English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!

[bananna]

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

[elysepopplewell]

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!

[bsdfjnlkasn]

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!

[elysepopplewell]

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!

[elysepopplewell]

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!

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!

[AJ123]

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?

[bsdfjnlkasn]

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

[dancing phalanges]

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!

[elysepopplewell]

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

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!

[stephjones]

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.

[dancing phalanges]

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.

[elysepopplewell]

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!

[elysepopplewell]

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

[dancing phalanges]

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

[elysepopplewell]

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.