir Richard Arkwright are still revered as creative geniuses. For in his opening of Shudehill Mill in Manchester came the subsequent sacrifice of the free will of mankind. Yet, I do have hope, for past the thick plumes of smoke there must be a sea of marigold, a voice to be heard. Rousseau’s words echo a boundless source of promise that we can break the shackles of poverty and rise above injustice, for I too prefer liberty with danger than such peace with slavery. This is all very clear - despite the fact that I don't engage with texts following Romanticism conventions, like,
 ever, I'm following this really well and even when I don't 100% understand something (purely from my background), I can still imagine what it means, the setting is just enough to transport me there.

James Kelsall’s Journal
Captain Luke Collingwood, of steady age and character, Love this description. rarely had second thoughts about any given matter. Any discrepancies were scarcely made public, and, if so, Mr. Collingwood prided himself in simple facts and realities which disproved what few ideas opposed the constancy of his opinions.
“British-built ships typically carry 1.75 Black Ivory per ton of the ship's capacity…” he would recount with absolute precision, “on the Aurore, our ratio is 4.0 per ton.”
Sir Collingwood worshipped his creator and, for his own amusement, found occupation for an idle hour by compelling the poor wretches to sing psalms – which often entailed melancholy lamentations of their exile from their native country. When weather permitted, they would be obliged to dance, which, if they go about reluctantly, was punishable by whipping.
James Kelsall’s Journal
My beloved Lucy, it has occurred to me that the pathway from slavery to freedom is founded in the gift of education, which is something I have taken for granted for much of my life. Such lofty ambitions, however, are not without danger, for I feared that if I disobeyed Sir Collingwood’s orders, I may too come to the same fate as these forlorn foreigners we transport. Only once the below decks were obscured by darkness, did I begin teaching them the basics of a good Christian education. I scarcely had much time to do so however as the rest of the crew would often rise suspicious as to my location. Surprising as it may seem, I found myself somewhat indebted to the slaves. They were noble souls; who not only possessed loving hearts, but contained brave ones. Although secured together by iron legs, they were more strongly interlinked by the mutual hardships that they were subjected to in their condition as slaves. Soon they grew in wisdom as the sea of marigold appeared ever closer.
James Kelsall’s Journal At this stage, I'm thinking that the only thing that I would gain from them signing off the journals, is perhaps a little bit of context through language, but maybe I'd also have an idea about how much time elapsed between each. So maybe, "Much time has passed since I last entered these pages, I hope next time we meet it will be much sooner." I mean, I agree with you in that I like it even without signing off. But, if you chose to sign off, that would be the benefit. 
My dearest Lucy, perhaps Rousseau was quite correct in saying that “man is born free, but is everywhere in chains” for it brings me no deal of pleasure to open to you such events as what unfolded only a few nights ago:
The messengers which had gathered since dawn slowly sank to smother the winter sun. The storm, as it always does, appeared in various parts of the heavens and echoed across the Pacific Ocean, the most violent storm hung just north of Cape Verde whilst the Azores were enlightened by a series of faint flashes, playing on the peaks of Mount Pico in the most beautiful figures. I could not logically explain the sensation, as, although it was approaching ever so quickly, I had no urge to retreat. Yet, even as the messengers hung ominously in the distance, the lashing winds slowly soothed into a soft melody similar to that of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Such splendour of nature, however, were disturbed by piercing screams from the hold. What horrors that I beheld with my very eyes! The slaves were growing restless, fifty or sixty… fastened to one chain, I thought I must have been off my onion! Unfortunately, such was not the case. Frail, scurvy-infected bodies limped over one another as if a bunch of Lushingtons. Futile cries rang out from the front deck, distorted by undulating waves as human limbs were soon swallowed whole under a deep swell of sickly indigo, as Mr Collingwood, once a man of great respectability, simply watched. The few that remained sprang disdainfully from Mr Collingwood’s grasps and leaped into the ocean, triumphantly embracing death rather than tyrannical subjugation.
James Kelsall’s Journal
The wind descended in the south now as restless waves ascended to magnificent heights while the tempest raged within the heavens. Mr. Collingwood has disposed of even more of the hapless souls below and now only few remain. Even the echoing tempest cannot divert my mind from the awful truth of this cursed voyage, for it too seems to scorn down upon us. Perhaps it is only in the most natural of states that we can truly experience contentment? I only hope that these poor souls view their tragic end with similar sentiments.
James Kelsall’s Journal
Dearest Lucy! How I will covet the day when this grave sin against humanity is at last eradicated! The news of the passing of the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act in March gave me new life and spirits; a hope felt even by the poor few slaves who still remained. Alas, months have passed and still their cries for liberty remain ignored. I share with you a letter I found from Quaco, one of my more learned students:
I cannot help but feel as if learning had been a curse rather than a blessing. Freedom has now consumed my greatest desires, breathing in every wind and echoing in every storm, calling us to come and share in its hospitality. Yet, it also tormented me with a sense of my wretched condition. Is it not enough that I have been torn from my own country to toil for the luxury and lust of another man’s gain? The restless waves frighten me no more; rather they seem to understand. In them, I may finally find the peace I have been longing for.
At this point, I imagine, Quaco was swept away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
James Kelsall’s Journal
I can hear it coming. Its roar echoes across the ocean floor to the peaks of Blue Hills, a signal that nature is decreeing its retribution, the Aurore will not reach the ports of Liverpool. It is not long before we shall plummet into the vast, empty abyss, reunited in death with the two hundred and forty eight already below. From a dense blanket of grey shines a light so glorious words cannot encompass, opening the depths of the heavens to my very soul. Yet, the light is now engulfed by the wrath of the raging forces above. Man is a sinful creature, but redemption awaits him if he repents his wrongdoings. How sad to think that nature speaks and mankind does not listen.

I love the ending of this...the last two entries, to me, were the most powerful. I thought the story was engaging but also not too difficult to follow, and the language fit the scene. I think your second last entry deals with the question of how the slave is so well spoken, so I think it makes sense and I'm not too critical of that aspect, although maybe there could be some reference to the slave in school, even if its a comparison between the hostility of the ocean and the hostility he once felt... Something like this might just fill the question in the markers head, but I'd negotiate this with your teacher to see how this fits in contextually. I happen to disagree about the ending feedback your teacher gave - I don't know what about it needs to be clearer? There are lots of ways to interpret the ending, but I have no troubles with this. It's nice to be able to see it as a narrative for slaves, for colonialism, for human kind in general...and the imagery is just so nice in that ending bit. So I suppose my only area of concern is about the education level of the slave, because you won't be prefacing your exam with "he went to England for an education" you'd need more than that, carefully embedded in the story. Do you see how a marker would find your story to be fallible by that little section?

Hopefully this second pair of eyes helps! Again, another great story from you :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: dancing phalanges on July 29, 2017, 11:06:25 am
Heya! The feedback is in the spoiler but also at the end. I've read your teachers feedback and I'll keep that in mind :) I love that you haven't spoiled it for me! haha. (Also...I didn't study romanticism. So there might be some contextual things I miss, I'm sorry! but I'll be able to help with grammar, structure, development, engagement...etc  :))

Spoiler
First Mate James Kelsall’s Journal (1807)
On a setting sun, bequeathed a freedom few men had ever beheld. A rekindling of elevated thoughts soothed by subdued whispers of the ocean, and in such tranquil restoration laid a peace from deep within. A moment of relief from the undeniable guilt which I cannot escape, even in kipping. The rattling of chains and fateful moans of the four hundred and forty-two souls aboard brings upon an abhorrent disgust. A case of the ‘blue devils’ I'm wondering if a person writing this would use the "" around the blue devils, or if they'd just write it, seeing as it's not particular jargon to them and is common language?
 (I'm assuming this - I don't know for certain about the regular use of this term, I'm just assuming it's contextual :))
I can no longer deny. Beyond the horizon looms a rolling sea of grey and my dear Liverpool is now a monstrous town whose pitiful theft of its own humanity is of grave concern. I cannot truly console myself when men such as Sir Richard Arkwright are still revered as creative geniuses. For in his opening of Shudehill Mill in Manchester came the subsequent sacrifice of the free will of mankind. Yet, I do have hope, for past the thick plumes of smoke there must be a sea of marigold, a voice to be heard. Rousseau’s words echo a boundless source of promise that we can break the shackles of poverty and rise above injustice, for I too prefer liberty with danger than such peace with slavery. This is all very clear - despite the fact that I don't engage with texts following Romanticism conventions, like,
 ever, I'm following this really well and even when I don't 100% understand something (purely from my background), I can still imagine what it means, the setting is just enough to transport me there.

James Kelsall’s Journal
Captain Luke Collingwood, of steady age and character, Love this description. rarely had second thoughts about any given matter. Any discrepancies were scarcely made public, and, if so, Mr. Collingwood prided himself in simple facts and realities which disproved what few ideas opposed the constancy of his opinions.
“British-built ships typically carry 1.75 Black Ivory per ton of the ship's capacity…” he would recount with absolute precision, “on the Aurore, our ratio is 4.0 per ton.”
Sir Collingwood worshipped his creator and, for his own amusement, found occupation for an idle hour by compelling the poor wretches to sing psalms – which often entailed melancholy lamentations of their exile from their native country. When weather permitted, they would be obliged to dance, which, if they go about reluctantly, was punishable by whipping.
James Kelsall’s Journal
My beloved Lucy, it has occurred to me that the pathway from slavery to freedom is founded in the gift of education, which is something I have taken for granted for much of my life. Such lofty ambitions, however, are not without danger, for I feared that if I disobeyed Sir Collingwood’s orders, I may too come to the same fate as these forlorn foreigners we transport. Only once the below decks were obscured by darkness, did I begin teaching them the basics of a good Christian education. I scarcely had much time to do so however as the rest of the crew would often rise suspicious as to my location. Surprising as it may seem, I found myself somewhat indebted to the slaves. They were noble souls; who not only possessed loving hearts, but contained brave ones. Although secured together by iron legs, they were more strongly interlinked by the mutual hardships that they were subjected to in their condition as slaves. Soon they grew in wisdom as the sea of marigold appeared ever closer.
James Kelsall’s Journal At this stage, I'm thinking that the only thing that I would gain from them signing off the journals, is perhaps a little bit of context through language, but maybe I'd also have an idea about how much time elapsed between each. So maybe, "Much time has passed since I last entered these pages, I hope next time we meet it will be much sooner." I mean, I agree with you in that I like it even without signing off. But, if you chose to sign off, that would be the benefit. 
My dearest Lucy, perhaps Rousseau was quite correct in saying that “man is born free, but is everywhere in chains” for it brings me no deal of pleasure to open to you such events as what unfolded only a few nights ago:
The messengers which had gathered since dawn slowly sank to smother the winter sun. The storm, as it always does, appeared in various parts of the heavens and echoed across the Pacific Ocean, the most violent storm hung just north of Cape Verde whilst the Azores were enlightened by a series of faint flashes, playing on the peaks of Mount Pico in the most beautiful figures. I could not logically explain the sensation, as, although it was approaching ever so quickly, I had no urge to retreat. Yet, even as the messengers hung ominously in the distance, the lashing winds slowly soothed into a soft melody similar to that of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Such splendour of nature, however, were disturbed by piercing screams from the hold. What horrors that I beheld with my very eyes! The slaves were growing restless, fifty or sixty… fastened to one chain, I thought I must have been off my onion! Unfortunately, such was not the case. Frail, scurvy-infected bodies limped over one another as if a bunch of Lushingtons. Futile cries rang out from the front deck, distorted by undulating waves as human limbs were soon swallowed whole under a deep swell of sickly indigo, as Mr Collingwood, once a man of great respectability, simply watched. The few that remained sprang disdainfully from Mr Collingwood’s grasps and leaped into the ocean, triumphantly embracing death rather than tyrannical subjugation.
James Kelsall’s Journal
The wind descended in the south now as restless waves ascended to magnificent heights while the tempest raged within the heavens. Mr. Collingwood has disposed of even more of the hapless souls below and now only few remain. Even the echoing tempest cannot divert my mind from the awful truth of this cursed voyage, for it too seems to scorn down upon us. Perhaps it is only in the most natural of states that we can truly experience contentment? I only hope that these poor souls view their tragic end with similar sentiments.
James Kelsall’s Journal
Dearest Lucy! How I will covet the day when this grave sin against humanity is at last eradicated! The news of the passing of the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act in March gave me new life and spirits; a hope felt even by the poor few slaves who still remained. Alas, months have passed and still their cries for liberty remain ignored. I share with you a letter I found from Quaco, one of my more learned students:
I cannot help but feel as if learning had been a curse rather than a blessing. Freedom has now consumed my greatest desires, breathing in every wind and echoing in every storm, calling us to come and share in its hospitality. Yet, it also tormented me with a sense of my wretched condition. Is it not enough that I have been torn from my own country to toil for the luxury and lust of another man’s gain? The restless waves frighten me no more; rather they seem to understand. In them, I may finally find the peace I have been longing for.
At this point, I imagine, Quaco was swept away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
James Kelsall’s Journal
I can hear it coming. Its roar echoes across the ocean floor to the peaks of Blue Hills, a signal that nature is decreeing its retribution, the Aurore will not reach the ports of Liverpool. It is not long before we shall plummet into the vast, empty abyss, reunited in death with the two hundred and forty eight already below. From a dense blanket of grey shines a light so glorious words cannot encompass, opening the depths of the heavens to my very soul. Yet, the light is now engulfed by the wrath of the raging forces above. Man is a sinful creature, but redemption awaits him if he repents his wrongdoings. How sad to think that nature speaks and mankind does not listen.

I love the ending of this...the last two entries, to me, were the most powerful. I thought the story was engaging but also not too difficult to follow, and the language fit the scene. I think your second last entry deals with the question of how the slave is so well spoken, so I think it makes sense and I'm not too critical of that aspect, although maybe there could be some reference to the slave in school, even if its a comparison between the hostility of the ocean and the hostility he once felt... Something like this might just fill the question in the markers head, but I'd negotiate this with your teacher to see how this fits in contextually. I happen to disagree about the ending feedback your teacher gave - I don't know what about it needs to be clearer? There are lots of ways to interpret the ending, but I have no troubles with this. It's nice to be able to see it as a narrative for slaves, for colonialism, for human kind in general...and the imagery is just so nice in that ending bit. So I suppose my only area of concern is about the education level of the slave, because you won't be prefacing your exam with "he went to England for an education" you'd need more than that, carefully embedded in the story. Do you see how a marker would find your story to be fallible by that little section?

Hopefully this second pair of eyes helps! Again, another great story from you :)

Thanks Elyse :) Yeah I might have to add in something ie. some slaves were chosen to be integrated into English society and thus received an education so maybe I'll add something contextually then because I do really feel like the perspective of a slave needs to be there and I don't want to write uneducatedly because i dont think it will add much sophistication even if contextually correct. and I also like the idea of giving an idea of how much time passes :) Yeah I really like the ending but might just have to for now make a bit more clear since my teacher is marking it but I'll still try to keep the subtlety - he said that the markers in the hsc might not be smart enough to realise what it means which i think is a lame excuse to change it and i dont believe him either. but anyway thanks for your help! :) oh and also yeah the blue devils was a word of the time that was used to describe feeling melancholy, i did originally have it in 'blue devils' but my teacher crossed them out haha
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 29, 2017, 12:20:12 pm
Thanks Elyse :) Yeah I might have to add in something ie. some slaves were chosen to be integrated into English society and thus received an education so maybe I'll add something contextually then because I do really feel like the perspective of a slave needs to be there and I don't want to write uneducatedly because i dont think it will add much sophistication even if contextually correct. and I also like the idea of giving an idea of how much time passes :) Yeah I really like the ending but might just have to for now make a bit more clear since my teacher is marking it but I'll still try to keep the subtlety - he said that the markers in the hsc might not be smart enough to realise what it means which i think is a lame excuse to change it and i dont believe him either. but anyway thanks for your help! :) oh and also yeah the blue devils was a word of the time that was used to describe feeling melancholy, i did originally have it in 'blue devils' but my teacher crossed them out haha

I learned something! I like the blue devils, it sounds nice.

You are definitely playing it smart by referring to the criticism from your teacher if they are the one marking. With your trial feedback, you'll be able to take it further and spend time developing the slaves voice carefully alongside the context to perfectly meld the two together.
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: stephjones on July 29, 2017, 07:40:59 pm
Hi Steph - I'm incredibly sorry this took too long. I completely missed this in the rush we had and Jamon pointed it out to me before. So I'm really sorry! I hope this is still handy for you :) In saying this, I didn't study sci-fi so there may be particular conventions you need to adhere to that I'm not 100% up with, but nonetheless I'll look for grammar, structure, engagement, development, etc... :)


Spoiler
“There is no human life more sacred than another, just as there exists no human life qualitatively more meaningful than another.” – Pope Francis.
 Love this quote, but also love the love the way it's planted at the beginning before the story begins.
* * *

Artificial moonlight trickled through the gap in the beige curtains, casting mottled shadows over the bleached marble floor. The man woke as pain assaulted his chest, a hoarse groan of agony slipping from his throat. He struggled into a sitting position, eyes watering as the ache intensified with each gasp of air he took in attempt to placate it. Shaking fingers found the red button on the side of his cot, desperation forcing his fingers to clench as pain laced through his abdomen.

The light over his head glared crimson, the siren interrupting the silence of the ward. Immediately, the wall beside his bed folded outwards, an indistinct figure speeding towards him, a blur of silver and white. The bitter scent of chemicals was overwhelming, agonising, and pinpoints of black began to obscure his vision, and his screams drowned out the blaring siren and he didn’t know what was real anymore except for the pain, the darkness that blanketed him, the shadows that crept in from the corners of his vision, suffocating him. 

And then suddenly, it was as if he was floating.

The man blinked, forcing his vision to come back into focus, barely noting the lifelines now stapled to his chest, a white tube pumping liquid that disappeared into smooth skin. A nurse hovered over him, its just not sure about its - unless there's a reason that gender cannot be assigned to certain characters in this story. In which case, I'll find out shortly blonde hair spilling over thin, metal shoulders as its unblinking cerulean eyes scanned the length of his body. He was numb, and the shadows were almost too bright as he gazed, disorientated, around his room, flinching from the icy fingers that ran over his forehead.

The curve of each nurses’ body was designed to calm the men, but they never could manage to get the body temperature right. But it was a price he was willing to pay – the Domestic Services Act of 2034 had retired human women from high-stress occupations, to spare them from the potential of emotionally-provoked errors.

The nurse made no noise as it grabbed a clipboard from the desk, scrawling indecipherably along thin black lines. “The sedatives won’t last much longer, Mr Archibald. This is it,” it informed him, and the voice was clipped, indifferent, dispassionate. The man swallowed, as a hollowness settled deep within his chest. “Your body is effectively eating itself.” It's not dialogue, but I think this would resonate more if it were put on its own line, the quotation.

The man’s vision began to blur, and he blinked furiously to fend away the shadows lurking at the edges of his gaze. His mind flooded with images, a photo album of the previous thirty years, of a family, of a dishevelled two-year-old boy waiting stubbornly by the window for him, of the desperation settled deep within his wife’s blue gaze as she kissed his knuckles.

He took in a trembling breath, eyes flicking desperately around the ward, yearning for the warmth of human comfort, but the sterile walls ignored him as he felt the images, the life slip from his grasp.

“Of course, you are eligible for a Life Extension,” the nurse continued, “The serum has a ninety-eight per cent success rate – exposing the body cells to cryogenic environments decelerates the aging process and destroys tumours, and has the potential to double the average human life expectancy. The population surplus is dealt with accordingly and immediately, and for a small price, it’s as though your body never malfunctioned.” It listed the benefits methodically, monotonous, voice a drone against the unnatural silence of the ward. This last sentence doesn't make sense. "It listed the benefits methodically and monotonously, the voice was a drone again the unnatural silence of the ward." Perhaps this works better? He thought again of his family, of tears he would be unable to catch, of dreams never realised. What was the value of his life, his family, his family’s future, to the value of a man he’d never met? But still his heart clenched painfully. The shadows continued to writhe, waiting in his peripheral vision.

“Surplus? Someone… killed…” But his eyes were drifting shut, voice slurring as his head sagged back to the pillow. The nurse finished printing details, placing the clipboard in front of him. The letters swam before his eyes, “ExtendiLife™ - Your life is too valuable to lose!” An excellent contrast to the quote at the beginning! Love this! His hands began to shake, and the ache began to blossom in his chest once more, an agony that ran deeper than his illness.

“Retired, yes,” the nurse corrected, “But someone less significant than you, Mr Archibald – someone from the colonies. Two things here - I'm wondering if it should be capitalised, and also wondering if it isn't wise to use the same name as Atwood does in the Handmaid's Tale. Get your teacher's opinion on this - I don't know if it borders into being unoriginal or it works as creative textual integration. As useful to our society as an ant is,” the nurse assured, pressing the pen into the man’s limp fingers, guiding his hands to the signature line, and it was all too much. And as the pressure built within his chest again, and the shadows reached greedily across his vision, the last thing he saw was the cold, silver hand signing his name.

* * *

The sky outside was an angry kaleidoscope of charcoals and greys as large droplets pelted relentlessly against the window, the smog suffocating the city, pressing up against the glass. A skeleton of skyscrapers loomed over the small house, the plethora of wires entangling them within the rubble that littered the ground. Hundreds of people scurried over the dusty hillside, as frightened insects in a foreign nest. The woman turned away.

“Mama, I did it!”

The child beamed up at her, a toothless grin that made his wide hazel eyes sparkle as he held the dusty, coloured cube triumphantly in his hand. The old wheelchair whined to a halt as he stopped in front of the woman, panting, exhilarated, pressing the puzzle into her palm, and his smile was infectious. She knelt, sweeping the auburn hair from the side of his face tenderly.

“Jimmy said you gotta be really, really smart to make the sides the same colours and I did!” he repeated, voice a squeal, a giggle bursting from his lips that lit the shadowy grey world beyond the window. “I’m gonna be a space man, Mama, because you gotta be smart to be a space man! Mr Abacus at school said I couldn’t because I can’t walk, but I read a book that said in space you fly so I wouldn’t even need my chair!”

And as the boy chattered on her thoughts turned to the cities that floated, invisible, miles above the industrial smog, where the stars were painted in the sky, where the space man was the man in the tie who sat on his throne and watched the ants scurry below. But she smiled, again, at the innocence of dreams which threatened to break the cover of clouds and nodded sincerely. “You can be whatever you want to be, Toby,” she affirmed, a lie, and the grin that split his face overshadowed the twisting anguish in her gut.

((I'm trying to include something here bc next para is too sudden imo))

The ancient telecommunications machine behind her whirred to life, spluttering as it spat out the clean, white paper. A government seal branded the top right corner, long cursive letters decorating the pristine page. Her stomach dropped as the bitter scent of chemicals wafted from the document, blood turning to ice at the boy’s excited cry of recognition of his own name penned in the scathing black ink.

“We regret to inform you that the individual TOBIUS BROWN is to be retired at noon tomorrow as a result of the population surplus. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Kind regards,
Archibald Enterprises.”

And suddenly the walls of the small home were suffocating, the dust that rose from the wooden floorboards choking her throat as the boy watched on, brows furrowed in an innocent frown of confusion. Her knees buckled, the toy cube thudding to the floor, the manuscript trembling in her hand as her mind flashed forward, to the tears she would never be able to catch, to dreams never realised. How could the value of one man’s life overshadow the dreams, the future of a family?

And miles above them, the space man raised his foot above the ants, and stepped down.

What I love about this piece:
-The way the initial quote comes from an authority like the Pope, because it's powerful yet also comes from an authority that's been criticised for hypocrisy before. Then, the way it's referenced and explored implicitly and explicitly throughout is just wonderful!
-The comparison between the two narratives is clever enough that I'm never thinking, wait, what happened to that first guy?
-It definitely explores speculative fiction in all the right ways.

What I want to suggest for improvements:
-I struggled to understand the nurse. Was it a woman dressed as a man? Why did she or he have silver hands? And from what I noticed, the nurse was only referenced as an "it" twice, meaning that I wasn't ready to commit to the fact that this was a genderless being instead of a potential typo.
-The legislation that is put in earlier, it also confused me a bit. I definitely like the implementation of the legislation, but it didn't answer questions for me, nor prompt them, but just kind of confused me. When it came to looking closely at the nurse figure, I was unsure of what to make of the nurse in general. So the act kind of just made it a little bit more muddy for me.

The second half of the story was very clear to me, although you said you felt like it jumped too far in that one bit where you want to add something else, I didn't particularly read it that way. I do wonder that when she receives the note about the termination, should it perhaps use some kind of hypocritical statement in there that's a little ironic? The inconvenience thing threw me a bit - because although it works in its own calculated and callous way, I wonder if something like, "We trust that you understand the needs of the nation." Or something like this...I wonder if this prompts more questions about the national needs about the individual needs, which in itself is another link to the original quote.

I hope this gives you another valuable perspective!

Thank you so so much! I absolutely get that you guys are getting hammered at the moment, so it's all good haha (: Definitely in time though, my extension trial isn't until next week so its fine!

I totally get what you mean in terms of the legislation/nurse (it was supposed to be a robot, kind of to show the way that technology has the potential to subjugate humans etc etc), it was a bit of a last ditch attempt to add in a more technologically-based sci-fi convention because I was told that it was very soft science-fiction, but I'll definitely work on clarifying that or figuring something else out around that!

Also I totally did not even realise that I'd ripped off Atwood, but I'll probably change that as well!

Thank you so so much for your feedback, it was really helpful!! xx
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on July 30, 2017, 07:53:29 pm
Thank you so so much! I absolutely get that you guys are getting hammered at the moment, so it's all good haha (: Definitely in time though, my extension trial isn't until next week so its fine!

I totally get what you mean in terms of the legislation/nurse (it was supposed to be a robot, kind of to show the way that technology has the potential to subjugate humans etc etc), it was a bit of a last ditch attempt to add in a more technologically-based sci-fi convention because I was told that it was very soft science-fiction, but I'll definitely work on clarifying that or figuring something else out around that!

Also I totally did not even realise that I'd ripped off Atwood, but I'll probably change that as well!

Thank you so so much for your feedback, it was really helpful!! xx

So glad to hear this Steph! All the best with it :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: paigek3 on August 08, 2017, 03:53:46 pm
Thank you so so much! I absolutely get that you guys are getting hammered at the moment, so it's all good haha (: Definitely in time though, my extension trial isn't until next week so its fine!

I totally get what you mean in terms of the legislation/nurse (it was supposed to be a robot, kind of to show the way that technology has the potential to subjugate humans etc etc), it was a bit of a last ditch attempt to add in a more technologically-based sci-fi convention because I was told that it was very soft science-fiction, but I'll definitely work on clarifying that or figuring something else out around that!

Also I totally did not even realise that I'd ripped off Atwood, but I'll probably change that as well!

Thank you so so much for your feedback, it was really helpful!! xx

I don't do your unit of work but wow I really enjoyed that story    :D
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: stephjones on August 08, 2017, 05:19:34 pm
I don't do your unit of work but wow I really enjoyed that story    :D

ahh thank you so much ! (:
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: paigek3 on August 08, 2017, 06:11:37 pm
The creative writing I am planning to use for trials fits into a whole lot of themes, but if it asked for a specific location I would be screwed!! Any predictions for what this year's ATB creative question could be? And should I be preparing a more general story
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: dancing phalanges on August 08, 2017, 06:15:07 pm
The creative writing I am planning to use for trials fits into a whole lot of themes, but if it asked for a specific location I would be screwed!! Any predictions for what this year's ATB creative question could be? And should I be preparing a more general story

I have the exact same issue as my Romantic story is set on a boat and the plot depends on that setting (the boat is destroyed by the storm at the end as a symbol of nature's retribution against man's greed) so I am just going to try think of another way of doing my story just in case! Here's to hoping the stimulus is anything BUT a setting for both of us ahah :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: paigek3 on August 08, 2017, 06:23:21 pm
I have the exact same issue as my Romantic story is set on a boat and the plot depends on that setting (the boat is destroyed by the storm at the end as a symbol of nature's retribution against man's greed) so I am just going to try think of another way of doing my story just in case! Here's to hoping the stimulus is anything BUT a setting for both of us ahah :)

Yeah mine is in Berlin all about the Berlin Wall so I am stuck of what to do! Cause I really wanna keep developing this story to make it of a high standard but at the back of my mind I know I probably should try and begin a more general one before HSC
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: LetsBeCats on August 23, 2017, 03:00:57 pm
Is there anyone who could help me scaffold a navigating the global creative piece? I have two basic ones but I'm struggling to get a solid concept through in my story and there are not many sample response to look at....
PS: the story for Life Writing above is amazing!! Defs an E4 at least!
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: diesxel on August 23, 2017, 10:32:33 pm
Hello! I've attached my Romanticism creative and I was hoping someone could mark it?

I want to use it in my trial (which is on Friday) but feedback would also be appreciated because I want to use it in HSC

Any advice or suggestions will 100% be appreciated! Thank you so much  :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: ruponti.atiq on October 27, 2017, 08:04:19 pm
Do we have to implicitly mention paradigms in our creative or can they be explicit?
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: elysepopplewell on October 27, 2017, 08:59:27 pm
Do we have to implicitly mention paradigms in our creative or can they be explicit?

They can be explicit :)
Title: Re: English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
Post by: justwannawish on October 27, 2017, 11:00:08 pm
Hey, for the historical figure one, I was planning on doing Oppheinmer for my creative and substituiting him in the place of my protagonist, and having him make a ficticious discovery of the bomb. Does that sound reasonable or would I have to stick to historical accuracy?

Secondly, for an historical event, I have a story about the fall of the Berlin Wall, however, it's in the background (main plot is the head of the Stasi department gets an unexpected visitor who claims she has information about American spies.Turns out that she is actually a spy for the West and is confessing because of Schabowski's announcement earlier that day, glad she can finally achieve her purpose. But she also knows the Stasi guard is actually a spy himself, and his mission is also over with the fall of the wall. And the story ends with the Wall falling and the people being reunited as one.) Would I need to foreground the historical event more? Maybe integrate a section where random workers in the street are huddled around a radio and cheering and the protagonist can only decipher a couple of words about "Gates are open" and thinking nothing of it. Or would it depend on the question itself? Does anyone have any ideas of what to include as a subtle feature?

Thirdly, does anyone know any Western spies in East Berlin?  :)

(PS Good luck Elyse for your assessment! Thank you so much for doing so much for on Extension when you have a busy uni life! Hope the good karma strikes you thrice  ;D)