Free AOS Creative Writing Marking!

[birdwing341]

Hi!

I have written a creative writing piece. Please be honest and brutal, as I don't know how I can improve without this sort of feedback. I struggle with creative writing above everything else in English (and significantly so), so anything on how to improve would be helpful.

Thanks in advance

[elysepopplewell]

Hi!

I have written a creative writing piece. Please be honest and brutal, as I don't know how I can improve without this sort of feedback. I struggle with creative writing above everything else in English (and significantly so), so anything on how to improve would be helpful.

Thanks in advance

Hey birdwing! Here's my suggestions, in the spoiler below!

Spoiler

Dust filled the air of the library, illuminated by streams of light emanating from the ajar window. Great imagery here! Edward Craig sat at the table, entranced by the aged journals that had piled up around him. Finishing one journal and finding nothing to his liking, he lovingly placed it on the left stack, which became three times as high as the stack of unread journals on the right. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, removing the dust that had begun to settle on his head.  I LOOOOOVE THIS INTRO! It is just the right amount of imagery to create a really good seen. I imagine a man, sitting amongst books, with a really gentle atmosphere providing by the dust. It's really balanced. I also like your choice of introducing first and surname at the same time, it just adds a touch of sincerity and wisdom, which matches the books.
Turning his head towards the open window, he stared longingly into the French countryside. The rolling green hills were home to a multitude of vineyards, populating "populating" doesn't seem like the best word here for me. Covering? Littering? Sprinkling? Occupying? I just think "populating" has connotations of business and chaos, like a city. And the scene you're describing here is very tranquil, I think "populating" works against that.the landscape from the library to the horizon. His eyes flicked to the left and to the right, subconsciously noting the wizened bricks of the archaic building who from where he had watched the war he came to study and seen the people whose destinies he had come to find. Try re-word this little snippet here. Perhaps re-read it in the original sense and recognise that the subject matter isn't clear, so "who" doesn't work well. I've tried to edit it but I'm not sure it's reflecting your intention. Just read over it and I think you'll see what I mean
*   *   *
Two weeks earlier, Edward was with his parents and brother at the airport, waiting to be called for his flight. They sat in silence, the absence of conversation acknowledging their singular thought. His mother shattered the delicate façade Not sure that this is the perfect word for this spot. atmosphere? tranquility? silence? tension? anxiety? , speaking words that everyone was thinking.
“You know, if you do find his grave…”, her voice broke as she spoke, betraying the intensity of her desire.
“I’m going to research for my book, Mum. But if anything comes up, I’ll let you know”, the comma goes inside the quotation mark his words seemed to comfort his family, and the inevitable return to silence marked their thankfulness.
But inwardly he grimaced. I think this reads better as, "Inwardly, he grimaced." Starting a sentence with "but" is grammatically incorrect, which is fine as long as you bend the rules with purpose (eg. You're replicating speech, because people do this in colloquial language). In this instance, I think following the grammatical ruling is just as effective. If only that were true, he thought, knowing the only reason he took the trip was on the hope he could find his grandfather’s grave. But he didn’t tell his family, not because they couldn’t afford to entertain hope and have it dashed, but because he was afraid of failure. "couldn't afford to entertain hope..." MUSIC TO MY EARS!
He carefully turned his face away to prevent his family noticing a small tear. Now was not the time for emotions. So far, your language has been so delicate, which is wonderful because it reflects a delicate situation. It's very carefully maintained, I love it.
*   *   *
Awakening himself from his gaze, he picked up the next journal and began. As was usual as he read and immersed himself in the lives of men who were forced to fight in a war so unlike any before it, time slowed. In what felt like fifteen minutes, but was closer to two hours, Edward neared the end of the journal. It was the story of Private James Hellenes, a West Australian who was drafted to Passchendaele, fought from July to November 1917; the battle where his grandfather, Corporal Thomas Waters, was tragically killed in action. He paused, wiped the dust off the page and continued to read.
   28 September 1917
It is impossible to describe. When I look around me it is like being in a sea, not of water but of mud. There isn’t a plant in sight, only hills of mud, torn to pieces by the shells…We went on an attack last night at Polygon Wood. After the assault there were 18 men left in the company. Privates Tommy Lancaster and Fred Miles are gone, as too is Corporal Thomas Waters. They’ll get a proper burial at least, given we can find the bodies. How does someone get a proper burial, without a body to bury?The CO knows about the losses as well, and will organise the ceremony, hopefully for tomorrow at Zillebeke. That way I can take a break before I go back to the front line…
When you write this in an exam, make sure you leave at least two lines blank before and after this passage, just to emphasise that it is a little excerpt.
The writing trailed off, and Edward stared blankly at the eloquent handwriting, lovingly imprinted into the brittle and battered pages, following the unique curves of those three words. Corporal. Thomas. Waters. His heart rate rose and fell, I'd make this a sentence in its own. Perhaps, "His heart rate rose and fell with each each word in the title." It doesn't have to be this, but just something to give a little more depth to the heart rising and falling. Any heart can beat - but how was this one beating? It might just be really simple, it's just about taking a kind-of-cliche and turning it into something really original. titanic oscillations mirroring the concoction of emotions that had moved him, even made him, persevere until now I'm not sure that this bit makes perfect grammatical sense. Are you suggesting that the emotions made him persevere until now? or are you saying, not only did the emotions move him, but they made him, and they made him persevere?. He was tempted to shout, but thought better of it given the idyllic milieu of the town. Wonderful! Instead he slowly strode around the table, decisively and with poise. As he did so, an inclement storm of dust built up around the table, swirling and churning, uncovering new areas of the ornate floor, beautiful patterns coalescing with one another. A sight of wonder.
Thoughts flew across his mind, merging with memory, the emotional earthquake of success ravaging his mind, interweaving past and present, emboldening. Yes. He had found his grandfather’s grave and would be lauded as a hero by his family, just as Thomas would have been had he survived the war. Moreover, it was his responsibility to deliver the call and he would be able to experience firsthand their joyous responses. Yet he hesitated. Once more the fear of failure welled within him, warring against the certainty of the journal. What if questions drifted across his mind threatening to take victory. Yet some spirit of the old soldiers remained in him and he marched to the phone to make the call. 
Edward waited impatiently, as the phone called, fiddling with his nails and breathing quickly. Nervous energy pulsated through his body.
“Hello”, (punctuation inside the quotation mark)spoke a familiar female voice.
“Hi Mum. Are Dad and Harry there? I have something to say to you all”, Edward replied, recognising the sharp intake of air on the other end of the phone and inwardly recoiling. A short pause preceded her reply.
“We’re all here”, she responded, emotion again betraying the thought on her mind. “Did you…Did you…?”
“Yes”, came his words, clearly spoken so they would not be misinterpreted over the phone line. Immediately audible tears of joy could be heard, softly transmitted by the telephone line. Edward smiled to himself, acknowledging the significance of his revelation.
“Thank you”, came back his father’s voice. “We’ll talk to you later”.
A soft click marked the end of the call, and Edward returned to his desk and again began to read the diary. This time, however, there was no burden nor any weight, just freedom. Freedom to relax, freedom to smile and freedom to enjoy the rest of the journals stacked next to him on the right, caked with dust.
*   *   *
Twelve days later, in the small village of Zillebeke, Edward stood with his family once more. The air was crisp and inviting, awakening them to reality. The grave had been found, and certainty had been achieved. Together they stood in silence, staring at the white cross which had been erected as a memorial to all those who perished in the battle near the village. They laid their wreath, adorned by the wildflowers of the Belgian countryside where Corporal Thomas Waters had perished, and hands on their hearts, paused for a minute of silence. Lest we forget. Love this ending.

Ok, so, I expected this to be needing a lot of help because you doubt your creative writing skills. Never again, birdwing! This is wonderful. In terms of language, you've captured the essence and atmosphere of this area in France wonderfully. Your language is as delicate as the surroundings you've described.

In terms of discovery, we clearly see a physical discovery. Also, an emotional discovery, in some ways, a spiritual discovery. We see that it was in some ways planned, in some ways unplanned, and it was intensely meaningful. There are more areas of the rubric you've covered, but this is just what sticks out to me most. You've done a wonderful job here. I would give this a Band 6, I promise! My only suggestion to think about your work overall, is to consider how you would go about incorporating a stimulus in a creative, often figurative, way. You haven't got a running metaphor or motif at this point, so it's a good idea to consider how you would handle a variety of different stimulus types in your work, which currently doesn't have that motif dimension (but perhaps that is the best way to incorporate the stimulus, without disrupting your plot).

Also, make sure that your commas are inside the quotation marks All the best! Let me know if you'd like to clarify anything

[birdwing341]

Thanks very much Ellyse Just to follow up, after the first paragraph, does this sentence make more sense?
His eyes flicked to the left and to the right, subconsciously noticing the wizened bricks of the archaic building from which many had watched the war he came to study and seen the people whose destinies he had come to find.

And with regards to the 'couldn't afford to entertain failure', which of these do you prefer (given that it doesn't change the story much).
1. But he didn’t tell his family, not because they couldn’t afford to entertain hope and have it dashed, but because he was afraid of failure.
2. But he didn’t tell his family, partly because they couldn’t afford to entertain hope and have it dashed, but more so because he was afraid of failure.

Does this make more sense?
His heart beat rose and fell with each word; titanic oscillations which mirrored the concoction of emotions that had moved him at the beginning of his search and made him persevere until now.

I REALLY value this feedback so much, so thank you very much for helping me to improve this creative. Hopefully I can push it to a 14/15

[elysepopplewell]

Thanks very much Ellyse Just to follow up, after the first paragraph, does this sentence make more sense?
His eyes flicked to the left and to the right, subconsciously noticing the wizened bricks of the archaic building from which many had watched the war he came to study and seen the people whose destinies he had come to find.

And with regards to the 'couldn't afford to entertain failure', which of these do you prefer (given that it doesn't change the story much).
1. But he didn’t tell his family, not because they couldn’t afford to entertain hope and have it dashed, but because he was afraid of failure.
2. But he didn’t tell his family, partly because they couldn’t afford to entertain hope and have it dashed, but more so because he was afraid of failure.

Does this make more sense?
His heart beat rose and fell with each word; titanic oscillations which mirrored the concoction of emotions that had moved him at the beginning of his search and made him persevere until now.

I REALLY value this feedback so much, so thank you very much for helping me to improve this creative. Hopefully I can push it to a 14/15

Awesome! All of this sounds better! As for the entertain sentence, I think the second works best! My only other critique is that the word "concoction" sounds a bit rough and random for the delicate nature of the content. Perhaps, scramble, chaos, fusion.

You're doing so well! If you get feedback from your teacher, I'd be very interested to know what they have to critique! It'll help improve my own editing skills, but it's also cool to see a second opinion!

[birdwing341]

Awesome! All of this sounds better! As for the entertain sentence, I think the second works best! My only other critique is that the word "concoction" sounds a bit rough and random for the delicate nature of the content. Perhaps, scramble, chaos, fusion.

You're doing so well! If you get feedback from your teacher, I'd be very interested to know what they have to critique! It'll help improve my own editing skills, but it's also cool to see a second opinion!

Sorry, another quicky from me. I gave the story to my friend (who received 15 in trials), and he pointed out the common use of adverbs, which he says 'tell not show'. Is there any way to effectively remove them without upsetting the 'balance' of the piece. Is there even a need?

Thanks

[elysepopplewell]

Sorry, another quicky from me. I gave the story to my friend (who received 15 in trials), and he pointed out the common use of adverbs, which he says 'tell not show'. Is there any way to effectively remove them without upsetting the 'balance' of the piece. Is there even a need?

Thanks

It's definitely a valid criticism, but I have to say it isn't something that bothered me at all in my reading. Usually it is one of the first things I look for, and I did this time as well, but it just wasn't high on my radar. Perhaps this is because the imagery is so rich, that the "showing" of actions can take a more savoury approach to balance out the tastes. I also don't think that you actually used a lot of adverbs, when in fact they are quite a useful little device. Here's an example:
"He stared longingly into the French countryside."
This does the job: the noun is identified as looking at some beautiful countryside (as it has already been described by rolling green hills), and then "longingly" adds a nice little touch to the piece. It would be too boring without "longingly," in my opinion. Perhaps you could add to the end of the sentence, "with a desire that filled his body." But, in the end, I think this sentence works wonderfully as is.

Showing and not telling is definitely important - but it doesn't have to be the case every time. Breaking things up and mixing between exact language, descriptive imagery, and showing, makes a great piece. In my opinion, you have that.

But, it has potential to be a good exercise for you to go through the sentences with adverbs and perhaps just changing two. That way, you're forcing yourself to review your work critically and engage with a potential extension of your work!

[Deng]

Not necessarily marking also not sure where else to ask but i was wondering for my creative if i had it revolving around flashbacks throughout would it work. I'm semi worried that it would come off as a "and then i woke up" kind of story :/

In its most simplest form my creative goes like this
Mum has alzheimer
Goes down memory lane ( 3 time skips ) ( career disputes/run away from home)
Back to present, mum hands letter where it shows renewed perspectives on her job / renewed perspective

[elysepopplewell]

Not necessarily marking also not sure where else to ask but i was wondering for my creative if i had it revolving around flashbacks throughout would it work. I'm semi worried that it would come off as a "and then i woke up" kind of story :/

In its most simplest form my creative goes like this
Mum has alzheimer
Goes down memory lane ( 3 time skips ) ( career disputes/run away from home)
Back to present, mum hands letter where it shows renewed perspectives on her job / renewed perspective

I think that it really comes down to your ending. If the ending is great, wholesome, and really ties it in together - it works. I think if that ending bit is quite short, you place a lot of weight on the flashbacks and their execution. So, I definitely think it can work without looking like a cop out. But you want that last bit to make it all really seem worthwhile!

It had been too long since she travelled to her former home, finding all aspects of the environment in pristine beauty, just as she left them. Trees danced in rhythm with the cool breeze, the whistle of the wind singing as the day grew old. The elderly canine lay stagnant on the veranda, absorbing the long rays of the glowing sun just as a sponge to water. Glorious aromas of her grandmother’s flower patch rise in unison with the buzzing bees sharing the beauty of the lavender’s they bloomed from. 

Hi there! Welcome to the forums. To receive an essay or creative piece marked, you need to have 15 ATAR Notes posts. So, 14 more! You can ask questions, answer questions, or join in the conversation on the cohort's discussion thread. Please let me know if you need help finding anything! Always here to help

[jnicko989]

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

They say you can’t die from a broken heart. But you can. I’ve seen it. I’ve experienced it. Every breath is laboured; every movement is meaningless in the abyss that accompanies your thoughts. A broken heart is like a leech. An emotional parasite that sucks away any happiness from what was once a euphoric existence. And then the pointlessness of it all settles, and you try to move on – eventually, you hit the red brick wall of despair again. Before that, the heartbreak is but an echo in the back of your mind, small reminders tucked away in reality, in the coffee shops and the bus seats you sat in together. But this… this is my brick wall. Love is just a temporary fix in an attempt to escape reality, when in reality, love doesn’t exist to fix us; it exists to hurt us.

*   *   *

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

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

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

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


Note: The italics are a flashback, which I will completely indent during the exam just to give it a barrier from the rest of the work.

Regards, Jeremiah.

   

[mackenziejotoole]

hi,
 i jut need help filling out my creative i have the backbone to the story,  the zoo is meant to be a mystery till the end. i just don't want to put in to fill in up. as you can tell english isn't the strongest subject of mine, so any comments are greatly appreciated. also sorry for any spelling mistakes as i said I'm really bad.
Thanks


The repeated knocks on my body awoke me from my day dream. The cars nagging at me to move along, as we competed for a prime position at the pedestrian lights. I plodded along the street, my feet heavy against the stone cold pavement.
 Like a sardine I squished into the elevator, the monotonous music a soundtrack to my mediocre life. I contemplated the thought that being a lone wasn’t the trouble but on can be lonely in a midst of a crowd and this was a very crowed elevator. We sprawled out of the elevator into a cavernous room, were the cubical sprawl out like dominos before the fall. The sounds of the wildness were replaced by the repetitive clicking of typist, filling paper, scanners droning and the fax machines jamming. I had grown old of this repetition, as my zombie doppelgänger re-emerged.  This place was once secure blanket, now is suffocating me and the itch is now my longing for a changed. I slowly drifted off into space
   
 The pungent aroma of decomposing straw and manure hit me like a wall.  The scurrying footsteps in front of me beckoned me to follow. The birds announced my arrival with ever increasing urgency. Their eyes scrutinizing me. my nervousness turned into paranoia with the semiautomatic rifle sounds of the birds pierces the cold air. An itch grew inside of me.

THUMP!!

 My hands scarped the rough concert. Blood oozed from my hands like thick molasses. My eyes trailed around as the crowd closed in on me like sinister hyenas. I propped myself up against the damp brock wall. My stocking shredded like torn sinews from prey. confused. I searched hopelessly for a familiar face. Until out of the corner of my eye something caught my attention. Sat on a high branch. A being bathing in a halo of red met my eye. Enhanced. I stumbled over. The being extends its muscular arm, its fingers outstretched. Our fingers touched like a Leonardo de Vinci master piece. I stood in awe.
“How do I escape?” I beseeched.
 The dark eyes reflexed the abyss that was my soul. Empty. Cold. life less.


The slamming of the ram of paper brought me back. I looked over the ever-growing mountain was sky high. I felt hypoxic. That was it I knew what had to be done. It was time to break free. Confidently, I marched from the building I knew were I had to go.

 The warm light the the sandstone pillars, an entrance into paradise. The kids scurrying around. The birds wished with glee. I was liberated. As I followed the path. I knew this was my destiny. There in the corner of my eye. Sat the long limed being. His eyes filled with knowing. The Orang-utan outreached his arm and carefully locked the feed from min. a sense of worth arose from within. I was home. I belonged in the zoo.

[elysepopplewell]

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

Hey there! I'll get to your creative tomorrow morning! Sorry for the delay

[MarkThor]

Hi Elyse could you please mark my creative & any feedback at all would be greatly appreciated  .

Spoiler

The Path Ahead

My leg buckles as I step on another uneven cobblestone jutting out of the narrow lane. The young Nepalese girl pauses while I regain my footing. We have been walking for sometime through the twisty, narrow alleyways, which run between the rows of low-ceiling slums that characterise outer Kathmandu. A heavy winter smog has settled over the city. The dense, dull white clouds block out the moonlight and make it difficult to know where I am heading. This doesn’t worry me. I am accustomed to not knowing where I am heading. Even though my gap year is concluding in a month, I still feel the same way, just as cold as ever.

The sound of silence echoes through the sprawling maze of garbage littered pathways as both of our feet fall on the rough, uneven streets. My feet are heavy and clumsy on the broken cobblestone; occasionally treading in pooled water that sends icy sparks shooting up my leg. The girl, on the contrary, has clearly walked these dark streets countless times already during her youth, stepping lightly and gracefully.

“Why you wear so much?” The question is direct. To the point. Much like her.

“I always feel cold.” The words are a stark reminder that I still feel as isolated as ever. The cold, the loneliness, being there at the dawn of my dismal memories. Something I try to hide from behind my many layers. It has always been hard for me to connect with people, ever since I started talking. Every aspect of my speaking is fine, but as much as I try I can’t escape the weasel high-pitch sound of my voice. I planned this gap-year to finally try and connect with someone; to go beyond the shackles of my voice and finally feel some warmth in the world.

The memory of her soothing, soft voice “I show something.” as she first came out of the clouds of mist snaps my head out of the reverie. My eyes follow her as she continues to gracefully walk the pathways. What am I doing following this girl? Why am I in Kathamandu? How can this possibly help anything?

“I don’t think I want to continue on.” My words are sharp. Shrill. I slip on another slightly uneven cobblestone, the glasses flying forward off my face. I don’t hear anything. She’s probably left me. There is now only a dark haze, and that familiar feeling of my throat constricting. My hands search frantically to find the reassuring metal of my glasses. They are the only things that give me any idea of where I am heading.

The outline of her hand moves towards mine. I feel the smooth metal slide back through my fingertips. I stand up, not having put my glasses back on. With her slim, slightly rough hand guiding my wrist, she starts to lead me forward.

“Stop! I’ll fall.”

“No. Just trust.”

My eyes start to adjust, the streets are slowly becoming more inclined and less uneven. I now feel like we are no longer walking in the streets. She finally stops. My feet are on smooth ground, and my eyes can just make out the brighter moonlight. She turns and carefully places the glasses back onto my head. “Sometimes you must trust.”

We are in the mountains surrounding the city, on a small high plateau, that feels much more open than the narrow streets below. The moon is much brighter than before, and it shines on the colourful distinctive high-rises that burst through the smog lying on Kathmandu. The colour seems richer than before; there are deep reds, brown oranges, pale whites and the occasional splash of light blue and green buildings among them.

My lips are slightly parted; “It’s beautiful.” I do not notice the squealing of my voice. I look towards the Nepalese girl and the edges of my mouth strain to give her a rare sight of my moon-white teeth. The bright moonlight reflects of her teeth too. Even though we are high up in the mountains, I drop my outermost layer of clothing onto the smoother ground.

[jamonwindeyer]

Hi Elyse could you please mark my creative & any feedback at all would be greatly appreciated  .

Spoiler

The Path Ahead

My leg buckles as I step on another uneven cobblestone jutting out of the narrow lane. The young Nepalese girl pauses while I regain my footing. We have been walking for sometime through the twisty, narrow alleyways, which run between the rows of low-ceiling slums that characterise outer Kathmandu. A heavy winter smog has settled over the city. The dense, dull white clouds block out the moonlight and make it difficult to know where I am heading. This doesn’t worry me. I am accustomed to not knowing where I am heading. Even though my gap year is concluding in a month, I still feel the same way, just as cold as ever.

The sound of silence echoes through the sprawling maze of garbage littered pathways as both of our feet fall on the rough, uneven streets. My feet are heavy and clumsy on the broken cobblestone; occasionally treading in pooled water that sends icy sparks shooting up my leg. The girl, on the contrary, has clearly walked these dark streets countless times already during her youth, stepping lightly and gracefully.

“Why you wear so much?” The question is direct. To the point. Much like her.

“I always feel cold.” The words are a stark reminder that I still feel as isolated as ever. The cold, the loneliness, being there at the dawn of my dismal memories. Something I try to hide from behind my many layers. It has always been hard for me to connect with people, ever since I started talking. Every aspect of my speaking is fine, but as much as I try I can’t escape the weasel high-pitch sound of my voice. I planned this gap-year to finally try and connect with someone; to go beyond the shackles of my voice and finally feel some warmth in the world.

The memory of her soothing, soft voice “I show something.” as she first came out of the clouds of mist snaps my head out of the reverie. My eyes follow her as she continues to gracefully walk the pathways. What am I doing following this girl? Why am I in Kathamandu? How can this possibly help anything?

“I don’t think I want to continue on.” My words are sharp. Shrill. I slip on another slightly uneven cobblestone, the glasses flying forward off my face. I don’t hear anything. She’s probably left me. There is now only a dark haze, and that familiar feeling of my throat constricting. My hands search frantically to find the reassuring metal of my glasses. They are the only things that give me any idea of where I am heading.

The outline of her hand moves towards mine. I feel the smooth metal slide back through my fingertips. I stand up, not having put my glasses back on. With her slim, slightly rough hand guiding my wrist, she starts to lead me forward.

“Stop! I’ll fall.”

“No. Just trust.”

My eyes start to adjust, the streets are slowly becoming more inclined and less uneven. I now feel like we are no longer walking in the streets. She finally stops. My feet are on smooth ground, and my eyes can just make out the brighter moonlight. She turns and carefully places the glasses back onto my head. “Sometimes you must trust.”

We are in the mountains surrounding the city, on a small high plateau, that feels much more open than the narrow streets below. The moon is much brighter than before, and it shines on the colourful distinctive high-rises that burst through the smog lying on Kathmandu. The colour seems richer than before; there are deep reds, brown oranges, pale whites and the occasional splash of light blue and green buildings among them.

My lips are slightly parted; “It’s beautiful.” I do not notice the squealing of my voice. I look towards the Nepalese girl and the edges of my mouth strain to give her a rare sight of my moon-white teeth. The bright moonlight reflects of her teeth too. Even though we are high up in the mountains, I drop my outermost layer of clothing onto the smoother ground.

Hey Mark! My math says that you need to hit 35 posts to qualify for this piece to be marked (so, another 10 posts)

[Moematar]

Hey i was hoping i could get some feedback on my creative writing piece and also ways to improve it and how i can make it easier to adapt in the exam? thankyou         


  The Bitter Taste of Life
                                                                      “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”- Peter 4:8
“Large cap with soy milk thanks.”
It has been almost two years since my epiphany and I have been ordering the same coffee. It feels like I have been ordering it forever. I have never dared to order anything else on this menu. I don’t even really know why I order it anymore. Maybe this is the day I try something different.
“Order number four large cap.”
“Yes, thank-you.”
The café improves but the coffee doesn’t. The waiter that served me was full of flair, he was like a sunrise, elegant and full of promise… something I would’ve given my left arm for when I was his age. I slowly wandered away to the nearest table as if I had gravel in my shoes, and slouched on the seat. My body was aching from work the previous day. The soy milks bitter after taste took me back two years,
“How did I ever get used to this?”
“Why did I do this to myself?”
 I stared into the dark brown coffee visualising my life before this mess before this hot brown liquid ever made its way into my system. I guess my life was not exactly perfect. The arguments with my wife were increasing, day after day, arguing with her was like duelling with a hand grenade. She gradually grew colder when we embraced, she became less responsive, her silence became intoxicating. Of course, my life wasn’t perfect before this. The memories of being on the dating site struck me. I was open to anyone and anything. I often pondered as to whether I was looking in the wrong place, I wanted to sail on the ocean of love but I just wasted away terrified of how others would interpret this love.
 *Ding*
 The café doorbell had me focused again.
“come on focus, I need to bring myself back to life.”
I forced myself to take a couple more sips of the coffee *gulp* *gulp*. I couldn’t resist but think of my ex-wife once more. The insecurity had stemmed into my wife, who had regularly been checking my browser history and ‘secretly’ going through my messages. I was overcome with grief thinking I had ruined everything, I was terrified of facing my wife, I had a tingling sensation in my stomach and I became uneasy as I was unaware on how to deal with it.
“Just do it, time to go home.”
 I opened up the front door to see my wife sitting in front of the TV, expressionless, her eyes were like those of a statue. I charged upstairs as if I was it was my birthday. As I raced upstairs the piercing voice of the priest on our wedding day echoed in the back of my mind, reciting the vows ‘let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.’ I stopped for a moment full of sorrow and grief. My heart swelled up with a sea of tears as I reminisced our wedding day. I couldn’t keep my self-caught up in the past much longer, I decided to get back on the dating site to see what was install for me as curiosity had suddenly become a big part of my life. The sun stretched its golden arms across the city, the daggers of its heat pierced through the cafe window, and they bring me back.
“How is it that the sun can shine so brightly and yet still have room for rain at the same time?”
 I slowly pick up the coffee, my hand somewhat trembling I take a sip of the foamy bitter fluid. My unsteady hand results in me unevenly sipping my coffee and the foam of the coffee impressively forms a pencil thin moustache beneath my nose.
Things took a turn for the worse. My wife ended up leaving me. My wife of fifteen years, girlfriend for six before that. Back in school it as quite unusual for a guy like me to have a girl like her. I fell for her like leaves in the autumn. I loved her more than anything, twenty-one years later I feel nothing towards her. The emptiness of not having her around quickly grew onto me. I found couple matches on the dating site but I was scared to proceed further.
I needed to embrace who I really was, not be afraid of what others might say.
I was almost done with this dreadful coffee.
“Maybe It’s time to order something different. I’ve been coming here for two years and not once have I ordered something other than the coffee.”
“Red velvet cake for two please.”
*Ding*
The café doorbell rang; I looked around as I was lost in a sea of faces I couldn’t spot the one that looked familiar. My face glowed like a full moon, feeling a great sense of relief as my date had finally arrived. We embraced each other with hugs and kisses on the cheek as if we had known each other for years. The waiter and the people at the café took note of us doing this.
“Red velvet for the two gentlemen here you go.”
The server seemed agitated and uncomfortable around us. The cakes were surprisingly small. I took one bite of the cake and felt like spitting it back out. The dry cake fused with the thick cream put me off. I was furious at the service however the mellow voice of my warm-hearted, sympathetic date settled me.
“Pay the bill and let’s leave.”
I quickly jumped out of my seat and asked for the bill. The waiter aggressively handed me my change with a note from the manager stating:
“People like you are unnatural and disgusting. you are no longer welcome here. – kind regards.”
The place was not what I expected. I rushed out of the café with my partner. Unable to be anywhere near the restaurant any longer I lunged to the side of the road I look everywhere to find a cab I quickly glance up to the sky as if it were a cry out for help but couldn’t look much longer as the light of the sun was blinding. I eventually find a cab to take me and my date home.
“I guess I should’ve expected such challenges, but I will not give up.”

[jamonwindeyer]

Hey i was hoping i could get some feedback on my creative writing piece and also ways to improve it and how i can make it easier to adapt in the exam? thankyou         

Hey Moematar! Welcome to the forums!!

Thanks for posting your creative, but unfortunately you need 15 posts on ATAR Notes for every essay/creative you'd like marked! This is to ensure that the markers have time to give proper feedback to active members of the forums; one line feedback doesn't help anyone hang around the forums for a bit, ask questions and maybe answer them, and you'll build up the post count really quick!