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lowrifunnell:
hi! I don't really have any particular concerns for my narrative apart from all of it :) thanks so much for doing this!!

elysepopplewell:

--- Quote from: lowrifunnell on March 03, 2016, 08:35:20 pm ---hi! I don't really have any particular concerns for my narrative apart from all of it :) thanks so much for doing this!!

--- End quote ---

Hey! It is my pleasure to do this :)
Here is your original, unedited creative:
SpoilerThe wind whipped my hair around my face as the car door slammed behind me. The air was thick with moisture. A storm was brewing.
As I entered the house and threw my keys on the counter, the first drops of rain were beginning to fling themselves at the frosted window panes. By the time I sank into a chair, it was pelting down with rain, droplets of water plummeting to their demise. Just like my career. When I graduated from Oxford at the top of my class, my career in astrophysics, specialising in the fabric of space-time, had looked promising. Now, 10 years later, my research job is slowly, yet surely, becoming my biggest failure yet. And that includes wearing socks with sandals.
No matter which calculations I tried, which formula I used, I always ended up with the same answer. The wrong answer. There must be some significance to it, I just can't figure it out. Maybe I never will. Maybe they were right, maybe I'll never be smart enough for this. The rain and wind was battering my window, threatening to smash it into shards. Stacks of notes were piled high, looming, teetering over me, each page threatening to spill from its pile and slice through the air in a storm of white and ink. Each page bearing the number 2.13765. It was inescapable. The rain outside intensified, lightning split the sky as if it were nothing but paper, illuminating the room and pulling my gaze towards my shelves, where a simple box was hiding behind papers and books. I yanked the box from its dust ridden place, resolving to focus on something else. Anything to take my mind off my failing experiments and theories.
The box had always fascinated me, I’d found it in the attic, and no one seemed to remember where it had come from. It was tall and wooden, with eight ornate, intricately carved sides. On the lid of the box was what looked like a combination lock. I’d tried every combination I could think of, every birthday, every significant date. So far nothing had worked. When I tipped the box on its side I could hear its contents slide around inside. I’d always wondered what could be inside.
I wonder…
I didn’t know why it would work, that wouldn’t make any sense, but I supposed that there was no harm in trying. I twisted the lock to face the two, then the one, three, seven, and six. Taking a final, deep breath, I clicked the lock over to the five. There was a small hiss as the lock slides out of place. The storm outside had calmed, but thunder rolled over faraway hills, as if in retreat, not nearly as loud as the blood roaring in my ears, racing through my veins, pulsing through my body like electricity.
The next day I raced into work, found an empty lab and locked myself in. Only then did I pull the box out of my bag and set it on the desk in amidst my failed experiments and calculations. I didn’t know what I might find, only that it would be instrumental in my life. The box stared up at me unassumingly, unaware of the impact it was about to make on my life, on everyone’s lives. Unable to wait any longer, I squeezed my eyes shut and prised off the lid. The contents appeared to be those of a time capsule, a handful of cinema ticket stubs, a CD of a band I’d never heard of, a photo of a family, clearer than anything I’d seen before, and a newspaper article. A newspaper article titled ‘Only Time Will Tell’, and dated December 6th, 2016. It didn’t make any sense, that was twenty years in the future. Skimming over the article, I thought it must be a practical joke, played by one of my more insensitive colleagues. The article was about time travel. There weren’t many details, but it looked like someone had finally done it, they had invented time travel. I was just about to storm out of my lab and command the rest of the scientists to explain themselves, when I saw one more item at the bottom of the box, tucked into a gap in the wooden corner. It was a tiny piece of ripped paper with a short sentence on it. a short sentence in my own handwriting.
‘You can do it, I promise’

Here is your creative with my thoughts:
SpoilerThe wind whipped my hair around my face as the car door slammed behind me. The air was thick with moisture. A storm was brewing. I like how you've used a longer sentence and then two short ones. Already you're showing great sentence variation.
As I entered the house and threw my keys on the counter, the first drops of rain were beginning to fling themselves at the frosted window panes. By the time I sank into a chair, it was pelting down with rain, droplets of water plummeting to their demise. Just like my career. When I graduated from Oxford at the top of my class, my career in astrophysics, specialising in the fabric of space-time, had looked promising. Now, 10 years later, my research job is slowly, yet surely, (Slowly yet surely is a cliche. Try avoid this. The reason being, your reader reads the beginning and they think they know what finishes it, and when you change it to be something else you draw in the reader's attention again. Even if you change "surely" for "undoubtedly" it will still have this effect!) becoming my biggest failure yet. And that includes wearing socks with sandals. I love this bit of humour. However, there are people who actually do this and see nothing wrong with it *cringe*. Socks with thongs is where its at.

No matter which calculations I tried, which formula I used, I always ended up with the same answer. The wrong answer. There must be some significance to it, I just can't figure it out. Maybe I never will. Maybe they were right, maybe I'll never be smart enough for this. The rain and wind was battering my window, threatening to smash it into shards. Stacks of notes were piled high, looming, teetering over me, each page threatening to spill from its pile and slice through the air in a storm of white and ink. Each page bearing the number 2.13765. It was inescapable. The rain outside intensified, lightning split the sky as if it were nothing but paper, illuminating the room and pulling my gaze towards my shelves, where a simple box was hiding behind papers and books. I yanked the box from its dust ridden place, resolving to focus on something else. Anything to take my mind off my failing experiments and theories.
The box had always fascinated me, I’d found it in the attic, and no one seemed to remember where it had come from. It was tall and wooden, with eight ornate, intricately carved sides. On the lid of the box was what looked like a combination lock. I’d tried every combination I could think of, every birthday, every significant date. So far nothing had worked. When I tipped the box on its side I could hear its contents slide around inside. I’d always wondered what could be inside.
I wonder…
I didn’t know why it would work, that wouldn’t make any sense, but I supposed that there was no harm in trying. I twisted the lock to face the two, then the one, three, seven, and six. Taking a final, deep breath, I clicked the lock over to the five. There was a small hiss as the lock slides out of place. The storm outside had calmed, but thunder rolled over faraway hills, as if in retreat, not nearly as loud as the blood roaring in my ears, racing through my veins, pulsing through my body like electricity.
The next day I raced into work, found an empty lab and locked myself in. Only then did I pull the box out of my bag and set it on the desk in amidst my failed experiments and calculations. I didn’t know what I might find, only that it would be instrumental in my life. The box stared up at me unassumingly, unaware of the impact it was about to make on my life, on everyone’s lives. Unable to wait any longer, I squeezed my eyes shut and prised off the lid. The contents appeared to be those of a time capsule, a handful of cinema ticket stubs, a CD of a band I’d never heard of, a photo of a family, clearer than anything I’d seen before, and a newspaper article. A newspaper article titled ‘Only Time Will Tell’, and dated December 6th, 2016. It didn’t make any sense, that was twenty years in the future. Skimming over the article, I thought it must be a practical joke, played by one of my more insensitive colleagues. The article was about time travel. There weren’t many details, but it looked like someone had finally done it, they had invented time travel. I was just about to storm out of my lab and command the rest of the scientists to explain themselves, when I saw one more item at the bottom of the box, tucked into a gap in the wooden corner. It was a tiny piece of ripped paper with a short sentence on it. a short sentence in my own handwriting.
‘You can do it, I promise’

OMG WOW.

The end bit is great. I didn't see it coming! So that is definitely a good sign.

The next step for you is to improve the persona's voice. There was that touch of humour in there which was great (socks and sandals) but I want to see a little bit more of it. This isn't because I want your piece to be funny, but because I want your character to be more than just sorry for themself. To me, the person seems bland, tired, depressed, boring. When in fact, I want them to be passionate but defeated, humorous but fatigued, on the verge of giving up, but not quite yet. Adding to the persona's personality and mannerisms will create interest in the story where it lulls. I mean, aside from the introduction and the getting into the box, it is a lull. This is the time for you to create the persona to be tangible.

Let's talk about discovery:
The reader makes a discovery, but so does the persona. The discovery is made at the same point for both, so that's great because it enhances the reader's understanding of what the persona feels.

A few things that I want to comment on that I'm a bit confused about, so perhaps you can take this on board. If you want to leave some of these as enigmas, that's totally fine. If you want to change it up to answer the questions, you can do that too.

1. The number on the page, the 2.#####. I guessed that this number is a result that he keeps coming up with even though it is incorrect? Is it a sign from the universe that it is actually the box's lock?
2. Is he in a shared laboratory? Because I see him in complete isolation, but then he wants to speak to the other scientists for a moment there?
3. Adding to the environment, there's an attic? This is what made me picture the persona being at home. Then the scientists came into it?

In all, this is a great piece. You should be very proud. Don't hesitate to add more to it or change things and post back. You have set yourself up for success in this creative.

You should get your hands on as many possible questions and stimuli as possible. This includes 2015 HSC exam, 2015 trials and 2015 half yearly exams. Apply your creative to this so that you can see just how it ticks the discovery boxes. If you find there is a question that you simply cannot adapt to: don't ignore it. You're ahead of a lot of people in that you have a great story already, so use this advantage to have a look at adapting the creative :)

elysepopplewell:

--- Quote from: smiley2101 on March 07, 2016, 04:29:03 pm ---Hi Elyse!

It would be such a privilege if you could give me your advice on this creative I wrote! Just wanted to know whether this was band 6 material and if you could point out any errors and give me advice on how to heighten it! Thank you so so much for you help I am so glad that I can send this to you, and I am forever greatful :)

--- End quote ---

Hey there! Here is your original, unedited creative:
SpoilerWith Knowledge comes power.
Oppenheimer was unaware that his brilliance would unleash a monstrous mammoth upon mankind: the first atomic bomb, 1965.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world”
The rest was history.
She had read somewhere that the cure for cancer was being suppressed between the calloused palms of business firms and medical institutions. Little did she know the implication of leaking this wealth of Knowledge onto society’s deprived soul.                  She calls it justice.
You and I would call it corruption.
***
Dr Samitha bathed her profuse charcoal hair unctuously with lavender Amla oil. Her sunken eyes weathered from years of reading, revising, and rendering, framed delicately with her chipped glasses which danced on the crook of her nose.
She hoisted the scissors against her hairline, which burnt cold against her tender dark skin, hungry for the charcoal. It was like an anesthetic to her pitiful domestic existence; the hammer that could shatter the glass ceiling.

She thought against it.

Soon all her hard work, in the domain of gender constructs would be acknowledged.

Hair tightly held back and teeth clenched, Dr Samitha staggered within the familiar suffocating magnolia walls brushed with undertones of bleach. She scavenged through myriads of medical chronicles and hunched methodically over the lab table.

Three years ago the clocks struck thirteen, and she was devoid of her loving Amma whom so willingly brushed her thick hair and kissed her cheek with adoration.
 “Just make sure you own your career, don’t let it own you like so many people…” Those final whispers in the air cradled her ear – when her dear Amma was stolen by death himself, succumbing to leukemia.

1080 days of dedication.

She held the test tube against the fluorescent bursts for clarity and squinted at the immune system culture of T cell components – years of trial, error and perfection. With a generous drop from a micropipette, she peeked hesitantly into the lens of the electron microscope plated with diaphanous silver. Dr Samitha used her paraphernalia to genetically engineer a CD19 receptor onto the T & B cells amongst the tumorous cells.

The calm before the storm:  deep palpitations throbbed against her ear drums. Hot air smothered against her throat, rivulets of sweat adhered to skin. The smell of bleach tickled her nostrils.

The T-cells crowded the cancerous cells like a flock of birds surrounding a meaty prey.

Dr Samitha gripped the table until her pale fingers barren of colour were nostalgic for sensation. She pecked the test tube and elevated the translucent solution against the stark light in awe, a tearful blurry view.

They would never understand her sacrifice.

Her eyes hesitantly lingered over the AAAS card to inform this scientific breakthrough that would pave history. She would be sitting in the hall of fame beside Francis Crick and James Watson.

So why was she holding back?

***
The East Wind mockingly whistled over the jungle bursting with buildings. The stagnant traffic accompanies incessant honking and yelping. An exponential population upsurge was experienced 50 years since the unearthing of the cure to cancer.
The Actuary’s job is non-existent – that rich business man’s job is thriving.
The citizens faces permeate gloom and not joy; misery and not happiness.
A social class was effortlessly re-established – the rich, rich enough to devour in such remedies and the poor, poor enough to suffer in such atrocities.
A window into what was hoped to be utopia was replaced with dystopia.

***
She wept.
So why was she holding back?

Her grip on the test tube tensed.
She could pay off her hefty university fees; compensate those years of slavery as a victim to the heinous act of cancer; shower in fame and shed the limelight on gender inequality.

Her grip on the test tube constricted furthermore and the smell of bleach heightened. 
They will never understand her sacrifice.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world”
The test tube fractured under pressure, lacerating Dr Samitha, caking her hand in a rich maroon tapestry.
With Knowledge comes power – a power too rich in magnitude to tame.
Here is your creative with some of my own comments, they will be written in bold :)
SpoilerWith Knowledge comes power.
Oppenheimer was unaware that his brilliance would unleash a monstrous mammoth upon mankind: the first atomic bomb, 1965. You could be saying this because it is an imaginative piece and not factual, but the first Atomic Bomb blast was on July 16 in 1945. This might stick out to a marker as being something to throw them early on, particularly if they are a history teacher as well.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world”
The rest was history.
She had read somewhere that the cure for cancer was being suppressed between the calloused palms of business firms and medical institutions. I'm dying over this sentence. "Calloused palms of business firms" WOW WOW WOW! Little did she know the implication of leaking this wealth of Knowledge onto society’s deprived soul.                  She calls it justice.
You and I would call it corruption. I love that I'm pulled in here. "You and I"
***
Dr Samitha bathed her profuse charcoal hair unctuously with lavender Amla oil. Her sunken eyes, weathered from years of reading, revising, and rendering, were framed delicately with her chipped glasses which that danced on the crook of her nose.
She hoisted the scissors against her hairline, which burnt cold against her tender dark skin, hungry for the charcoal.I'm just a bit confused here regarding what exactly is "hungry for the charcoal." It was like an anesthetic to her pitiful domestic existence; the hammer that could shatter the glass ceiling.

She thought against it.

Soon all her hard work, in the domain of gender constructs would be acknowledged.

Hair tightly held back and teeth clenched, Dr Samitha staggered within the familiar suffocating magnolia walls brushed with undertones of bleach. She scavenged through myriads of medical chronicles and hunched methodically over the lab table.

Three years ago the clocks struck thirteen, and she was devoid of her loving Amma whom so willingly brushed her thick hair and kissed her cheek with adoration.
 “Just make sure you own your career, don’t let it own you like so many people…” Those final whispers in the air cradled her ear – when her dear Amma was stolen by death himself, succumbing to leukemia.

1080 days of dedication.

She held the test tube against the fluorescent bursts for clarity and squinted at the immune system culture of T cell components – years of trial, error and perfection. With a generous drop from a micropipette, she peeked hesitantly into the lens of the electron microscope plated with diaphanous silver. Dr Samitha used her paraphernalia to genetically engineer a CD19 receptor onto the T & B cells amongst the tumorous cells.

The calm before the storm:  deep palpitations throbbed against her ear drums. Hot air smothered against her throat, rivulets of sweat adhered to skin. The smell of bleach tickled her nostrils.

The T-cells crowded the cancerous cells like a flock of birds surrounding a meaty prey.

Dr Samitha gripped the table until her pale fingers barren of colour were nostalgic for sensation. She pecked the test tube and elevated the translucent solution against the stark light in awe, a tearful blurry view.

They would never understand her sacrifice.

Her eyes hesitantly lingered over the AAAS card to inform this scientific breakthrough that would pave history. She would be sitting in the hall of fame beside Francis Crick and James Watson.

So why was she holding back?

***
The East Wind mockingly whistled over the jungle bursting with buildings. The stagnant traffic accompanies incessant honking and yelping. An exponential population upsurge was experienced 50 years since the unearthing of the cure to cancer.
The Actuary’s job is non-existent – that rich business man’s job is thriving.
The citizens faces permeate gloom and not joy; misery and not happiness.
A social class was effortlessly re-established – the rich, rich enough to devour in such remedies and the poor, poor enough to suffer in such atrocities.
A window into what was hoped to be utopia was replaced with dystopia.

***
She wept.
So why was she holding back?

Her grip on the test tube tensed.
She could pay off her hefty university fees; compensate those years of slavery as a victim to the heinous act of cancer; shower in fame and shed the limelight on gender inequality.

Her grip on the test tube constricted furthermore and the smell of bleach heightened. 
They will never understand her sacrifice.
“We have made a thing, a most terrible weapon that has altered the nature of the world”
The test tube fractured under pressure, lacerating Dr Samitha, caking her hand in a rich maroon tapestry.
With Knowledge comes power – a power too rich in magnitude to tame.
I didn't comment on the second half of the text because in terms of language, there are no ugly flaws. So that's good, because it meant that I could enjoy the flow of the story, which I did.

However, I think there need to be a few linking adjustments made to better the flow and the overall effect. I liked the road you seemed to go down regarding the gender inequality because it shone a deeper light on the cancer story than just the idea that it is locked away financially. But, I didn't see a strong flow of that throughout. I only seemed to see her resentment for the system and the potential pride that she would feel if she did expose her findings. I was waiting, but it didn't seem to eventuate? Which can work in your favour, of course. Except, it was clouded by the husband's cancerous death and the debt she has to him. In the end, I was confused about what her motives were and what had eventuated. I couldn't be certain of the link being made to the A-bomb. I'm assuming that you wanted to compare her situation to the gravity of the bomb? But then I'm left wondering why the bomb is released later than 1945. Haha!

Now, don't be disheartened! These little things can be tidied up very easily. I've told you where I think there are broken links, and now you need to work out where you can mend them. I hope this makes sense to you! Your writing is spot on. I was loving your intro. I loved the rest throughout as well. Your story definitely is band 6 material, you just need to fix the links and then re-view the cohesiveness of the language to confirm your place! Don't be afraid to post back if you make any edits. Hopefully this makes sense! Please ask for clarification if I haven't been clear. :)

Reece7Burton:
Hi I was wondering if you could mark my creative story I had to put the sentence: The View is endlessly fulfilling. It is like the answer to a lifetime of questions and vague cravings. And the story had to be focused on a moment of discovery. Thanks

A mirroring image

The world was still, almost silent, except for the continuous chimes from a clock-tower far above and the dull thud of his heartbeat as he rested his against the sturdy alabaster wall and assessed the view before his wary, untrusting eyes. A white marble staircase is laid out a few metres from his resting place and spirals upwards in elegant, vertical rings before disappearing somewhere into the mist far above his head. Beyond this, the ivory wall that he leans on extends on either side of him, for what seems like a mile, surrounding the area like a prison and ensuring the only path to take was the one laid out directly before him.

When the world was different and things made sense, he’d had a deadly, almost paralysing fear of heights. he didn’t have that option anymore. There was nowhere else to go. Though he’d been fighting the instinct from the moment he opened his eyes, something deep inside him was telling that he should push through the fear as if it was the last thing he’d ever do. Climb. A sense that if he were to do that, life might make sense again. Although perception of reality seeped in, he decided for the first time in a very long time to listen to his instinct and trust himself.

Taking a deep breath to calm his aching nerves he pushes away from the wall and takes a tentative step onto the marble staircase, gripping the marble banister that runs alongside it trembling hands. Instantly he is bewildered by a memory.

The memory.

Grasping the banister tightly, he heaves his eyes to a close in an attempt to stop the image from materialising right before him. Suddenly he’s back there. Back to where it all began. A vapid white room appears before him. No life apart from the narrow pathway to the limp threads of fabric hanging from the bed with a cracked side table near and the smell of guilt overpowering him as he draws closer, a realisation of the pale, boned body, amid a mess of sheets. Shaking his head, he snorts his nose and wipes his cheeks. “It’s been so long since I’ve been in the hospital…”Drawing closer to the bed, the ashen form that rests upon it, a flicker of recognition passes. This fades when another figure materialises before him eyes, seeming not to see him as he approaches the figure on the thread. A wave of panic suddenly overwhelms him, though the realisation hasn’t been met. The shrouded ghost looks down on the boy at the bed through dull, cold eyes and leans down to say something, his lips right by the boys ear…And it’s as if a thread had been cut. A cry in protest arises from him as he is sent back to his body with the realisation.

The two figures were a mirroring image.

Clear as if he was still lying on the bed in that cold, lifeless room, the words echo in his head over and over, “Time’s up.” By the time he opens his eyes still clenching against the barrister, as if he would shatter into a million pieces if she didn’t have it there for support, the image remains in the eyes of his foreseen future. He remembers: a dark day, winter, snow crystals forming beyond the window frame. Silence. His mouth moving but the words received weren’t as concerning as the sad smile that followed. After the life had escaped his body.

Staring up the staircase, at the piercing light emitting at the top, he wonders what he will find there. Peace, perhaps? Sighing at the thought, he takes another step up the staircase, then another. Each step providing a light so strong that no other light can compare, well not since the sickness had found him. Like every journey, he takes his time reaching the top but when the foot touches flat ground instead of yet another dreaded step, a face enthralled with shock appears following the journey’s end. A deep breath is taken, following a trembling body feeling more conflicted then ever. Before him lies an intimidating marble wall, running straight as far as the eye can see. Stepping forwards he notices the clock-tower in the distance, still chiming, but somehow quieter than before. At the centre of the wall a gate is formed, illuminating a glow. sStill at a distance he watches as the glow weakens as if his loved ones had lost all hope and were forced to provide each other with an unattainable level of comfort. He feels torn. A longing he has been reaching for all this time is right there infant of him. After years and years of stumbling around in a memoryless haze. “Can I do it?”

A question only serving to illuminate all all of his past fears, insecurities and the hopelessness that his illness provided. As he turns on his heel, intent on declining back down before more bad memories could trouble a voice rings out. “Aren’t you going to take that extra step?” He stumbles back around to see only what was seen before. No figure. No life. As he takes a step closer, a sense of peace overwhelms him from beyond the gateway and tears trickle down the cheeks of a diminished human being as the thought of what he is leaving behind demands too much of him. Stepping closer, he ponders this. Could he really let go. Start again?

The peace he felt before, returns tenfold, and a hesitant smile appears. It’s been years since his death. Years of fear, anxieties and stress. Perhaps it is time. The gate open as if it was willed by god himself to allow him to step inside. The view was endlessly fulfilling. It was the answer to a lifetime of question and vague cravings. Finally he understood. Finally there was freedom.

elysepopplewell:

--- Quote from: Reece7Burton on March 11, 2016, 12:56:10 pm ---Hi I was wondering if you could mark my creative story I had to put the sentence: The View is endlessly fulfilling. It is like the answer to a lifetime of questions and vague cravings. And the story had to be focused on a moment of discovery. Thanks

--- End quote ---

Hey there! I will definitely read your creative.
Here it is, unedited:
SpoilerA mirroring image

The world was still, almost silent, except for the continuous chimes from a clock-tower far above and the dull thud of his heartbeat as he rested his against the sturdy alabaster wall and assessed the view before his wary, untrusting eyes. A white marble staircase is laid out a few metres from his resting place and spirals upwards in elegant, vertical rings before disappearing somewhere into the mist far above his head. Beyond this, the ivory wall that he leans on extends on either side of him, for what seems like a mile, surrounding the area like a prison and ensuring the only path to take was the one laid out directly before him.

When the world was different and things made sense, he’d had a deadly, almost paralysing fear of heights. he didn’t have that option anymore. There was nowhere else to go. Though he’d been fighting the instinct from the moment he opened his eyes, something deep inside him was telling that he should push through the fear as if it was the last thing he’d ever do. Climb. A sense that if he were to do that, life might make sense again. Although perception of reality seeped in, he decided for the first time in a very long time to listen to his instinct and trust himself.

Taking a deep breath to calm his aching nerves he pushes away from the wall and takes a tentative step onto the marble staircase, gripping the marble banister that runs alongside it trembling hands. Instantly he is bewildered by a memory.

The memory.

Grasping the banister tightly, he heaves his eyes to a close in an attempt to stop the image from materialising right before him. Suddenly he’s back there. Back to where it all began. A vapid white room appears before him. No life apart from the narrow pathway to the limp threads of fabric hanging from the bed with a cracked side table near and the smell of guilt overpowering him as he draws closer, a realisation of the pale, boned body, amid a mess of sheets. Shaking his head, he snorts his nose and wipes his cheeks. “It’s been so long since I’ve been in the hospital…”Drawing closer to the bed, the ashen form that rests upon it, a flicker of recognition passes. This fades when another figure materialises before him eyes, seeming not to see him as he approaches the figure on the thread. A wave of panic suddenly overwhelms him, though the realisation hasn’t been met. The shrouded ghost looks down on the boy at the bed through dull, cold eyes and leans down to say something, his lips right by the boys ear…And it’s as if a thread had been cut. A cry in protest arises from him as he is sent back to his body with the realisation.

The two figures were a mirroring image.

Clear as if he was still lying on the bed in that cold, lifeless room, the words echo in his head over and over, “Time’s up.” By the time he opens his eyes still clenching against the barrister, as if he would shatter into a million pieces if she didn’t have it there for support, the image remains in the eyes of his foreseen future. He remembers: a dark day, winter, snow crystals forming beyond the window frame. Silence. His mouth moving but the words received weren’t as concerning as the sad smile that followed. After the life had escaped his body.

Staring up the staircase, at the piercing light emitting at the top, he wonders what he will find there. Peace, perhaps? Sighing at the thought, he takes another step up the staircase, then another. Each step providing a light so strong that no other light can compare, well not since the sickness had found him. Like every journey, he takes his time reaching the top but when the foot touches flat ground instead of yet another dreaded step, a face enthralled with shock appears following the journey’s end. A deep breath is taken, following a trembling body feeling more conflicted then ever. Before him lies an intimidating marble wall, running straight as far as the eye can see. Stepping forwards he notices the clock-tower in the distance, still chiming, but somehow quieter than before. At the centre of the wall a gate is formed, illuminating a glow. sStill at a distance he watches as the glow weakens as if his loved ones had lost all hope and were forced to provide each other with an unattainable level of comfort. He feels torn. A longing he has been reaching for all this time is right there infant of him. After years and years of stumbling around in a memoryless haze. “Can I do it?”

A question only serving to illuminate all all of his past fears, insecurities and the hopelessness that his illness provided. As he turns on his heel, intent on declining back down before more bad memories could trouble a voice rings out. “Aren’t you going to take that extra step?” He stumbles back around to see only what was seen before. No figure. No life. As he takes a step closer, a sense of peace overwhelms him from beyond the gateway and tears trickle down the cheeks of a diminished human being as the thought of what he is leaving behind demands too much of him. Stepping closer, he ponders this. Could he really let go. Start again?

The peace he felt before, returns tenfold, and a hesitant smile appears. It’s been years since his death. Years of fear, anxieties and stress. Perhaps it is time. The gate open as if it was willed by god himself to allow him to step inside. The view was endlessly fulfilling. It was the answer to a lifetime of question and vague cravings. Finally he understood. Finally there was freedom
Here it is, edited with my own thoughts in bold:
SpoilerA mirroring image

The world was still, almost silent, except for the continuous chimes from a clock-tower far above and the dull thud of his heartbeat as he rested his against the sturdy alabaster wall and assessed the view before his wary, untrusting eyes. This is a long sentence. Typically, this isn't an enormous problem. Except, this will be presented in written form, so this will actually be likely to take up about 5 lines for one sentence - this is exhausting for a marker. The imagery sits in a more stark way when it is isolated.A white marble staircase is laid out a few metres from his resting place and spirals upwards in elegant, vertical rings before disappearing somewhere into the mist far above his head. Beyond this, the ivory wall that he leans on extends on either side of him, for what seems like a mile, surrounding the area like a prison and ensuring the only path to take was the one laid out directly before him.

When the world was different and things made sense, he’d had a deadly, almost paralysing fear of heights. he didn’t have that option anymore. There was nowhere else to go. Though he’d been fighting the instinct from the moment he opened his eyes, something deep inside him was telling that he should push through the fear as if it was the last thing he’d ever do. Climb. A sense that if he were to do that, life might make sense again. Although perception of reality seeped in, he decided for the first time in a very long time to listen to his instinct and trust himself.

Taking a deep breath to calm his aching nerves he pushes away from the wall and takes a tentative step onto the marble staircase, gripping the marble banister that runs alongside it trembling hands. Instantly he is bewildered by a memory.

The memory.

Grasping the banister tightly, he heaves his eyes to a close in an attempt to stop the image from materialising right before him. Suddenly he’s back there. Back to where it all began. A vapid white room appears before him. No life apart from the narrow pathway to the limp threads of fabric hanging from the bed with a cracked side table near and the smell of guilt overpowering him as he draws closer, a realisation of the pale, boned body, amid a mess of sheets. Shaking his head, he snorts his nose and wipes his cheeks. This sentence is nice because it is far shorter than your others, so the imagery stays with me.
Speech needs to be on a new line.“It’s been so long since I’ve been in the hospital…” Drawing closer to the bed, the ashen form that rests upon it, a flicker of recognition passes. This fades when another figure materialises before him his eyes, seeming not to see him as he approaches the figure on the thread. A wave of panic suddenly overwhelms him, though the realisation hasn’t been met. The shrouded ghost looks down on the boy at the bed through dull, cold eyes and leans down to say something, his lips right by the boys ear…And it’s as if a thread had been cut. A cry in protest arises from him as he is sent back to his body with the realisation.

The two figures were a mirroring image.

Clear as if he was still lying on the bed in that cold, lifeless room, the words echo in his head over and over, “Time’s up.” By the time he opens his eyes still clenching against the barrister, banister? as if he would shatter into a million pieces if she didn’t have it there for support, the image remains in the eyes of his foreseen future. He remembers: a dark day, winter, snow crystals forming beyond the window frame. Silence. His mouth moving but the words received weren’t as concerning as the sad smile that followed. After the life had escaped his body.

Staring up the staircase, at the piercing light emitting at the top, he wonders what he will find there. Peace, perhaps? Sighing at the thought, he takes another step up the staircase, then another. Each step providing a light so strong that no other light can compare, well not since the sickness had found him. Like every journey, he takes his time reaching the top but when the foot touches flat ground instead of yet another dreaded step, a face enthralled with shock appears following the journey’s end. A deep breath is taken, following a trembling body feeling more conflicted then ever. Before him lies an intimidating marble wall, running straight as far as the eye can see. Stepping forwards he notices the clock-tower in the distance, still chiming, but somehow quieter than before. At the centre of the wall a gate is formed, illuminating a glow. sStill at a distance he watches as the glow weakens as if his loved ones had lost all hope and were forced to provide each other with an unattainable level of comfort. He feels torn. A longing he has been reaching for all this time is right there infant of him. After years and years of stumbling around in a memoryless haze. “Can I do it?”

A question only serving to illuminate all all of his past fears, insecurities and the hopelessness that his illness provided. As he turns on his heel, intent on declining back down before more bad memories could trouble a voice rings out. “Aren’t you going to take that extra step?” He stumbles back around to see only what was seen before. No figure. No life. As he takes a step closer, a sense of peace overwhelms him from beyond the gateway and tears trickle down the cheeks of a diminished human being as the thought of what he is leaving behind demands too much of him. Stepping closer, he ponders this. Could he really let go. Start again?

The peace he felt before, returns tenfold, and a hesitant smile appears. It’s been years since his death. Years of fear, anxieties and stress. Perhaps it is time. The gate open as if it was willed by god himself to allow him to step inside. The view was endlessly fulfilling. It was the answer to a lifetime of question and vague cravings. Finally he understood. Finally there was freedom
I really enjoy this story. The discovery is clear and it's removed enough from banal reality that it is interested, without being too far fetched. The discovery part of this doesn't need a lot of work.
To improve your work, you should work on your sentence structure and variation. You use a lot of long sentences. Any sentence that is 35 words or more, I suggest you look at to try and cut down. It isn't because a sentence shouldn't be that long, it is just because you have so much imagery in each one that it is loaded and can't be taken in completely. You've evidently got an imaginary world clearly visualised...it just needs to be conveyed with greater clarity. Perhaps you've read the writing of authors who write like this. The difference is, you are unfortunately writing for a marker who may have read 50 other creatives that day, and this may be the last. Every bit of clear, effective imagery should be well expressed in order to grab the attention of the marker and set yourself aside from the rest!

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