Free AOS Creative Writing Marking!

[jamonwindeyer]

Just to add onto WLAlex's idea of showing instead of telling:
Sarah 

Hey Ty, thought i could help you out a bit here regards to showing not telling...ill do a small snippet to hopefully illustrate, my writing is in bold...
Hope this is helpful! Let me know
Alex

And THAT is the ATAR Notes spirit on perfect show, legendary work guys, absolutely legendary 

Indeed, Elyse and I will be back to it in the next couple of days, you guys have all absolutely EXPLODED the forums!!! Sit tight, we've started something amazing 

[lha]

This is my AOS creative writing. Im trying to make it as best as possible for my trials on monday (so close eeek!) and was just wondering if you could mark it as harsh as possible.

Thank you!

[sudodds]

Hi! If you're not already super busy, I would really appreciate if you could have a look at my creative writing piece  Last time I had it marked it was a 13/15, but I really want to push it higher. What I think I need the most help with is showing not telling, and whether it just makes sense as a whole, since I am jumping around different locations quite a bit It's also a little bit long, so if you have any suggestions for how to cut it down, that would be much appreciated!

Thank you so much!
______________________________________________________________________
TERMINAL
I find the concept of words really interesting. How a random combination of 26 symbols that just happen to create a sound can have such an effect on us. Like “love”, just one word, one syllable, four letters long. So small, yet so big in its impact. Same with words like “hate,” “year” and “death.” It seems unfair to limit these words to fewer than five letters. To be honest, it seems unfair to limit them to words at all.

In all honesty, the word cancer doesn’t scare me very much. It was the other one...

“I’m afraid your condition is…” the doctor begins before being interrupted by the sight of my five-year-old daughter, hands glistening with the copious amounts of hand sanitizer that she continues to pump from the container. “I’m afraid your condition is…” My wife picks her up and carries her to the other side of the room, her reflection almost completely visible on the various titanium surfaces, as she sits her back down, only for my daughter to immediately pick up one of the many photographs on the doctor’s desk. “I’m afraid your condition is…” It’s a happy photograph, three children smiling as the sun beams down on their sun-blocked faces “I’m afraid your condition is…” In a couple of days, it will be the school holidays so I will be able to take her…

“Terminal.”

“What?”

“I’m afraid your condition is Terminal”.

‘Terminal’ is an interesting word. 8 letters, none repeated. Origins from the Latin word ‘Terminus,’ meaning ‘end’, with the first known usage being in 1744. It has 15 different definitions, 7 of which are adjectives, the others being nouns. In my case, we’re focused on definition number 3,

“Leading ultimately to death.”

A powerful word. I turn to my wife, but instead my eyes meet an old set of swings. “Tag! You’re it!” I hear my younger brother screams excitedly from behind, as he quickly jabs my shoulder. I turn around to see my tenth grade teacher, expectantly holding out her hand for the permission slip to Taronga Zoo. As I reach into my bag to get it, I find an old set of keys, I look up, and I am outside a tiny apartment complex, “Finally home!” exclaims my girlfriend, “Sandy?” I reply as she proceeds to throw my belongings out of the third floor window. “Does it always take this long?” The disgruntled customer complains as I make his coffee – A flat white with foam. I turn around to see my wife in a white dress. She’s so beautiful. Even as she gives birth to our first child, her picture stuck to the wall of my office cubicle. I sit in this cubicle for a while… and then everything goes black.

No more swing sets. No more school. No more crazy girlfriends, or customers. No more wife. No more daughter. No more office cubicle. Soon, that life will be over. My life will be over.

“Do your Medicare card?”
“Oh, yes…”
My wife rummages through her purse while simultaneously picking up a bunch of pamphlets from the counter. “What NOT to say to a cancer patient,” “How to deal with death,” “Cancer: what does this mean for you?” As if something like that could really be summed up on a double sided A5 sheet of paper. I look down at my daughter, perplexed at her stillness, to find her quietly sucking on a lollipop. One of the nurses must have given it it her. I hope she doesn’t know why.

“How long do I have?”
Numbers are pretty interesting as well. Not as interesting as words, but they have their moments. Did you know that there was a man in India that was able to prove that -1/12 equals infinity? I do wonder how long that took him to work out. Probably longer than three months, so I guess I will just have to think of something else to pass the time.

“Nous allons maintenant commencer notre desent à Paris.”

I love French words. Not only do they just sound more attractive than English ones, but they tend to be more expressive as well. Maybe it’s just me, but I believe “J’adore” comes a least a little bit closer than “love” in truly expressing the sentiment to someone. I’ll have to make sure to say “J’adore” many more times to my wife this trip.

“SD CARD FULL.”
A camera full of digital memories. You know, scientists believe that within a few years they will be able to download a human consciousness into a computer? A few years to late, so this camera will have to do. Looking at the pictures, you’d assume nothing was wrong. That we were just a regular family, on a regular holiday. We did all the normal touristy stuff, eat crepes, drink wine, visit the Eiffel tower, and watch a whole lot of British TV, because the BBC is the only English speaking channel at our hotel. Our daughter tucked tight in bed, we end up binge watching a whole season of this new show called Sisterless till 3am. We enjoy it so much, that we end up looking online to see if the next season has already aired, but it turns out that it won’t be for another eight months. It seems like such a small thing, but realizing that I’ll never know what happens next really depresses me. More than the chemo, more than the constant doctors visits, more than the bloody pamphlets! I know that sounds crazy. Like my wife said, “it’s just a TV show.” It is JUST that. The word “just” suggests that it is something simple, something easy to obtain. My wife suggests that we contact the creators and just ask, but in my opinion, that just wouldn’t be the same.

Notre Dame. Staring up at the beautiful mosaics and paintings, while drenched in a sea of coloured light gives me a sense of calm I haven’t felt in a long time. I’ve always been a huge art fan. From Michael Angelo to Picasso, Leonardo Da Vinci to Salvador Dali, the pure, raw expression that comes through art attracts me. They say a picture is worth 1000 words but I disagree. I believe it is so much more.
“Look at all the candles mummy!” My daughter exclaims with excitement, running over to the votive candles, Thousands of little, flickering gold teardrops, lit by people with intentions for souls. I wonder how many are for cancer patients.
While at the cathedral, the word God, unsurprisingly comes to mind. God. That’s another big one limited to 3 small letters. Anagram of dog as well. I’m not a very religious person. I guess I would call myself an atheist? I don’t know, again, it’s just another loaded word. But despite that, I would be lying if I said that the discovery of my limited time on this earth has not lead me to question whether I will receive unlimited time in another. I always thought the concept of an afterlife was silly, just a thing created by men who were afraid of their own mortality. But when you yourself are confronted with it, you begin to understand their desperation.
I light a votive candle for myself. I don’t know if that’s against the rules, but at least I know there will be at least one for a cancer patient.
It’s kind of funny looking back on this trip, and realizing that all of it, all of the happiness and joy it created, is because I have cancer. We had no plans to go to Paris before I was diagnosed, and even if we had, something would have stopped us, “It’s too expensive,” “It’s too far away.” “Who will look after the dog?”
I know the words juxtapose, but dying has actually made me feel more alive.

Realisation. An underestimated word, defined as “the act of becoming fully aware of something as a fact.” For example, you can realise you left your keys at home, or that you’ve already seen that episode of Friends, so you might as well change the channel. When I wake up to the morning of December 14th 2015, I realise that it will be my last day on earth. I pretend that everything is normal, however, a few minutes before I know it will all end, I ask to see my bucket list.
So many unchecked boxes. So many wasted opportunities. So many things that I will never have the chance to experience. I have nothing to say to my future self. But I have so much to say to my past.

Life. 4 letters, none repeated. According to the dictionary, there are 28 definitions, 25 nouns and 3 adjectives. But none of that matters. Life can only be defined by the living, and even without the cancer, I have been dead for so long.

I wish I had discovered that sooner.

[elysepopplewell]

Hi all! Thank you for your patience. All of your creatives will be marked tomorrow! I promise!

[elysepopplewell]

Hi Elyse!
Would love your feedback on my creative for discovery - I wrote for the theme of renewed perceptions and the stimulus was a waterfall, just wondering how I can adapt it for trials, should I write a new one or should I change it into third person? Is it strong enough for discovery.
Thank-you so much, you're amazing for taking the time and effort to do this

Hi there! I'm so so sorry this has taken so long to get back to you! You know we're usually much faster, but with the trial lectures we held at UTS earlier in the week, we were so busy, and that coincided with an enormous surge on the forums! Thanks for your patience

Your original creative is here:

Spoiler

Unearthed
Tasia Kuznichenko

The downward pressure of rushing water embraced me, as the pure energy of the streams flowed into my veins, injecting me with exhilaration and life.

I had made it.

Ice-cold droplets banished the heat, releasing it from my body. Craning my head, I found my eyes sheltered from the stark sun, the lush foliage shading my remembrance of above. It triggered the journey I had undertaken before. The rocky path I followed, the one that had teased and coaxed me, for what was to come.
***

Overhead, the sky was suspended. At any moment, it could fall down upon me; its clouded grey pressing upon my skin and smothering the day from beginning. Fatigue had already set it. My pack was pulling me down, feeling like another body heaped upon my back. My rounded figure was cumbersome and slow. Never one of agility or grace, I learnt to dampen my athleticism. What was the point of dragging myself, to run, walk, or swim, out of my depth, when I could easily be comfortable at home? Forced to go along into the unknown, the trek was obviously not my idea. Stinging tears prevented a clear view, as I found myself focused on the panting of my own breath, mouth dry and parched. Pressing my lips together painfully, the permeating thought of; ‘I can’t do this,’ was lodged in my head.
***

The high-pitched shrill of my alarm clock jarred me awake. Immediately, a sense of dread sunk to the pit of my stomach.

“Rise and shine!” My mother’s overly enthusiastic voice chirped.

She yanked open my curtains, allowing the blinding light to pour in. Retreating to my dark shelter, I hid under the covers of my doona. The heavy weight of the bedcovers drowned out what my mother was saying. I only caught the tail end;

“…Stella you need to go, all the others are going, and you’ll be the only one left out.”

Determined, she began to grab my clothes and shove them into the hiking bag. My mother missed the presence of any trophies in my room; the bare shelves filled her with a certain failure of being a mother. It didn’t stop her greeting me after every school race,

‘Someone had to come first at the other end!’

Her positivity was partly why my negativity would show its face on days like these. There was nothing that could rid the foreboding expectation of me today.
***

The group had carved an ashen trail, through the burnt leaves and blackened earth, the remnants of the bush’s scorched past. Sharp twigs latched onto my legs, tearing the skin with their barren claws. My feet dragged themselves along the precarious path, as it was going into an even steeper decline. I began to lose my grip. I found myself slipping down, tipping over the cliff’s breaking point. I jolted my arms out abruptly, bracing the rock walls beside me. With no fear, I stopped my fall.

Time slowed down as thought the Earth slowed its rotation, everything captured in mid-evolution. An inbuilt desire inside me had been awoken by the fertile landscape that surrounded. Here, the colours of the bush were somehow brighter; it was evident to me that nature was resilient. The thin, ghosted branches that I had passed were now exposed with green, luscious leaves; rejuvenated. I looked out in front, the thriving undergrowth reaching and extending closer and closer towards me. Breathing in the sweet, honey like perfume of a fragile wattle, its fluffy blossoms tickled my nose. I watched as the breeze lifted the yellow flowers into the air, alongside a dragonfly humming with purpose. I was surprised to find my legs wanted to keep going. I wanted to keep going. Euphoria surged, cueing a new swiftness in my movement as I cascaded down the slope towards my destination, the gorge.

Now my internal haze was pulled back like a veil – the reveal. My previous vision of myself was no longer reflected in the water in front of me. Looking back was a girl, dirt on her face, at one with nature. She held an air of maturity and a defiant stance, unmoved on the waters’ surface.

Although the waterfalls hurried down the jagged overhang, their fluidity was mesmerising. The water pounded rhythmically onto the rocks, reminding me of students running a race. I was in no rush to leave. I untied my heavy boots, and plunged my legs into the icy water. Every goose bump arose, dotting my skin with little capillaries, causing me to shiver. Cupping my hand, I drank the cool liquid, it felt like a healing balm to my raw throat. The streams drizzle imprinted the rocks with tiny brushstrokes of water – calligraphy; each bubbling sound, as soothing as my mother’s childhood stories. The underwater pebbles were slick beneath the soles of my feet.

Everything was interconnected.

In the past I would never have exerted myself, giving up at the first bit of challenge. The self-doubting voices within my head that used to tell me I was a ‘failure’, had fallen down and been washed away. The walk back up was now a welcomed idea. I could imagine my mother laughing hearing me say that. The return trek was an incline towards a new adventure, with the chance to unearth new beauty. With a parting glance, I began my ascent upwards, and I knew that it was possible for me to get to the top.

And your creative with my annotations in bold throughout:

Spoiler

Unearthed
Tasia Kuznichenko

The downward pressure of rushing water embraced me, as the pure energy of the streams flowed into my veins, injecting me with exhilaration and life. Incorporation of stimulus: check!

I had made it.

Ice-cold droplets banished the heat, releasing it from my body. Craning my head, I found my eyes sheltered from the stark sun, the lush foliage shading my remembrance of above. It triggered the journey I had undertaken before. The rocky path I followed, the one that had teased and coaxed me, for what was to come.
***

Overhead, the sky was suspended. At any moment, it could fall down upon me; its clouded grey pressing upon my skin and smothering the day from beginning. Fatigue had already set it. My pack was pulling me down, feeling like another body heaped upon my back. My rounded figure was cumbersome and slow. Never one of agility or grace, I learnt to dampen my athleticism. What was the point of dragging myself, to run, walk, or swim, out of my depth, when I could easily be comfortable at home? Forced to go along into the unknown, the trek was obviously not my idea. Stinging tears prevented a clear view, as I found myself focused on the panting of my own breath, mouth dry and parched. Pressing my lips together painfully, the permeating thought of; ‘I can’t do this,’ was lodged in my head. Awesome imagery here, I'm really being taken on a journey!
***

The high-pitched shrill of my alarm clock jarred me awake. Immediately, a sense of dread sunk to the pit of my stomach.

“Rise and shine!” My mother’s overly enthusiastic voice chirped.

She yanked open my curtains, allowing the blinding light to pour in. I tend to think "yank" is a bit of an awkward word because it is so colloquial, and kind of funny sounding. It is totally up to you, but consider, heaved, snatched, tugged, etc. Retreating to my dark shelter, I hid under the covers of my doona. The heavy weight of the bedcovers drowned out what my mother was saying. I only caught the tail end;

“…Stella you need to go, all the others are going, and you’ll be the only one left out.”

Determined, she began to grab my clothes and shove them into the hiking bag. My mother missed the presence of any trophies in my room; the bare shelves filled her with a certain failure of being a mother. It didn’t stop her greeting me after every school race,

‘Someone had to come first at the other end!’ I'm sensing that her mother is losing patience. The tone of the above quote about being left out seems to have an air of desperation and kind of "end of tether" about it. If this isn't your intention, then I suggest changing it. If it is your intention, perhaps explain that she is wearing thin on patience. Also, the room bare of trophies...to me this seems like the daughter and the mother are sad, but the mother thinks something can be changed, and Stella will achieve if she goes out on the hike. The failure as a mother thing seems a little extreme for this situation. I mean, it is a great reflection, but I don't know that it is most relevant for this situation here!

Her positivity was partly why my negativity would show its face on days like these. There was nothing that could rid the foreboding expectation of me today.
***

The group had carved an ashen trail, through the burnt leaves and blackened earth, the remnants of the bush’s scorched past. Just beautiful!Sharp twigs latched onto my legs, tearing the skin with their barren claws. My feet dragged themselves along the precarious path, as it was going into an even steeper decline. I began to lose my grip. I found myself slipping down, tipping over the cliff’s breaking point. I jolted my arms out abruptly, bracing the rock walls beside me. With no fear, I stopped my fall.

Time slowed down as thought the Earth slowed its rotation, everything captured in mid-evolution. An inbuilt desire inside me had been awoken by the fertile landscape that surrounded. Here, the colours of the bush were somehow brighter; it was evident to me that nature was resilient. The thin, ghosted branches that I had passed were now exposed with green, luscious leaves; rejuvenated. I looked out in front, the thriving undergrowth reaching and extending closer and closer towards me. Breathing in the sweet, honey like perfume of a fragile wattle, its fluffy blossoms tickled my nose. I watched as the breeze lifted the yellow flowers into the air, alongside a dragonfly humming with purpose. I was surprised to find my legs wanted to keep going. I wanted to keep going. Euphoria surged, cueing a new swiftness in my movement as I cascaded down the slope towards my destination, the gorge. I want to let you know that your writing here is just enough. It's just enough to be amazing, without being too much. The writing is so delicate, you should be proud.

Now my internal haze was pulled back like a veil – the reveal. My previous vision of myself was no longer reflected in the water in front of me. Looking back was a girl, dirt on her face, at one with nature. She held an air of maturity and a defiant stance, unmoved on the waters’ surface.

Although the waterfalls hurried down the jagged overhang, their fluidity was mesmerising. The water pounded rhythmically onto the rocks, reminding me of students running a race. I was in no rush to leave. I untied my heavy boots, and plunged my legs into the icy water. Every goose bump arose, dotting my skin with little capillaries, causing me to shiver. Cupping my hand, I drank the cool liquid, it felt like a healing balm to my raw throat. The streams drizzle imprinted the rocks with tiny brushstrokes of water – calligraphy; each bubbling sound, as soothing as my mother’s childhood stories. The underwater pebbles were slick beneath the soles of my feet.

Everything was interconnected. I think "connected" does the same job as interconnected here. Interconnected sounds a little too mechanical to be describing nature. I think you should consider linked, connected, dependent, etc. I mean, it totally isn't wrong to say interconnected! I'm just being so fussy because your work is so good, I want you to question these smaller things.

In the past I would never have exerted myself, giving up at the first bit of challenge. The self-doubting voices within my head that used to tell me I was a ‘failure’, had fallen down and been washed away. The walk back up was now a welcomed idea. I could imagine my mother laughing hearing me say that. The return trek was an incline towards a new adventure, with the chance to unearth new beauty. With a parting glance, I began my ascent upwards, and I knew that it was possible for me to get to the top.

Awesome!
I think the discovery is heightened by the last paragraph. The reflection is really important there and I think it is an important tool for your story, because whatever the stimulus requires of you, you can add to that section there. Obviously, you need to build it up throughout, but whatever type of discovery they ask for, you can really weave it into that last section.

To consider:
"Mother" sounds pretentious to the average teenager/Australian because you refer to your mum as your "mother" when she's being annoying or you are fancy. There is nothing wrong with using mother, I'm just asking you to consider the connotations of mother as opposed to mum, and decide which you think is best for your work!

I would keep this in the first person, it adds such an air of personal development which I think is important to your story being so relatable. I think this is a stellar (no pun intended ) story and you should be really proud of it. Choose the words for your ending paragraph carefully in an exam, because that part brings your discovery home strong.

You should be so proud!

[elysepopplewell]

Hi, this is my creative writing story, I would just like to know if it is confusing or not?- in regards to tense.

Thank you so much for your patience! Usually we are a lot quicker with feedback but given the lectures we held earlier this week, we have a bit of backlog! I've read your comments in the word document, and I'll address them throughout

Your original story, without any annotations, is in this spoiler:

Spoiler

Lightning strikes through dark clouds and thunder shakes the neighbourhood. As I climb onto my bike, I thrust myself into the murky night. On the freeway, heading towards Rammington Bridge, I only have one intention. The wet road on the black tar skirts beneath my bike reflecting the hideous composure of my face. Accelerating, I pass a tree whose branches crumble to the ground, a symbol of my life. The sky flashes white again. Skidding to the side kerb, I stride purposely towards the bridge’s edge. Sweat drips down my face and an overwhelming sense of anxiety courses through my body. Overlooking the channel, a thousand memories flood into my mind. One, however, overpowers them all. The indistinguishable cold grip of pain that clutches at my very being. This wrenching torment needs to be over. The cold night air brushes against the misfortune on my face. I am resolute. Silence. Moments from plunging into the water, a jolt like no other sends streams through my body. Every artery and nerve screams. Lightning.  Extreme heat courses throughout me. Within a fleeting moment, my surroundings transform.

I am in my room. The room an innocent boy lived for many years; an unrecognisable boy.  The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. The same smells, but altered shadows. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. My body ceases. I see her and my vision starts to haze as her soft silhouette emerges from the light. Tingles run down my spine with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears. It finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state. My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for two years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’
The woman who I have not been able to touch for two years is now stroking my face with her soft, delicate hands. The warmth of her presence overwhelms me as I begin to feel myself fall back into the old life I once lived. The easy life. The life where I had a loving mother and no pain filled my body. But after that one day, the day my mother was ripped out of my arms, I was no longer pain free.
It was a windy night. Mum and I were filled with excitement as we drove closer towards Bon Jovi’s concert. As we drove along Rammington road we became aware of the storm brewing outside. Moments later, my life changed forever. Gushes of wind lifted the car and it felt like a roller-coaster as we were tossed into the water. The icy water filled the car and began to take me under its power. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water rushed in. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I saw her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’d seen a ghost. I screamed ‘Mum!!’, but her eyes remained distant. It was too late. Her body was as cold as ice and whiter than I had ever seen it before. Her jaw was open as if she was trying to grasp just one tiny bit of oxygen. But she never got the chance, because of me. Tears filled my eyes as they disappeared into the water that withheld my mother’s spirit. My chest physically hurt, my heart felt as though somebody was trying to rip it apart. From  that moment onwards, that heartache never went away, until now. Right here, my mother begins to speak to me again, snapping me out of my reminiscent state.
‘You  have to stop blaming yourself Em. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’.
I snuggle into my mother’s arms as I feel comfort from the rise and fall of her chest. Cuddling up as though she was the puzzle to my heart that needed filling all this time. Her warmth makes me feel forever safe as happiness roams through my body. If only I could freeze time. The world becomes cruel again as I feel the blurriness ease back into my vision. My revelation begins to fade in front of my eyes, and my senses become numb as I find myself less connected to the warmth mum emits.
I turn to claim reassurance from mum. ‘NO!’ my vocal chords shatter as I scream towards the empty room. This can’t be happening again, she can’t be ripped out of my arms all over again!? A much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I am drowning, with no one around. Memories, back in my head as I try to comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. The next thing I know my body is swimming to the surface. My mind encumbers so many thoughts, but one particular voice seems to stand out the most. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. Pushing the water behind me, I seek refuge upon the side bank. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, arms and legs stretched out like an angel. Looking up at the stars my eyes catch a glimpse of an enormous scar on my chest. It is formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. I no longer feel the ache in my chest. Through being struck, I was able to receive everything that I have needed for a long time. Closure.

Now, your creative with my own annotations in bold font throughout:

Spoiler

Lightning strikes through dark clouds and thunder shakes the neighbourhood. Consider the meaning of neighbourhood as opposed to suburb. If your story details a tight-knit community, then use neighbourhood. If it is simply a setting for a smaller plot to take place, I suggest using suburb or town (depending on country setting as well) to reflect that in the connotations of the noun As I climb onto my bike, I thrust myself into the murky night. Love this imagery! On the freeway, heading towards Rammington Bridge, I only have one intention. The wet road on the black tar skirts beneath my bike reflecting the hideous composure of my face. This imagery isn't exactly clear to me - I'm not making the connection with the face? Accelerating, I pass a tree whose branches crumble to the ground, a symbol of my life. The sky flashes white again. Skidding to the side kerb, I stride purposely towards the bridge’s edge. Sweat drips down my face and an overwhelming sense of anxiety courses through my body. I'm suggesting that you re-evaluate the "sweat drips down my face" just for the reason that it is a cliche image. You can definitely still talk about sweat on the face, but potentially do it in a more unusual way. Like getting sweat in your eyes, or your brows moistening, for example. Overlooking the channel, a thousand memories flood into my mind. One, however, overpowers them all. The indistinguishable cold grip of pain that clutches at my very being. This wrenching torment needs to be over. The cold night air brushes against the misfortune on my face. I am resolute. Silence. Moments from plunging into the water, a jolt like no other sends streams through my body. Every artery and nerve screams. Lightning.  Extreme heat courses throughout me. Within a fleeting moment, my surroundings transform.

I am in my room. The room an innocent boy lived for many years; an unrecognisable boy.  The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. The same smells, but altered shadows. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. My body ceases. I see her and my vision starts to haze as her soft silhouette emerges from the light. Tingles run down my spine with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears. It finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state. My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for two years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’

Spoiler

This needs to be on its own line, but also in quotation marks and not apostrophes

The woman who I have not been able to touch for two years is now stroking my face with her soft, delicate hands. The warmth of her presence overwhelms me as I begin to feel myself fall back into the old life I once lived. The easy life. The life where I had a loving mother and no pain filled my body. But after that one day, the day my mother was ripped out of my arms, I was no longer pain free.
It was a windy night. Mum and I were filled with excitement as we drove closer towards Bon Jovi’s concert. As we drove along Rammington road we became aware of the storm brewing outside. Moments later, my life changed forever. Gushes of wind lifted the car and it felt like a roller-coaster as we were tossed into the water. The icy water filled the car and began to take me under its power. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water rushed in. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I saw her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’d seen a ghost. A cliche - consider rewriting this in a more intensely fresh way. I screamed ‘Mum!!’, but her eyes remained distant. Did you scream underwater? Or did you scream in your head? Make this clear for a reader so that they can follow the trauma experienced. Whenever you shout/yell/talk, it needs a new line, and it needs quotation marks and not apostrophes It was too late. Her body was as cold as ice A cliche - consider rephrasing. and whiter than I had ever seen it before. Her jaw was open as if she was trying to grasp just one tiny bit of oxygen. But she never got the chance, because of me. This seems like a dramatic emphasis of blame. And I'm sure in reality this could happen, but I think the trick to making it believable and follow-able for a reader is to start a new paragraph, give it a break to digest, and then follow through with a reflection about self blame. Tears filled my eyes as they disappeared into the water that withheld my mother’s spirit. I'm not entirely sure where you are - are you in the water, floating? Are you no longer in the water? I think it is best you clarify this so that the reader can understand the text in the exact way you intend it My chest physically hurt, my heart felt as though somebody was trying to rip it apart. From  that moment onwards, that heartache never went away, until now. Right here, my mother begins to speak to me again, snapping me out of my reminiscent state. I understand the shift in tense! But it does need the break before the next paragraph starts to make it clear.

Give yourself a few empty lines here to show a shift in time and place.
‘You  have to stop blaming yourself Em. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’.
I snuggle into my mother’s arms as I feel comfort from the rise and fall of her chest. Cuddling up as though she was the puzzle to my heart that needed filling all this time. Her warmth makes me feel forever safe as happiness roams through my body. If only I could freeze time. The world becomes cruel again as I feel the blurriness ease back into my vision. My revelation begins to fade in front of my eyes, and my senses become numb as I find myself less connected to the warmth mum emits.
I turn to claim reassurance from mum. I think it needs to be made clear that you are physically turning to claim reassurance, so that it is clear you feel that she is honestly with you in more than just spirit for this moment. ‘NO!’ my vocal chords shatter as I scream towards the empty room. This can’t be happening again, she can’t be ripped out of my arms all over again!? A much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I am drowning, with no one around. Memories, back in my head as I try to comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. The next thing I know "The next thing I know" is kind of like a writer's short cut to flicking between action. With some careful thinking, I think you may be able to adjust this to show a marker your writing ability in a stronger way. my body is swimming to the surface. My mind encumbers so many thoughts, but one particular voice seems to stand out the most. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. Pushing the water behind me, I seek refuge upon the side bank. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, arms and legs stretched out like an angel. Looking up at the stars my eyes catch a glimpse of an enormous scar on my chest. It is formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. I no longer feel the ache in my chest. Through being struck, I was able to receive everything that I have needed for a long time. Closure.

End Notes:

I think the transition between scenes isn't always clear. When you appear back in the loungeroom, I think you should describe the furniture or something that distinguishes it from other rooms so that it is clear where you are. On top of this, I think that each setting change needs a few empty lines to separate the paragraphs. That's important too - just for the purpose of moving between scenes with ease! Also, I think it is important, from a plot perspective, to consider how the discovery plays out. There is a lot of time spent detailing the accident, and then it flicks almost immediately into her mum visiting her in spirit. I think the discovery would be enhanced if there was a period in there where the reader comes to understand exactly how devastating it is for the protagonist to deal with the guilt of seemingly not doing enough for her mum. I think this could be substituted for some of the beginning section, looking at the actual accident itself.

You having a very original story here which is awesome for your marks! I hink the next step is connecting things together in a smooth transition and reviewing the plot order. Then, you're on your way! Best of luck! Please clarify anything that you're unsure of

[elysepopplewell]

Hello! can you please give me any feedback on this creative writing piece for my english esl class thanks

You have been invited to a local council meeting as a student representative, to present your ideas and make recommendations on implementing initiatives to minimise issues affecting young Australians (for example obesity, mental health, bullying)

Hi there! Thank you so much for your patience! We have a bit of a back log this week so I really appreciate you hanging around for a response. I haven't marked an ESL task yet, so I'm super excited to have a look at this one! If I'm off the mark in my response, please let me know and I can review it with a different lens

Original:

Spoiler

You have been invited to a local council meeting as a student representative, to present your ideas and make recommendations on implementing initiatives to minimise issues affecting young Australians (for example obesity, mental health, bullying)

Good afternoon Miss (name) and fellow students. Today I will be expressing and petitioning on making a change to issues such as bullying and mental health problems which are damaging young people’s lives. Mental health is a person’s condition with regard to their psychological and emotional well-being. According to Beyond Blues, ‘One in six young Australians is currently experiencing an anxiety condition. And one in four young Australians currently has a mental health condition’. Could you believe that Suicide is the biggest killer of young Australians and accounts for the deaths of more young people. Yet, some common catalyst contributing to the issue of mental health are bullying and stress from school.

It has been proven by several research that bullying is linked to many negative outcomes including impacts on mental health, substance use, and suicide and these issues may persist in adulthood. Many people retain horrible memories of high school, due to the bullying they experienced. Teenage bullying is a very real problem in schools. There are many different types of bullying, including verbal and emotional bullying and all these types of bullying can have a large impact on student. In relation to this context, I met someone we were talking about school and she said she dropped out of year 10 because she was bullied by other students and became anxious and unhappy to attend school. As a result, decided to quit. In reference to this story I hope you’ve realised how detrimental bullying can do to individuals. Her future of getting better education leading to good career has now turned into hate instead due to minority group of people.

Similarly, high expectations from students is known to be the cause of mental health problems in teenagers. Students stress out due to high expectations of achievement from their parent, teachers and themselves. According to a study conducted by ‘UNSW’ these stress and pressure contribute to students performing poorly instead of achieving high. According to the studies, ‘the 722 students surveyed, 42% were registered with high-level of anxiety symptoms, high enough to be of clinical concern’. This values indicate how critical the issue is and we have to do something as a community to minimise or end it if possible.

You might probably be thinking how? Well in relation to bullying in school, the government has systems such as school councillors but this does not stop the problem. I believe the government should implement a strict rule in all school across Australia that anyone found bullying someone will get detention, suspended or even the police will be involve depending on the level of harm. Students should also be critically educated about the impact of bullying on Individuals. And by this, we should see some improvements.

However, stress and anxiety from high expectations of achievement can be minimise by providing extra curriculum for year 12 students that will teach them techniques to control stress from school or there could be additional study period where teachers could help students with the work they are struggling with. Parents could also be informed about the ramifications of too much pressure on students and they should be given strategies they could use to help their child deal with high school.

With all these measures, the level of stress can be reduced and the number of students being reported with mental health issue can be dropped.

Thank you very much

With my feedback in bold font throughout:

Spoiler

You have been invited to a local council meeting as a student representative, to present your ideas and make recommendations on implementing initiatives to minimise issues affecting young Australians (for example obesity, mental health, bullying)

Good afternoon Miss (name) and fellow students. Today I will be expressing and petitioning I think using "expressing and petitioning on..." doesn't sound clear. Perhaps, "I will be petitioning for a change in issues such as..." on making a change to issues such as bullying and mental health problems which are damaging young people’s lives. Mental health is a person’s condition with regard to their psychological and emotional well-being. According to identify who they are (charity, for-profit organisation, whichever category they fit)Beyond Blues, ‘One in six young Australians is are (just a small grammar thing) currently experiencing an anxiety condition. And one in four young Australians currently has have a mental health condition’. Could you believe that Suicide is the biggest killer of young Australians and accounts for the deaths of more young people.? (This needs a question mark because it is a rhetorical question. Great use of the question! Yet, some common catalysts contributing to the issue of mental health are bullying and stress from school.

It has been proven by several research papers/authorities/researchers that bullying is linked to many negative outcomes including impacts on mental health, substance abuse, and suicide, and these issues may persist in through to adulthood. Many people retain horrible memories of high school, due to the bullying they experienced. Teenage bullying is a very real problem in schools. There are many different types of bullying, including verbal and emotional bullying and all these types of bullying can have a large impact on student. In relation to this context, I met someone and we were talking about school. andI'm just suggesting that you start a new sentence here for clarity. She said she dropped out of year 10 because she was bullied by other students and became anxious and unhappy to attend school. As a result, she decided to quit. In reference to this story I hope you’ve realised how detrimental bullying can do be to individuals. Her future of getting better education leading to good career has now turned into hate instead due to minority group of people. I suggest rephrasing this last sentence to something like this: "The bright future of education, potentially leading to a solid career, has been hindered by the hateful actions of a minority group."

Similarly, high expectations from students is known to be the cause of mental health problems in teenagers. Students stress out due to high expectations of achievement from their parent, teachers and themselves. According to a study conducted by ‘UNSW’ these this stress and pressure contributes to students performing poorly instead of achieving high. According to the studies, ‘the 722 students surveyed, 42% were registered with high-level of anxiety symptoms, high enough to be of clinical concern’. This values indicate how critical the issue is and we have to do something as a community to minimise or end it if possible. Awesome!

You might probably be thinking how? Well in relation to bullying in school, the government has systems such as school councillors but this does not stop the problem, although it has improved it. I believe the government should implement a strict rule in all school across Australia that anyone found bullying someone will get detention, suspended or even the police will be involve depending on the level of harm. Students should also be critically educated about the impact of bullying on Individuals. And by this, we should see some improvements.

However, stress and anxiety from high expectations of achievement can be minimised by providing an extra curriculum for year 12 students that will teach them techniques to control stress from school or there could be additional study period where teachers could help students with the work they are struggling with, outside the classroom. Parents could also be informed about the ramifications of too much pressure on students and they should be given strategies they could use to help their child deal with high school and the associated pressures..

With all these measures, the level of stress can be reduced and the number of students being reported with mental health issue can be dropped.

Thank you very much

You've done an incredible job here! The suggestions are mainly based around tense. I know how difficult it is to be correct with tense in a second language, so you've done an amazing job, with just a few tweaks. A few times I suggested that you rearrange the sentence, just for the purpose of clarity. Look carefully at the response, I have put in some comments that are as small as just one letter, in bold font, to correct your work. Please ask any more questions you may have. All the best!

[elysepopplewell]

Heyy could you please check my AOS creative? I'm not sure if the recollection structure is a good structure choice, and I have been told that I tell rather than show and I'm not too sure how to fix it.
Thank you! 

Hello! I'd love to take a look at your work and move through it with you! Although, before we can do that, I need you to make 4 more posts on the site. We have a policy of 5 posts = marked work. You can read more about it in the link in my signature below! It is super easy to make 4 posts, you just need to comment on different threads asking questions, answering questions, adding to the conversation, etc. Not hard to do! Just let me know when you've done that and I'll jump back to your work

[elysepopplewell]

Hi, can you please read over my creative writing peace and let me know on areas to improve on?
Thanks

Hey Sarah! I definitely want to check out your work. Before I do that, I need you to make 4 more posts on our site in order to comply with our marking guidelines! Basically, anywhere you want on the site, you just need to ask a question, answer a question, give some feedback, etc. That's all there is to it! For every 5 posts, you qualify to have an extensive piece of work marked If you want to read more about this, check out the link in my signature below! There are different threads for every subject, but also more general threads where you can discuss whatever you like! Please let me know if you need assistance, and then let me know when you've completed that and I will jump on to give you creative feedback!

[brontem]

Hey!! Here's my creative (again) I fixed it up from after getting feedback from both here and my teacher  and then forgot about it..
It's quite different again this time (I might be going in the wrong direction..), please be harsh and pull it apart, tell me where to improve 
Thank you so much!! 

[elysepopplewell]

Hey,
can you please read through my creative and advise me one what i should add or subtract?
Thank You so much for your time!

Hello! I absolutely can have a look at your creative piece!

Here it is, unedited, with no comments:

Spoiler

Noise and commotion. Relatives constantly talking over the top of each other. The perpetual smell of cinnamon wafting through the air.

They were the only memories I had of Pakistan. My parents always tried to cast my mind back to my childhood in Karachi – Sundays at the market, guests always at the house and overnight train rides to see my grandparents in Quetta. When I saw my father’s eyes welling up in nostalgia or my mother sighing at old photos I tried so hard to remember for them. But I never could. It always gnawed away at me. Why couldn’t they just accept that we weren’t there anymore?

Now, gazing out the car window at the green pastures dotted with bright-coloured farmhouses, I couldn’t picture a place any different. I had no desire to either. The teenage years of my life defined me, and they were spent here, the first six years seemed like just a broken dream.
When we arrived at school I climbed out and watched as the car pulled away, gradually becoming smaller until it was no more than a speck.
***
The other students treated me like a novelty. Wherever I walked in the school I had at least ten pairs of uniform blue or green eyes following me, watching with interest. The unimaginable horror when forced to speak out was only surpassed by the teasing that would ensue. Suffice to say, my efforts to conceal my accent failed. Miserably. My best friend, Lucy, caught the bus to school and played sport on the weekends; I was taken to school by both parents and spent Sundays driving to our closest Mosque over an hour away.

At lunchtime, I swapped my hot chickpea stew for Lucy’s perfectly dressed Caesar salad – it was our daily ritual.

“You always have the best food, Sabine.” I didn’t respond. “What’s up? You haven’t been yourself all day.”

“It’s just – my parents,” I hesitated. “They live in such an enclosed bubble, and they’re trying so hard to hold me there too. My father thinks I’m ashamed of being ethnic. God, I hate that word so much. Ethnic.”

“That’s not entirely untrue though, is it? Your being ashamed, I mean?” Lucy asked gently. Her amber eyes had a softness to them. She tried to understand, but without ever visiting the land of too many spices and too few clean toilets, that was an impossibility.

I looked out at the school courts, where most of our class was playing football.

“I guess not.”
***
When I came into the kitchen that night, my father was sitting at the head of the table staring into an ancient laptop; face wrinkled in concentration- A rare occurrence. As I helped my mother set the table for lentil lamb soup, he suddenly exclaimed, “That’s it! Sanah, it is perfect. This flight goes directly to Karachi. Then she can take the train to Quetta like we always used to...” he trailed off when he saw my expression.

“We are not moving back to Pakistan. You don’t have to worry,” he said bitterly.

The next hour was spent with both parents interchangeably explaining their profound plans for me to spend summer with my grandparents.
After their deliberation, my parents looked at me expectedly while I just sat there… dumbfounded. “You can’t...you can’t do that. I...I don’t want to go,” I managed to croak out. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my home for that long. I didn’t understand their twisted reasoning. I knew my grandparents would take one look at me and shake their heads at how “Westernised” I’d become. I didn’t want to be “shipped off,” as the kids from school would undoubtedly describe it.

My mother interrupted my thoughts. “Sabine, please. Just do one thing for this family; that is all we ask. You haven’t the slightest idea how much your grandparents miss you and want to see you,” her voice wavered as she spoke.

My heart and mind resisted with all their might, but I found myself nodding in defeat.
***
It was my first time on a plane since we had moved to Australia ten years before. It was strange to see what I call home to shrink into an insignificant speck. I imagined my parents standing below in our backyard pointing up at the sky. I wished one of them could be in my place right now.

After a grueling flight and train journey, I came to face my grandparents at the Quetta railway station. The gnawing in my stomach wouldn’t halt – not knowing what to say, and wondering whether they would even recognise me. But I needn’t have worried, as they spotted me immediately and I was in their embrace within a matter of seconds. “Finally.” My grandmother whispered through tears. “Finally you’re here.” As we held each other, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, almost like arriving home at night after a difficult day. They both looked exactly like their photo on the mantelpiece in our living room.

On my first day in Pakistan, the three of us spent half the night talking, and this continued almost every day afterwards.  My grandparents wanted to hear every detail about my life, and after about a week I began to ask them questions too.

On my last night we went to an Eid Festival. As I put on my jeans, my grandmother looked at me in horror.

“Sabine, we are going to celebrate Eid. You must wear this,” she handed me a deep blue sari. “Haven’t your parents told you about Eid?”

I looked at the ground sheepishly. “They probably have, so many times. I mustn’t have been listening.”   

Walking through the night-lit streets of Eid Festival, I realised that I had never seen so much colour in my life. Billowing yellow paper lanterns hung across gnarled oak branches, lighting up the deepest alcoves of the trees. The women wore flowing brightly coloured, beaded saris, their arms covered in intricate henna patterns; the men wore lose linen blouses and embellished drawstring pants.

My grandfather walked beside me.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. I never thought I’d admit it, but I wanted more than anything to stay for longer. The six weeks had passed in a blur and I had only just begun to reach some level of understanding.
***
Fruit and vegetable bazaars pulsating with the rhythms of everyday life. Endless hues of blue, green, red and gold. My grandparents’ modest but beautiful house nestled between others of its kind. Home.

They were only a fraction of the images I had of Pakistan. My mind overflowed with knowledge, memories and self-recognition. Next time my parents reminisced about our life in Pakistan, I wouldn’t turn my head away in discomfort. Instead, I would add to their recollections of the exuberant place. I would add photos to our albums, stories to the dinner table conversations and regard my parents with admiration; never shame.

And here it is again, with my comments in bold font throughout:

Spoiler

Noise and commotion. Relatives constantly talking over the top of each other. The perpetual smell of cinnamon wafting through the air. I think you can do better than "perpetual." I think it describes that the cinnamon smell is ever-present, but I think the fact that you are mentioning it on the same level as people talking over each other, already tells me that it is perpetual. Consider actually describing the smell - that would be interesting! Describing the smell is something that I have definitely struggled with. Maybe if you used a simile, or maybe just an adjective. This opening is on a 9.5/10 in my books right now! I love how simple it is, but a real picture is being painted.

They were the only memories I had of Pakistan. My parents always tried to cast my mind back to my childhood in Karachi – Sundays at the market, guests always at the house and overnight train rides to see my grandparents in Quetta. When I saw my father’s eyes welling up in nostalgia or my mother sighing at old photos I tried so hard to remember for them. But I never could. It always gnawed away at me. Why couldn’t they just accept that we weren’t there anymore? I'm not sure if it gnaws away at you that your parents don't accept being in Pakistan anymore, or if it gnaws away at you that you can't remember, even if you want to. Both work well, but they both send a slightly different air to the reader. Consider rephrasing to be clear

Now, gazing out the car window at the green pastures dotted with bright-coloured farmhouses, I couldn’t picture a place any different. I had no desire to either. The teenage years of my life defined me, and they were spent here, the first six years seemed like just a broken dream.
When we arrived at school I climbed out and watched as the car pulled away, gradually becoming smaller until it was no more than a speck.
***
The other students treated me like a novelty. Wherever I walked in the school I had at least ten pairs of uniform blue or green eyes following me, watching with interest. The unimaginable horror when forced to speak out was only surpassed by the teasing that would ensue. Suffice to say, my efforts to conceal my accent failed. Miserably. My best friend, Lucy, caught the bus to school and played sport on the weekends; I was taken to school by both parents and spent Sundays driving to our closest Mosque over an hour away. I'm really following a beautiful comparison here!

At lunchtime, I swapped my hot chickpea stew for Lucy’s perfectly dressed Caesar salad – it was our daily ritual.

“You always have the best food, Sabine.” I didn’t respond. “What’s up? You haven’t been yourself all day.” I think you've chosen the names really well here (or maybe you didn't choose them - and this is based on real life?) You parallel Lucy with a Western salad, and Sabine's name with a chickpea stew. That's a very clever thing, you've connected weekend activities, to food, to names.

“It’s just – my parents,” I hesitated. “They live in such an enclosed bubble, and they’re trying so hard to hold me there too. My father thinks I’m ashamed of being ethnic. God, I hate that word so much. Ethnic.”

“That’s not entirely untrue though, is it? Your being ashamed, I mean?” Lucy asked gently. Her amber eyes had a softness to them. She tried to understand, but without ever visiting the land of too many spices and too few clean toilets, that was an impossibility. Too many spices and too few clean toilets! Haha! What awesome imagery I have in my head right now.

I looked out at the school courts, where most of our class was playing football.

“I guess not.”
***
When I came into the kitchen that night, my father was sitting at the head of the table staring into an ancient laptop; face wrinkled in concentration- A rare occurrence. I'm not entirely sure what the rare occurrence is - is it the being in concentration, the place at the table, or being on the laptop?As I helped my mother set the table for lentil lamb soup, he suddenly exclaimed, “That’s it! Sanah, it is perfect. This flight goes directly to Karachi. Then she can take the train to Quetta like we always used to...” he trailed off when he saw my expression.

“We are not moving back to Pakistan. You don’t have to worry,” he said bitterly.

The next hour was spent with both parents interchangeably explaining their profound plans for me to spend summer with my grandparents.
After their deliberation, my parents looked at me expectedly while I just sat there… dumbfounded. “You can’t...you can’t do that. I...I don’t want to go,” I managed to croak out. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my home for that long. I didn’t understand their twisted reasoning. I knew my grandparents would take one look at me and shake their heads at how “Westernised” I’d become. I didn’t want to be “shipped off,” as the kids from school would undoubtedly describe it.

My mother interrupted my thoughts. “Sabine, please. Just do one thing for this family; that is all we ask. You haven’t the slightest idea how much your grandparents miss you and want to see you,” her voice wavered as she spoke. I'm only putting this out there because it is abundantly clear that me that you are a great writer, and I want to kind of push you that tiny bit more to consider each and every little detail. Instead of her voice wavering - try do something more meaningful. This is borderline cliche - we know what it is like for a voice to waver. So, perhaps you could say she's spoken as softly as she used to when sharing bedtime stories in Pakistan, or she spoke with a guilt for not thinking of the grandparents enough. I think this is such a small space, but you can make it very meaningful.

My heart and mind resisted with all their might, but I found myself nodding in defeat.
***
It was my first time on a plane since we had moved to Australia ten years before. It was strange to see what I call home to shrink into an insignificant speck. I imagined my parents standing below in our backyard pointing up at the sky. I wished one of them could be in my place right now. For a bit of humour but also for the purpose of really showing the difference between the two cultures, maybe point out that they are standing under a Hills Hoist? I imagined a birds eye view of two parents standing on green grass in a small backyard under a Hills Hoist - I think this could work for you!

After a grueling flight and train journey, I came to face my grandparents at the Quetta railway station. The gnawing in my stomach wouldn’t halt – not knowing what to say, and wondering whether they would even recognise me. But I needn’t have worried, as they spotted me immediately and I was in their embrace within a matter of seconds.
(This needs to be on its own line “Finally.” My grandmother whispered through tears. “Finally you’re here.” As we held each other, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, almost like arriving home at night after a difficult day. They both looked exactly like their photo on the mantelpiece in our living room. How do they look? Eccentric? Normal? Warm? Humble? Stern?

On my first day in Pakistan, the three of us spent half the night talking, and this continued almost every day afterwards.  My grandparents wanted to hear every detail about my life, and after about a week I began to ask them questions too.

On my last night we went to an Eid Festival. As I put on my jeans, my grandmother looked at me in horror.

“Sabine, we are going to celebrate Eid. You must wear this,” she handed me a deep blue sari. “Haven’t your parents told you about Eid?”

I looked at the ground sheepishly. “They probably have, so many times. I mustn’t have been listening.”   

Walking through the night-lit streets of Eid Festival, I realised that I had never seen so much colour in my life. Billowing yellow paper lanterns hung across gnarled oak branches, lighting up the deepest alcoves of the trees. The women wore flowing brightly coloured, beaded saris, their arms covered in intricate henna patterns; the men wore lose linen blouses and embellished drawstring pants.

My grandfather walked beside me.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. I never thought I’d admit it, but I wanted more than anything to stay for longer. The six weeks had passed in a blur and I had only just begun to reach some level of understanding.
***
Fruit and vegetable bazaars pulsating with the rhythms of everyday life. Endless hues of blue, green, red and gold. My grandparents’ modest but beautiful house nestled between others of its kind. Home.

They were only a fraction of the images I had of Pakistan. My mind overflowed with knowledge, memories and self-recognition. Next time my parents reminisced about our life in Pakistan, I wouldn’t turn my head away in discomfort. Instead, I would add to their recollections of the exuberant place. I would add photos to our albums, stories to the dinner table conversations and regard my parents with admiration; never shame.

This is one of the most outstanding pieces I have read for a HSC creative! The great thing about this is, I think you bring a realness to this story. However they be, you may have experienced this and you are Sabine, or you've listened/researched enough to write about it perfectly. My suggestions throughout are very small. This, to me, is the work of a band 6 student. You need to look at the different parts of the rubric now and make sure you can tick them all off. I suggest you have a look around at some stimuli and consider how you would incorporate them - simply because you don't want such an artful piece to be ruined by the need to incorporate a stimulus!

My only outstanding suggestion is perhaps incorporating language, ever so slightly, that will add that last touch of authenticity, like "Eid Mubarak!" Because, I believe that even someone who has not ever participated in Eid, would know what this means. It just adds a subtle touch. If you can fit it in, great, if not, it is just a small suggestion

You should be immensely proud of this work! You've done such an impressive job here! Please, post back any time, and clarify any questions with me

[Sahar8642]

Hello! I absolutely can have a look at your creative piece!

Here it is, unedited, with no comments:

Spoiler

Noise and commotion. Relatives constantly talking over the top of each other. The perpetual smell of cinnamon wafting through the air.

They were the only memories I had of Pakistan. My parents always tried to cast my mind back to my childhood in Karachi – Sundays at the market, guests always at the house and overnight train rides to see my grandparents in Quetta. When I saw my father’s eyes welling up in nostalgia or my mother sighing at old photos I tried so hard to remember for them. But I never could. It always gnawed away at me. Why couldn’t they just accept that we weren’t there anymore?

Now, gazing out the car window at the green pastures dotted with bright-coloured farmhouses, I couldn’t picture a place any different. I had no desire to either. The teenage years of my life defined me, and they were spent here, the first six years seemed like just a broken dream.
When we arrived at school I climbed out and watched as the car pulled away, gradually becoming smaller until it was no more than a speck.
***
The other students treated me like a novelty. Wherever I walked in the school I had at least ten pairs of uniform blue or green eyes following me, watching with interest. The unimaginable horror when forced to speak out was only surpassed by the teasing that would ensue. Suffice to say, my efforts to conceal my accent failed. Miserably. My best friend, Lucy, caught the bus to school and played sport on the weekends; I was taken to school by both parents and spent Sundays driving to our closest Mosque over an hour away.

At lunchtime, I swapped my hot chickpea stew for Lucy’s perfectly dressed Caesar salad – it was our daily ritual.

“You always have the best food, Sabine.” I didn’t respond. “What’s up? You haven’t been yourself all day.”

“It’s just – my parents,” I hesitated. “They live in such an enclosed bubble, and they’re trying so hard to hold me there too. My father thinks I’m ashamed of being ethnic. God, I hate that word so much. Ethnic.”

“That’s not entirely untrue though, is it? Your being ashamed, I mean?” Lucy asked gently. Her amber eyes had a softness to them. She tried to understand, but without ever visiting the land of too many spices and too few clean toilets, that was an impossibility.

I looked out at the school courts, where most of our class was playing football.

“I guess not.”
***
When I came into the kitchen that night, my father was sitting at the head of the table staring into an ancient laptop; face wrinkled in concentration- A rare occurrence. As I helped my mother set the table for lentil lamb soup, he suddenly exclaimed, “That’s it! Sanah, it is perfect. This flight goes directly to Karachi. Then she can take the train to Quetta like we always used to...” he trailed off when he saw my expression.

“We are not moving back to Pakistan. You don’t have to worry,” he said bitterly.

The next hour was spent with both parents interchangeably explaining their profound plans for me to spend summer with my grandparents.
After their deliberation, my parents looked at me expectedly while I just sat there… dumbfounded. “You can’t...you can’t do that. I...I don’t want to go,” I managed to croak out. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my home for that long. I didn’t understand their twisted reasoning. I knew my grandparents would take one look at me and shake their heads at how “Westernised” I’d become. I didn’t want to be “shipped off,” as the kids from school would undoubtedly describe it.

My mother interrupted my thoughts. “Sabine, please. Just do one thing for this family; that is all we ask. You haven’t the slightest idea how much your grandparents miss you and want to see you,” her voice wavered as she spoke.

My heart and mind resisted with all their might, but I found myself nodding in defeat.
***
It was my first time on a plane since we had moved to Australia ten years before. It was strange to see what I call home to shrink into an insignificant speck. I imagined my parents standing below in our backyard pointing up at the sky. I wished one of them could be in my place right now.

After a grueling flight and train journey, I came to face my grandparents at the Quetta railway station. The gnawing in my stomach wouldn’t halt – not knowing what to say, and wondering whether they would even recognise me. But I needn’t have worried, as they spotted me immediately and I was in their embrace within a matter of seconds. “Finally.” My grandmother whispered through tears. “Finally you’re here.” As we held each other, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, almost like arriving home at night after a difficult day. They both looked exactly like their photo on the mantelpiece in our living room.

On my first day in Pakistan, the three of us spent half the night talking, and this continued almost every day afterwards.  My grandparents wanted to hear every detail about my life, and after about a week I began to ask them questions too.

On my last night we went to an Eid Festival. As I put on my jeans, my grandmother looked at me in horror.

“Sabine, we are going to celebrate Eid. You must wear this,” she handed me a deep blue sari. “Haven’t your parents told you about Eid?”

I looked at the ground sheepishly. “They probably have, so many times. I mustn’t have been listening.”   

Walking through the night-lit streets of Eid Festival, I realised that I had never seen so much colour in my life. Billowing yellow paper lanterns hung across gnarled oak branches, lighting up the deepest alcoves of the trees. The women wore flowing brightly coloured, beaded saris, their arms covered in intricate henna patterns; the men wore lose linen blouses and embellished drawstring pants.

My grandfather walked beside me.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. I never thought I’d admit it, but I wanted more than anything to stay for longer. The six weeks had passed in a blur and I had only just begun to reach some level of understanding.
***
Fruit and vegetable bazaars pulsating with the rhythms of everyday life. Endless hues of blue, green, red and gold. My grandparents’ modest but beautiful house nestled between others of its kind. Home.

They were only a fraction of the images I had of Pakistan. My mind overflowed with knowledge, memories and self-recognition. Next time my parents reminisced about our life in Pakistan, I wouldn’t turn my head away in discomfort. Instead, I would add to their recollections of the exuberant place. I would add photos to our albums, stories to the dinner table conversations and regard my parents with admiration; never shame.

And here it is again, with my comments in bold font throughout:

Spoiler

Noise and commotion. Relatives constantly talking over the top of each other. The perpetual smell of cinnamon wafting through the air. I think you can do better than "perpetual." I think it describes that the cinnamon smell is ever-present, but I think the fact that you are mentioning it on the same level as people talking over each other, already tells me that it is perpetual. Consider actually describing the smell - that would be interesting! Describing the smell is something that I have definitely struggled with. Maybe if you used a simile, or maybe just an adjective. This opening is on a 9.5/10 in my books right now! I love how simple it is, but a real picture is being painted.

They were the only memories I had of Pakistan. My parents always tried to cast my mind back to my childhood in Karachi – Sundays at the market, guests always at the house and overnight train rides to see my grandparents in Quetta. When I saw my father’s eyes welling up in nostalgia or my mother sighing at old photos I tried so hard to remember for them. But I never could. It always gnawed away at me. Why couldn’t they just accept that we weren’t there anymore? I'm not sure if it gnaws away at you that your parents don't accept being in Pakistan anymore, or if it gnaws away at you that you can't remember, even if you want to. Both work well, but they both send a slightly different air to the reader. Consider rephrasing to be clear

Now, gazing out the car window at the green pastures dotted with bright-coloured farmhouses, I couldn’t picture a place any different. I had no desire to either. The teenage years of my life defined me, and they were spent here, the first six years seemed like just a broken dream.
When we arrived at school I climbed out and watched as the car pulled away, gradually becoming smaller until it was no more than a speck.
***
The other students treated me like a novelty. Wherever I walked in the school I had at least ten pairs of uniform blue or green eyes following me, watching with interest. The unimaginable horror when forced to speak out was only surpassed by the teasing that would ensue. Suffice to say, my efforts to conceal my accent failed. Miserably. My best friend, Lucy, caught the bus to school and played sport on the weekends; I was taken to school by both parents and spent Sundays driving to our closest Mosque over an hour away. I'm really following a beautiful comparison here!

At lunchtime, I swapped my hot chickpea stew for Lucy’s perfectly dressed Caesar salad – it was our daily ritual.

“You always have the best food, Sabine.” I didn’t respond. “What’s up? You haven’t been yourself all day.” I think you've chosen the names really well here (or maybe you didn't choose them - and this is based on real life?) You parallel Lucy with a Western salad, and Sabine's name with a chickpea stew. That's a very clever thing, you've connected weekend activities, to food, to names.

“It’s just – my parents,” I hesitated. “They live in such an enclosed bubble, and they’re trying so hard to hold me there too. My father thinks I’m ashamed of being ethnic. God, I hate that word so much. Ethnic.”

“That’s not entirely untrue though, is it? Your being ashamed, I mean?” Lucy asked gently. Her amber eyes had a softness to them. She tried to understand, but without ever visiting the land of too many spices and too few clean toilets, that was an impossibility. Too many spices and too few clean toilets! Haha! What awesome imagery I have in my head right now.

I looked out at the school courts, where most of our class was playing football.

“I guess not.”
***
When I came into the kitchen that night, my father was sitting at the head of the table staring into an ancient laptop; face wrinkled in concentration- A rare occurrence. I'm not entirely sure what the rare occurrence is - is it the being in concentration, the place at the table, or being on the laptop?As I helped my mother set the table for lentil lamb soup, he suddenly exclaimed, “That’s it! Sanah, it is perfect. This flight goes directly to Karachi. Then she can take the train to Quetta like we always used to...” he trailed off when he saw my expression.

“We are not moving back to Pakistan. You don’t have to worry,” he said bitterly.

The next hour was spent with both parents interchangeably explaining their profound plans for me to spend summer with my grandparents.
After their deliberation, my parents looked at me expectedly while I just sat there… dumbfounded. “You can’t...you can’t do that. I...I don’t want to go,” I managed to croak out. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my home for that long. I didn’t understand their twisted reasoning. I knew my grandparents would take one look at me and shake their heads at how “Westernised” I’d become. I didn’t want to be “shipped off,” as the kids from school would undoubtedly describe it.

My mother interrupted my thoughts. “Sabine, please. Just do one thing for this family; that is all we ask. You haven’t the slightest idea how much your grandparents miss you and want to see you,” her voice wavered as she spoke. I'm only putting this out there because it is abundantly clear that me that you are a great writer, and I want to kind of push you that tiny bit more to consider each and every little detail. Instead of her voice wavering - try do something more meaningful. This is borderline cliche - we know what it is like for a voice to waver. So, perhaps you could say she's spoken as softly as she used to when sharing bedtime stories in Pakistan, or she spoke with a guilt for not thinking of the grandparents enough. I think this is such a small space, but you can make it very meaningful.

My heart and mind resisted with all their might, but I found myself nodding in defeat.
***
It was my first time on a plane since we had moved to Australia ten years before. It was strange to see what I call home to shrink into an insignificant speck. I imagined my parents standing below in our backyard pointing up at the sky. I wished one of them could be in my place right now. For a bit of humour but also for the purpose of really showing the difference between the two cultures, maybe point out that they are standing under a Hills Hoist? I imagined a birds eye view of two parents standing on green grass in a small backyard under a Hills Hoist - I think this could work for you!

After a grueling flight and train journey, I came to face my grandparents at the Quetta railway station. The gnawing in my stomach wouldn’t halt – not knowing what to say, and wondering whether they would even recognise me. But I needn’t have worried, as they spotted me immediately and I was in their embrace within a matter of seconds.
(This needs to be on its own line “Finally.” My grandmother whispered through tears. “Finally you’re here.” As we held each other, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, almost like arriving home at night after a difficult day. They both looked exactly like their photo on the mantelpiece in our living room. How do they look? Eccentric? Normal? Warm? Humble? Stern?

On my first day in Pakistan, the three of us spent half the night talking, and this continued almost every day afterwards.  My grandparents wanted to hear every detail about my life, and after about a week I began to ask them questions too.

On my last night we went to an Eid Festival. As I put on my jeans, my grandmother looked at me in horror.

“Sabine, we are going to celebrate Eid. You must wear this,” she handed me a deep blue sari. “Haven’t your parents told you about Eid?”

I looked at the ground sheepishly. “They probably have, so many times. I mustn’t have been listening.”   

Walking through the night-lit streets of Eid Festival, I realised that I had never seen so much colour in my life. Billowing yellow paper lanterns hung across gnarled oak branches, lighting up the deepest alcoves of the trees. The women wore flowing brightly coloured, beaded saris, their arms covered in intricate henna patterns; the men wore lose linen blouses and embellished drawstring pants.

My grandfather walked beside me.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. I never thought I’d admit it, but I wanted more than anything to stay for longer. The six weeks had passed in a blur and I had only just begun to reach some level of understanding.
***
Fruit and vegetable bazaars pulsating with the rhythms of everyday life. Endless hues of blue, green, red and gold. My grandparents’ modest but beautiful house nestled between others of its kind. Home.

They were only a fraction of the images I had of Pakistan. My mind overflowed with knowledge, memories and self-recognition. Next time my parents reminisced about our life in Pakistan, I wouldn’t turn my head away in discomfort. Instead, I would add to their recollections of the exuberant place. I would add photos to our albums, stories to the dinner table conversations and regard my parents with admiration; never shame.

This is one of the most outstanding pieces I have read for a HSC creative! The great thing about this is, I think you bring a realness to this story. However they be, you may have experienced this and you are Sabine, or you've listened/researched enough to write about it perfectly. My suggestions throughout are very small. This, to me, is the work of a band 6 student. You need to look at the different parts of the rubric now and make sure you can tick them all off. I suggest you have a look around at some stimuli and consider how you would incorporate them - simply because you don't want such an artful piece to be ruined by the need to incorporate a stimulus!

My only outstanding suggestion is perhaps incorporating language, ever so slightly, that will add that last touch of authenticity, like "Eid Mubarak!" Because, I believe that even someone who has not ever participated in Eid, would know what this means. It just adds a subtle touch. If you can fit it in, great, if not, it is just a small suggestion

You should be immensely proud of this work! You've done such an impressive job here! Please, post back any time, and clarify any questions with me

Thank you so much! 
I was just wondering what would you give out of 15?
I'll be sure to take everything into consideration especially with the "Eid Mubarak!"
Hanks again

[Jemimared]

Hi there, I was wondering If my creative writing is okay for discovery. I wrote it without focusing on discovery and now I'm worried it might not work well. I would prefer not to write a new creative writing piece as well, as my trial is on Tuesday the 19th.
Let me know what you think.
Thanks.

[conic curve]

Serious question but are students allowed to give other students feedback on their work here? (i.e. what they think needs to be improved, etc)

[Jemimared]

Conic Curve- I don't see why not.