Free AOS Creative Writing Marking!

[jamonwindeyer]

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)

Absolutely!! Provided it's constructive, of course 

[conic curve]

Absolutely!! Provided it's constructive, of course 

Great hopefully this will improve my creative writing and essay marking skills

[elysepopplewell]

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!

Hi there! Good luck for Monday!

Here is your creative, in the spoiler, with my own comments in bold font throughout!

Spoiler

The ectopic rhythm of the heartbeats pounding through my chest can be heard all the way from earth. Not sure that ectopic is the right word here. Ectopic makes me think of either abnormal/out of place, or ectopic pregnancy. I think the connotations of ectopic are too removed from what you are trying to achieve. So consider rephrasing that.
Preparing myself, I move cautiously towards the rack by the door. I pull down the helmet at the top, feeling the rough material strewn across the neckline with my fingers. I'm not sure that strewn is the best word for the job. Strewn usually means scattered,even messily. I think this is a bit too streamlined to be "strewn."Placing the helmet over my head was always slightly claustrophobic, as if I was choosing to limit my life force to a pipe filled with a finite amount of oxygen on my back. I twist the helmet side to side, looking for the click which told me it was fastened. fastening click. < I think this sounds a bit more precise in language. A moment of suffocation follows, before a gush of air fills the sphere around my eyes. I choke for a second, unaccustomed to the large quantity of air, before calming myself with deep breaths.
Initiating the anxious process, I pull the main lever and begin to input the codes; red, blue, green. I reach for each button in turn, missing at first, before steadying my hand and continuing.  Finally, I place my shaking fingers on the tactically tightened latch, and cautiously start to turn it. A nerve-wracking creak betrays a small sigh of oxygen breaching the seal between mankind and outer space. Think about when you are setting this story. If you are setting it in the 1950s, mankind is appropriate. If you are setting it now, humankind is most appropriate. Unless, you are specifically playing on the "one small step for..." quote

Tightly shutting my eyes, I anticipate the worst outcome. I gasp for air, not having realised that I was holding my breath. Leaning onto an uncovered button, the ship releases a mechanical noise as numerous steel steps dispense in front of me like a flower’s blossoming petals. Great imagery!
Slowly.
Purposefully.
My languid legs lead the original pathway. I am the first person.
Fearful to experience the untouched surface we have landed on.
The rough terrain meets my weary eyes. Ancient, dirt covered gorges, deep enough to avoid exploration, edges steep as Mount Everest, radiate a vibrant colour matching the neighbouring sun. Lining their banks, oceans of sharp jagged edged rocks tell stories of elongated years of endurance on this planet of isolation through their layers of sediment. They glisten with the orange gas that marks the earth of this planet - beautiful obstacles for my time-limited mission.
As I walk, the white Kevlar fabric encasing my swollen feet sprinkles with the flame coloured soil, irreversibly staining them. The craggy highland towers on the horizon, swimming in the white blanket of fog that covers the rest of the planet. Its peaks are jagged towards the top, covered with obtuse shapes that glisten in the sunless light. Below, steep, dusty slopes cascade towards the serrated earth.
The sly mist hugs my ankles with every stride I take towards it. It wraps me in its cold embrace, sweeping me along to the edge of the planet where I could fall off and swim among the stars.
In the peripheral of my eye, I see it. The ingeniously built piece of metal rolls towards me using the thinly sliced rubber circles attached gently to the metallic undergarments of the machine. Its head composed of a high definition camera along with the extended clamps secured to its front giving it a stereotypically childish appearance.
“The rob…rob…robot”
The anxious voice coming from my protective apparel interrupts my prolonged gaze and reminds me of my mission: delivering the vehicle to the mountains with their opaque flag of mist.
My feet suddenly feel the toughness of the minerals covering the ground. I look down and am met with an explanation. I have arrived. My field of vision is too minuscule to absorb the enormous alp standing in front of me and yet I push forward.
I trek with measured steps, up the slope. Left. Right. Left. Right. The steady rocks perfectly aligned for my grip over the crumbling dirt.
Looking down behind me, the distant fog still blocks the view, yet the ground is visible. My exhaustion is clinging to my back. The endless training I endured feels non-beneficial as my contracted muscles threaten to tear my cracked skin with every small step I take.
I take my dilated eyes off the treacherous ground and look up to see the cloudy obstruction to my sight vanishing. My feet begin to fumble, and suddenly, a close-up view of the crusty floor meets my eyes. I stay down - a chance to examine the foreign land. My pupils turn slowly, careful to not miss a speck of treasure.
A rusty circular object flashes in the peripheral of my vision.
Moving closer, its dented edges and scratch-filled skin become visible. The black, rippled plastic coats majority of the device, with silver buttons joined to the top, and specks of aged, glimmering gold within the edges. As if a fossil, the ground sheathes it, outlining the letters “f.l.a.s.h.” on one of the main buttons and “on/off” on the other. I turn my head slightly to see on the side in big, slanted font: “Nikon 1935”.
Its decayed state doesn’t stop my reflection from appearing in the blemished, glass-plated mirror attached to the outer front of the contraption, indicating my confused expression. 
What seems to be a golden-plated emblem on the right hand corner shines, as if brand new, with four letters engraved on it: MARS.

In this story you've got a lot of clear imagery, which is awesome. But, the imagery is largely physical object-based. By this I mean, there's no real concept of the being-in-space aspect of the story from the environment beyond the physical utensils he wears and the dusty ground. What I'd love to see, is a description of the gravity (or lack of) that makes things bouncy, or makes things heavy, whatever it may be.

I think your story is limited in how it relates to discovery. If you are asked about a physical discovery, then you're on your way to some great marks. But, if you are asked about a spiritual, emotional, intellectual discovery, how will you approach it? I'm suggesting this now because you said to be harsh, so I'm going to throw it out there. I think that you either need to add a reflection at the end, or, you need to substitute some of the earlier description for a really clear outline of this man's mission, so that at the end there can be a "ahhhh" moment of how he has achieved/failed to achieve it. This will broaden your prospects of hitting the discovery on the head. Alternatively they could ask for a planned or unplanned discovery, or one that is intensely meaningful or transformative of one's perspectives. So, consider this all. I don't mean to frighten you at all, but I think it's best that you can think about this now so that you have a back up for Monday if your exam asks you to respond to a less physical aspect of the rubric.

Other than that, there are just a few small word things I suggested for the work which can all be fixed easily! Please let me know if something doesn't make sense or you'd like to flesh an idea out more

Good luck!

[elysepopplewell]

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

Always take my estimates of a mark with a grain of salt, because even though I give feedback a lot, I don't necessarily give marks a lot! So, I'd be putting this in a band six range for sure. I'd be looking at a 14, and potentially a 15 with those extra little bits and bobs added in just to really bring the creative to have "textual integrity."

I think the biggest difference between a band 5 and 6 is textual integrity. The plot can be equally amazing for both, but the band 6 will usually have those extra little links and ideas at play that push it up beyond the Band 5 So you're up there!

[MarkThor]

Hi, I was just wondering if you could please give me some feedback on my creative writing, and give it a rough mark out of 15. Thanks in advance  .

The Path Ahead – Draft 1

My foot buckled as I stepped on another uneven cobblestone jutting out of the narrow lane. My gap year was ending in a few months, and I was no closer to finding who I really was, let alone having a connection with someone. We had been walking for sometime through the twisty, narrow alleyways that ran between the rows of low-ceiling slums that characterised outer Kathmandu. A heavy winter smog had settled over the city, blocking out the moonlight and making it hard to see more than a few metres in front of myself.

I looked over to the woman walking next to me who occasionally asked a random question in broken English. The sound of silence echoed through the sprawling maze of garbage littered pathways as both of our feet fell on the rough, uneven streets of the slums. My feet were heavy and clumsy on the broken cobblestone; occasionally stepping in pooled water that sent icy sparks rushing up my leg. The woman on the other hand had clearly walked these streets a thousand times before, stepping lightly and gracefully.

“Wh-where you g-go?

I continued trying to look through the smog-clouded path in front of me, trying to watch my step. “I’m just walking.”

“You n-not plan wh-where g-go?

“I haven’t known where I am going for years now.”

“Wh’what you mean?”

“Don’t worry, it’s just something you say when you’re not sure what your purpose in life is.” The words were a stark reminder that I still felt as isolated as ever; I had planned the gap-year to finally try and connect with someone. After everything that had happened over the past 11 months I wasn’t very hopeful, I doubted that anything would come from this gap year. “I’m actually just walking with no real aim in where I’m going. I’ll eventually end up somewhere.”

“You n-not know wh-where you g-go in life?

“Well it’s been a bit hard for me to figure out what to do with my life,” the answer flowed easily, almost without thought. I kept my concentration on the unclear path ahead, trying to see through the smog. “I’ve always felt so different to everyone else, not like in a special way, just in a outcast kind of way.”

“You thought about d-death?”

My head turned quickly, no longer thinking about the unsure path in front of me. The woman’s face was slightly creased, almost as if she actually intellectually understood the implications of what I had just said. I searched her dark brown eyes. There was a slight sparkle, possibly a reflection from the stronger moonlight making itself through the now slightly less dense smog, although it may have just been a trick of my spectacles. “Yes. I have.” Even though it felt clearer, as I turned my head back to face the slightly less dense smog my eyes still felt squinted, and the feeling of hopelessness still made my face taut.

“You f-feel still th-that way?”

“Well I still think about it, if that’s what you’re asking?”

“You have n-not r-realised wh-why you should k-keep living?”

“No.” I slipped on another slightly uneven cobblestone, the glasses on my face flying forward of my face. There was only a dark haze, and that familiar feeling of my throat constricting. My hands searched frantically to find the slim, aluminium sight allowing device. It was the only thing that gave me any idea of where I was heading.

“Y-you know th-that to f-feel a connection y-you must be h-half of the connection.”
 
The outline of her hand moved towards mine. I felt the smooth metal back in my hand. I stood up, choosing not having put my glasses back on. Her slim, slightly rough hand slid into mine, and she started to lead me forward.

“Stop I’ll fall.”

“N-no. Just tr-trust.”

We walked some way like this, my eyes slowly starting to adjust. When she finally stopped, my feet were on smooth ground, and my eyes could just make out the brighter moonlight. She turned and carefully placed the glasses back onto my head. “S-sometimes y-you just h-have to tr-trust.”

We were in the mountains surrounding the city, on a small high plateau, that felt much more open than the narrow streets from below. The moon was much brighter than before, and it shone on the colourful distinctive high-rises that burst through the smog of that lay on Kathmandu. There were deep reds, brown oranges, pale whites and the occasional splash of light blue and green buildings among them.

My lips were slightly parted; “It’s beautiful.” I knew there was something in the sound of my voice that hadn’t been there before.

Hope.

[elysepopplewell]

Hi, I was just wondering if you could please give me some feedback on my creative writing, and give it a rough mark out of 15. Thanks in advance  .

Hi MarkThor, welcome to the forums! We have a policy here that you need to post 5 times anywhere on the site to qualify to have a piece marked. I'd love to give you some feedback! If you just search around on the website here and comment on four more things (asking questions, answering questions, etc) and post back, I'll be more than happy to check this out for you! If you want to know more about the policy, click the link in my signature below! Otherwise, don't fret, it's not hard to build up five posts

[elysepopplewell]

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.

Hey! Thanks for your patience I'm sure we can work with this without starting over!
It's important to note that your work is between 600-700 words. There is of course, no limit or minimum required, but do consider that there is room to write more if you need to go that way!


Your work is in the spoiler here, and in bold font is my writing:

Spoiler

A Shadow follows me.
When I look over my shoulder, he's not there. He believes I cannot see him. He thinks he is invisible. But I know better.
I carry on, yet the insidious Shadow waits for me.
I hear his heavy footsteps in the distance, each thump louder than the next.
Thump. Closer and closer.
Thump! His presence engulfs me. Slowly. Taking me over. Beginning at my toes, he gradually moves up, devouring my body. I feel his stinging breath against my neck. And before I am aware, I am reaching back for him. To feel the beast around me. But before I can get a grip, he escapes.
Disappearing into the air. He is no longer devouring me. His breath no longer burning my neck. Yet still, I feel his presence. I wonder, is it possible that one can be both here and not simultaneously?

Since my last encounter with Shadow, his flesh has not penetrated mine. His compulsion has hindered. Instead, he looms reservedly, always waiting. He waits for when I am alone and weak, for the day I least expect him. Just letting you know that I am so engaged at this point!!!

Instead, he looms reservedly, always waiting. He waits for when I am alone and weak, for the day I least expect him.
His last encounter was just a warning. Asserting his control in my mind, fuelling fear. To prove is power over me. And as strong as I thought I was, he’s winning.
I’m no longer interested in my former pastimes, he’s taken away my energy, and rid me of my joy for life. He’s robbed me of my former self, but now he waits to own me.
He is very patient, he doesn't mind waiting. It brings him pleasure to see me in pain. So here I will stay. Wilting and losing my will. Waiting for his final assault.

He makes the days longer and the agony more unbearable. More unbearable - this doesn't make a lot of sense because it is either unbearable or its not, there are no degrees of unbearable. I push through, expecting him to come and take me away. I find myself begging for him to come. For this, is not life, I am merely a walking corpse. I beg for Shadow to give me the freedom for which I so desperately long for. The freedom of death. The freedom of finally being set free.
 
It’s been months now. Months of waiting and still no sign of him. I wonder whether this was his plan all along. To Pummel me mercilessly until I’m about to break, and then leave me to suffer in this in-between state. I’m sure its all for his own sick pleasure. That would be something he would do.

One morning I wake up and something feels different. I feel undisturbed by. This last sentence doesn't make clear sense? Shadow has left me. He’s set me free. I think this deserves its own line. Skip a line and start this sentence. Build up the hope in the reader. Or so I thought… Except there is no hope in my body, no happiness for finally being released. There’s only disgust. He’s left me with a shell. An empty, numb shell. He’s taken everything good. There is no room for love or joy or excitement. Everything has gone. There is no me, he took it. He took it and he left nothing.

I need him back. He has become a part of me. I cannot function without him. I speak directly to his invisible face. I scream. I shout. I beg for him to come back.

Silence.

I vow that I will never think badly of him again. I will worship him, with all that I can.

Silence.

There is no me without Shadow, we belong together.

Silence.

I can’t do it without him.

Silence.

I can’t do it.

Silence.

I bring the blade to my neck.

One. Harder.

The pain of the blade is nothing compared to the pain that Shadow has left me with.

Two. Blood.

Three. Silence.

You see, this is what he wanted all along.
This is what Shadows do.

I’d be careful if I were you, it’s easy to find yourself with a persistent shadow.
My advice. Don't look over your shoulder. 
 

Wow, this piece is incredibly moving. I interpret the shadow as depression, or other mental illness, but I'm sure it could also be interpreted as a ghost, or this story could be seen as some kind of exorcism. I think the way to enhance the story to suit discovery is to work on the idea of identity. I think towards the end, the protagonist could make the realisation that without the Shadow, they have no identity, and they were so greatly longing for identity free of the Shadow earlier. So, if I were in charge of this story, I would change the earlier longings to be killed (set free) to a longing to reclaim the identity of a pre-shadow time. Then, towards the end, realise that when the shadow leaves, it doesn't leave empty handed. It has in fact been around so long that it absorbed all identity - leaving the narrator with nothing. This is then when the narrator then tries to kill themself - because without the shadow, they have no identity. Does this make sense? Again, this is espousing the interpretation that this is a mental illness. Your piece is INCREDIBLY cool because it does have various perspectives, yet it's not cryptic enough that you can't access it.


How does this sound to you? I think that there is a lot of potential here in terms of enhancing the discovery!

[Spencerr]

Hey Elyse could you please check my discovery piece. I would really really appreciate it! Is there any where I can improve the plot or change a few things or where I could make the discovery more explicit?
Thanks in advance!

Spoiler

On the cab ride over to my village, my heart bounced almost as much as the tyres on the uneven roads.  As the cab maneuvered around the mounds of rubble, I directed my attention to a small makeshift hut where an old woman lay crouched, flies buzzing in a chaotic circle around her weary face.  Her face was the same colour and texture as the soil; dry, brown and weathered. Years of working, hunched over, in the rice paddy fields had stooped her posture
‘How much longer?,’ I asked the driver as he changed gears.
He mumbled something in Vietnamese but, because I had not spoken this language for a while, his words were foreign to me. I remained mute, and reflected on the past day. Only 24 hours ago I had discovered the harrowing news. The voicemail message was still ringing in my years. “Your mother has died. Return home, son”.
As the cab neared a series of cocoon-like shelters, I began to experience a sense of déjà vu. The smell of burning wood wafted into the cab and, without warning, a serene sensation flowed through my body; the smell was the epitome of a childhood I had lost when I had left this place. A vision of my mother cradling me as she threw the wood into the fire sidled into my thoughts. I could see the sparks fly up in anger as the fresh wood disturbed the already disintegrated wood in the pile. This disruption mirrored my own instability at coming back

As I opened the door to my family home, the sight of a miniature shrine caught my attention. My mother’s warm eyes, so lifelike, greeted me. She was now trapped in a photo, no longer here to greet me physically, to greet me with a mother’s love. The earthy incense smoke circled around the photograph; I waved it away as I reached over and lifted the photo.
Guilt. The only two emotions that I had ever felt with regard to my mother were guilt and love. And now, the two intertwined, leaving me standing there, a twisted ball of pain.
‘Why do you have to leave?’ she had questioned, her brown eyes searching my immovable  expression for an answer.
‘Mama, you know I have to. Father was displeased and I have disgraced him…again. He will never forgive me for the comments I made in front of his friends”, I replied, my head bowed down in shame.
“ Your father was not disappointed in you”, she said, attempting to reassure me. “He had just expected you to do what all our ancestors have done. The military is an honourable career choice but you have to follow your own path.’ She grabbed my hand, warming it in hers and leading me back to the fireplace.
My mother had not told me that day that she was seriously ill. All she had said was to discover ‘my path’, but had I known that that path was never to have met hers again, I would have stayed rooted to the spot, a solid oak tree refusing to bend
In Sydney, I discovered a city where people were more focused on their 6 figure salaries than the number of runs they scored in the weekend game of cricket. I felt a sense of isolation. It wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t speak English because, at that time, I had known the basics.
My isolation stemmed from a place that did not resemble home. Even though I rented an apartment in Cabramatta, and even though many people looked like me, I felt like an imposter here. We could speak each other’s language but that is where it ended.
Saddened and alone, I went in search for furniture and items that I could use to turn my one bedroom unit into a replica of home in the village. I bought the same color furniture,  the same style of lamp and the same texture of bed sheets; I even used incense sticks tomake it smell like home.
And now, standing here, home again, I wondered what I would say to my father.
Mesmerised by the photo of my mother, I had not heard my father come in but I did hear the shuffling of footsteps as he moved towards the fireplace to add more wood. My father was shorter than I had remembered him; had he shrunk with age or had I grown? His wide face was littered with sun spots, and the wrinkled lines across his forehead gave the impression of a hard life.
He said nothing to me.
I said nothing to him.
I watched as he started to heat some soup and then lay two bowls and two spoons down on the small table next to the fire. He brought out two brown cushions from a cupboard next to the door and laid them on either side of the table. He looked up and motioned with his hand to sit.
I accepted.
We did not say a word to each other during the entire meal. The chicken broth was not as good as my mother’s. With each spoonful, I looked up at my father, wondering what he was thinking.  Finally, when he finished, he lay down his spoon, looked at me and said, ‘Welcome home.’ I smiled, unsure of the intent of the statement.
My father walked over to the same cupboard which had housed the cushions. After much noise, he pulled out a small, wooden chest and placed it in front of me. He then put on his anorak and left me alone.
Curious, I opened the chest. I picked up a wad of unstamped envelopes and then let them slip through my fingers as I realized what they were. I chose one and started reading.I had not seen my father’s writing for fifteen years. Still, I knew the slant of his words, the sharply defined characters. I opened the first  letter, curiously and fearfully, unprepared for the overwhelming emotion that imploded from the simple act of reading.
For fifteen years, my father had been writing to me. For the first time in fifteen years, I began to cry.

[elysepopplewell]

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!

Hey there! Thanks for your patience - we are slowly but surely moving through the surge we've had in the last week!

Your story is in the spoiler here, with my own comments in bold font throughout:

Spoiler

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 The same notion applies 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 sanitiser 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… I think it would add to the suspense to give each new "I'm afraid..." a new line. I'm really intensely engaged here, I think you can just expand it that little bit more.

“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. What you've written here is INCREDIBLY powerful.

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 you haveyour 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?”

Create a larger space here.
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 feel so happy I can translate this without help :') #hscfrenchbeginners4ever

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 too 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 realising 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.

This is absolutely incredibly. I say this with real humility to show just how impressed I am. I finished reading and turned to my boyfriend and starting asking all of these existential questions about living life to the fullest and ahhh. As a writer, your job, more often than not, is to make a reader think/question/talk. You did that. All of that. It's sometimes hard for me to read through an entire creative because I do it from home where there is Kardashians on TV and chocolate next to me. I had an xbox playing next to my ear for this one and I still didn't flick from the page. I'm so moved by this. Even though the ideas present in a jumpy way, it was so smooth. You tackle a topic that a lot of people would consider cliche, with such originality. I'd be doing whatever I could to leave this story in its current condition (bar the few grammatical things I suggested). By this I mean, do you think you can write this in the exam? Can you save time in your essay or unseen texts section? I think you need to be seriously strategic about your exam time and how you can fit this in.
When I was looking at things to cull, I considered the part about the french language. But I think the "descending into Paris" quote really does a lot for elevating the plot. However, I think in each little reflection, you could cut about 50 words. Whether that be an entire sentence, or just by merging smaller sentences. This will save about...200 words possibly? Which makes your story far more achievable.

You should be incredibly proud of this. You've moved me - and I'm sure you'll move a marker as well.

How is your handwriting? Neat? I seriously am supporting nothing getting in the way of this story lol!

[sudodds]

Wow! Thank you so much This was so much more feedback than my teacher gave me. Handwriting wise I should be all good hahaha. I'm really glad you liked it I'll take the time now to go and include some of your edits. Thank you!!

[Jemimared]

Thank you so much ! This is incredibly helpful. I will work on editing it and send in a final draft.
Again, thanks so much! I really appreciate all the thorough feedback.
Jemima

[elysepopplewell]

Thank you so much ! This is incredibly helpful. I will work on editing it and send in a final draft.
Again, thanks so much! I really appreciate all the thorough feedback.
Jemima

No sweat! If you have more questions, drop in to clarify!

[elysepopplewell]

Wow! Thank you so much This was so much more feedback than my teacher gave me. Handwriting wise I should be all good hahaha. I'm really glad you liked it I'll take the time now to go and include some of your edits. Thank you!!

Amazing! Thanks for your hard work - do feel free to post back any questions! I know I didn't give a lot of feedback, but like I said, it is VERY, VERY good!

[elysepopplewell]

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!! 

Hi there!!! Happy to help and thank you for your patience!!!

Here is your creative in the spoiler, with my own comments in bold font throughout...you know how it works

Spoiler

Just as he suspected. The denial was simply wishful thinking.
“How could you do this to me? Were you just, what? Never going to tell me?!”
“I didn’t have the heart to tell you, Andy. I’m sorry.”
“What am I meant to-“
The eerie dial tone sang throughout the room.
Andy’s hands trembled as he clasped on to the document which uncovered the truth. Crushing it in his fists, his hands pressed against his head, cringing in anguish. He never once questioned the position he held in his own life…. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the reality that he had never been, or will ever be, the father of his beloved son.
The air around him began to thicken, and he was fighting to breathe. His bones rattled at the realisation, and tremors shook his body as he sat awake through the night.
Interactions became merely an act of preservation. His body stung with fury. Distance was the only escape. His compassion diminished. His sense of self slipped.
The dinner table seemed as though it was held up by tension as it became the only link which joined them together. Whirling air echoed around the room, making occasional clatters which were offbeat to the automatic clinking of silverware on porcelain. Glances were avoided by the shadow which was cast by the broken overhead light. By this point I'm a little lost. I think the imagery is really intense, which is awesome in moderation, but it's one after the other right now. And I'm focusing so much on the sounds and sights that I'm losing track of the plot.
That night remained vivid in his memory for months afterwards. The household fell into a routine which barely necessitated words. Andy would order take out most nights; after placing his son's order on the table he would retreat to the study. As the night dragged on the room would slowly fall into darkness - the only light the synthetic glow of his computer screen. When the television began to blare from the other room Andy would quieten the distraction with three sharp knocks on the adjoining wall. By the time he emerged the night had crept into morning and there was no sign of his son.
The umbrella worked hard to hold itself up in the morning’s torrential rain as Andy marched to his office. Fog accompanied the rain; navigating the distance ahead became difficult.
Standing impatiently on the corner, Andy gains focus through the misty streetscape and became intrigued by the lonely beggar, withered on the other side. Sunlight attempted to infiltrate the sky; only making weak streams down to the earth. The light irritated Andy’s stare even further - all those nights spent at fluorescent screens seemed to blur his sight.
He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear them. Andy unintentionally locked eyes with the beggar. His limbs were shuddering from the bitter cold and the cardboard structure over his head was weeping under the weight of the rain. The atmosphere is now not only thick with fog, but washed with tension. I think you need to ask yourself at the end of the paragraph: Have I revealed the plot more here? I believe, as I learned from a famous writer, that every sentence should reveal a character, or accelerate the plot. If we go through this paragraph, the character is revealed slowly but surely, and the plot is revealed even slower, but surely. I think you should definitely have a kind of "wishy washy" sentence here and there to give the marker a breathe, but because the sentences between those breaths are so full of ideas, it is hard to follow that completely. I don't think I'm explaining this very well, and that's mainly because I haven't explained this before, but you asked me to be harsh! Essentially, at this point I'm not really sure where the plot is headed, and not really in a suspenseful way. I think you need to accelerate the plot earlier, then perhaps go into a reflection, rather than weave the reflection and pensive moments into the plot.
A familiar, yet abrupt metallic racket pulsed through his mind. Andy winced. The misery in the man’s eyes struck him. The withered figure was far from Andy’s reach, but the guilt was all too familiar. Abandonment sang a lonely tune, even on the streets.
He watched the beggar as he tossed the structure from over his head. The weak cardboard dissolved into the puddle beside him.
Tremors flooded back into Andy's system. Regret took the place of disgust. Time seemed to slow down. His mind dizzy with remorse.  
His stomach twisted as shame soaked through to his bone. Chills pierced every cell in his body as he realised what he had done. The daze which swept his brain unravelled memories of the months passed; Andy was unsettled by the selfishness which had taken over his heart and his mind, in an attempt to blame the feigned relationship on the innocent child.
The helpless man let his makeshift home disintegrate around him. Andy was agitated; he felt this moment bore an unsettling affinity with his own position.
The metallic clinking of cutlery echoed back into his mind... The vacant household. Routine interactions. Continuous misery. Andy had damaged their bond beyond repair.
The blood rushing through his veins lost all purpose, his pulse weakened to a pathetic beat. His heart and his mind flooded with disregard. The hazy streetscape became suffocating; the air condensed around him as he gasped for breath.
Andy scrambled for his phone and rang his son in a fit of desperation.
The eerie dial tone.
Another one.
Another.
Andy tried one last time.
Monotonous rings put Andy on edge. An answer, but the phone fell silent.
“Please, please. Forgive me.” Andy’s voice weakened and the line fell flat.
Grumbling from a familiar raspy voice filled the phone line.
“I just.. Didn’t have the heart to tell you, Dad. I’m sorry.”
Fog enveloped his body as Andy trembled. He felt undeserving of the protection which the umbrella provided and dropped it by his side. The bitter wind made the raindrops prickle his skin; the world around him was blurred.
The atmosphere around him became murkier with every breath, the cardboard roof melting into the puddles on the sidewalk as Andy watched the beggar abandon his home and disappear into the bleary mist.

I will be brutally honest because you asked me to - I'm missing the discovery! I'm not making the connection between the paper, the son, the fog, the homeless person. I can appreciate the circular structure that you have used, though! Bringing it back to the beginning is very satisfying for a reader, so this was comforting to read.

However, I am missing the discovery. I think part of this comes from the slow-revealing nature of the plot, and its infusion with various other aspects of the story (setting, descriptions, etc). So, I recommend writing your story on a story board. So basically, write the sequence of events down, and make sure that in your draft, you are writing it in the best possible order. Then look at what moments you want to focus on a reflection, and what moments you want to spend looking at defining details. I think there are a lot of details in this plot that are not defining details, but instead details that you are putting in to show your ability as a writer, which is what you need to do, but you aren't putting them in strategic spots. I hope this makes sense! Please let me know of anything specific you want to look into. I hope I haven't crushed your feels! I know you're an awesome writer, I've looked at so much of your stuff! I think it is about just stripping this one back, then colouring in the gaps again in a new, fresher way, in order to make the discovery really clear for a marker

[brontem]

Thank you so much!!  I love that you've been brutal to it!! I find creatives really annoying, and trying to fix it based on the 2349483 versions I've had everything gets chopped and changed so every version is basically starting from scratch 
I'll take it, change it, bring it back  Thankyou!!

I will be brutally honest because you asked me to - I'm missing the discovery!

P.S hahahaha don't worry, I'm missing it too