Free AOS Creative Writing Marking!

[conic curve]

Hi Elyse, quick question: is this only for discovery, or can i post my creative writing for my prelim ext. english test (which focuses on gothicism)? i haven't finished writing it yet, but i would really appreciate feedback once i've done it

I think there's an English extension marking thread that you can post in order to get it marked. I don't know to be honest because I don't do English extension

Anyways, why not post part of your story and we'll give you feedback while you work on the remaining half?

It saves quite a bit of time

[elysepopplewell]

Hi Elyse!

This is my first time posting a creative script on the forums, i would really appreciate some feedback! Creative writing is continually a liability for me in exams, i can't seem to break out of the 12/15 low-band 5ish range  . Originally I wrote a general, non-stimulus monologue for an in-class assessment (I promise there wasn't as much religious imagery in that one) and this is an adaptation of said monologue as a general creative to a past question.

Thanks in advance!

Hello there! Super happy to have a look at this for you

It's in the spoiler here with my comments in bold throughout...and then I'll make a more overall comment at the end

Spoiler

Silence. As it always did, the boardroom seemed to eviscerate any trace of sound. The senseless chitter-chatter of workers was drowned out by this work of God, this safe haven. For  this temple of solace served as my beginning, my Genesis. Sneaky allusion, love that!!! Big fan.

“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head.

I pinch myself until my forearm bleeds, hoping it is some frightful nightmare. You're working with a cliche here. Pinching incase it's a nightmare. I mean, the blood part works to bring it out of the cliche but it actually starts and ends with that same cliche, so consider rephrasing.My Eden, so long hidden under a facade of solitude and serenity, falls away from under my feet like some rusty iron boardwalk. My heart leaps into my throat as the realisation is driven home by the unceremonious “twang” of the heavenly Cloud’s bow.

Blinded by perspiration, my hand reaches for the handlebar of the elevator as it descends. My knuckles whiten as I tighten my grip, my hands erupting in sweat. Was I in a submarine? I was sinking, but suspected the elevator was not the sole perpetrator of the crime. I'm left very confused here - not sure if you are in a submarine or an elevator?

“You’re fired”. Never had a phrase been so perfectly apt. For the match had been lit; the blaze within my heart ignited. Faultlessly loyal, I was undeserving of such treatment. Like a photograph, I had been framed, left for the world to stroll past and ridicule at their leisure. Who was the catalyst for my exodus? Why me? The bottled-up rage seeks to escape my face any way possible; a bystander could easily discern the wretched demon within, begging to be freed by the fruits of temptation.  The writing here is beautiful, the imagery is strong. But, unfortunately, the imagery is so strong in so many ways that I'm a bit lost. I can't work out why the phrase was perfect, but the person was undeserving of that?

Breath escapes me in short gasps. Was the heat expanding? The metallic cage of transportation was surely overflowing with baptismal fires. I've never known of baptismal flames in my Christian life...perhaps Pentecostal flames? It might just be something I haven't heard of! Which of course is totally fine Thrown amidst the volcanic wreckage of the unknown, I am Dante. The poet? oooh But in this secluded exile, my line of sight envisions no paradiso. Is it an illusion? Or are the sauna like walls encroaching upon me?

Outside is no better. As quickly as the internal fire was kindled, it is doused by the unrelenting rain. A cold trickle of water slithers down my spine. My suit, much like my reputation, is unsalvageable.

My stomach churns as a sickening worm of doubt enters. Why did I choose this path? Was I not ready?

Ambition. Knowledge. Were they the seeds of wisdom, or the devil’s genesis? Consider how you capitalised genesis at the beginning, but not here.

The worm squirms and slithers through a crevice within the apple.

“Hiss” rears the snake’s ugly head.

The path ahead is foggy. I must never have left the elevator, for I am submerged under indescribable doubts. In a city of millions, of designated signs, pathways and maps, I am hopelessly lost.

The saturated delta of my arch-like thumb stumbles across the weakened spine of an untended book, haphazardly engulfed by my box of office-ly possessions. Perhaps just "office possessions"? I begin to rub the accumulated dust between my thumb and its neighbouring index.

In an instant, darkness.

The subzero climate of the concrete jungle is replaced by the unforgiving purgatorio of the desert. The balmy wind forms an alliance with the coarse yellow sand, joined in their sole purpose of nibbling at my heels. I could almost taste the loneliness in the pure, unadulterated air. My arm extends, looking hopelessly for the faintest trace of divine intervention; that i may be able once more to open my eyes.

“Hiss” smirks the snake.

Was this not just a momentary respite? A pure fantasy? I live in the real world. A Mecca of torrential rain, rolling thunder and broken dreams. A locale wherein you will find no confessional to take flight from the inescapable clutches of desire and temptation. We've gone from deep Christian imagery, specifically focusing on the Old Testament, to Mecca? Consider the integrity of your allusions. I'll make a comment on this at the end

Gone is the apple. Gone is the covenant. Gone is the flame.

I feel myself being disassembled, with the most valuable part taken away, and the remainder put up for auction to the highest bidder.

My wandering nails attempt to pluck the desert’s crystals as they encrust my eyelids. A blinding ray of light welcomes me back to the realm of vision. Evaporated is the impregnable torrent of water threatening to overwhelm each of my bodily extremities. Dessicated is the pentecostal flame.

A voice. Rich. Undulating.

I cannot discern each phrase from the next. My legs beg to differ, knees burning as my muscles protest in sheer agony.

The rain’s hell is the flame’s paradiso.

My hand clamps on His. Eden is left in our wake.

Damascus awaits.

You've done some amazing things here! I've read wonderful creative pieces, but none have approached the complexity of allusions like you have. The Mecca allusion brings to mind Islam, when I think you should keep it Christian based to the best of your ability to suit the purpose of the story.

Your ideas are so complicated, which I think is why the story appears complicated in turn. The ideas are amazing, but the expression is convoluted. I mentioned above that I didn't know if you were in a submarine or in an elevator? Thinking back, now I've been to the end, I can't make the connection between the concrete jungle and the garden of Eden. I can't see how the same character made that transition. I can draw some conclusions, but I think that with the unclear plot transition being combined with some confusing imagery within the paragraphs, the work becomes crowded. The allusions are complex, but wonderful. I think with two complicated scenes, and then a transition between them, it needs to decrease in complexity or the expression needs to be completely clear. I pointed out a few sections where I was a bit lost. I don't want you to tell me everything as it happens without leaving anything to the imagination, but my imagination was failing to connect the dots. The office, the elevator, the submarine, the desert, the garden, then to Damascus. There's a lot of settings presented, which isn't bad in itself. But, the expression has to be perfect to nail that. I'm fearing that I'm not being clear enough myself now! Please clarify if something doesn't make sense.

Your allusions are incredible. Your ending sentence is crisp. You transport a reader. These are amazing features of your work.

Now? Making the settings link smoothly so that the plot can be transmitted fluently, and making sure descriptions are as clear as they can be!

You're doing an amazing job. I think clarity will push you into the highest band!

All the best! Let me know if you have any questions

[christinebelista]

hey elyse  if you've got the time, could you have a peep at my creative? i'm not sure if my concept of discovery is too convoluted.

thanks heaps ((:

Spoiler

3.11

They jumped to and from the makeshift monkey bars. It wasn’t a real playground; mud sufficed for sand and layers of cardboard were haphazardly pasted together to resemble a swing – but it was their wonderland. No matter how grey the air of the complex, the giggles of Kazuya and his little sister Takako would always breathe life into my mornings. Iwate wasn’t as polluted as Tokyo, but the scars of endless streams of floating homes and fatal phone calls were as raw as Tokyo’s industrial quarter without a gas mask. It seemed as if the entire prefecture was deceived by the false promises of a fog – yielding to her claims of bliss, instead feeling her biting chill.

Meant to be a ‘temporary’ complex for the displaced, those who escaped called it ‘the lost and found’, and those who remained named themselves ‘Mother Nature’s Leftovers’. As far as I know, the place seems to permanently engulf both the body and the mind of anybody who dares to tread even in the shallow end of its spirit.

Even a travel writer with the ‘I’ve seen it all’ ego like me.

Seeing these two little critters; watching them swing from bar to bar without a care in the world for their torn t-shirts and uncertain futures, keeps me from drowning in the cesspool of a misery they can’t even comprehend. I don’t understand. I’ve been through the remnants of the Bosnian Civil War; the Nazi death camps; the Congo’s horror. And yet, a run down temporary housing complex in rural Japan is the tightest lock on my soul? It doesn’t make sense, but something tells me that sense is a dime a dozen in the ghetto of floaters; in the world of souls neither living nor dead, of the forgotten bosom of Japan upended by the indiscriminate brutality of Mother Nature.

**

   
Each of the homes—if you can call them that—is identical. Demountable shacks plotted across the wounded village, almost like caravans without the promise of adventure. Everything is square, orderly; much like you’d expect of Japan. But the lives of the floating souls inside are far from orderly. It’s been three years since the tsunami, and the wounds are still fresh. Nobody I’ve spoken to will speak to me about 3.11.

Except Nakata, the frail old man from demountable 7 who has been here from day one.

Nakata tells me about an unspoken social hierarchy of suffering here. Nobody dares complain if their loss is deemed less than somebody else’s. His eyes dart around, as if to check incase somebody is listening. 

“We cannot say, we cannot cry, we cannot scream.”

His English is broken, but I think I understand. There’s a taboo about who can feel what; and it’s almost like a simple calculation. If one man lost his home on 3.11, but another lost his home plus a newborn, the first cannot show his suffering. The second is the rightful heir to scorn; the guardian of self-pity. But if another loses all that plus a wife, he is now sorrow’s rightful owner. Simple. Easy to understand. An orderly model for social interaction.

But I think Nakata is an exception to the rule. He’s so open with me, as we lounge on the makeshift tatami mat inside his temporary home.

“You know, is like prison here. When water come, everything go..”

Tears stream freely down his wrinkled face. I can feel the tidal wave of pain. This time the water is voluntary.

“My wife, she drown. My grandchild—“

He breaks down, but catches himself before the tears engulf his entire being.

“You know, I don’t understand. Why can we not feel? Why does 3.11 become forever?”

 

**

I’ve been thinking about Nakata all week. I’m in Tokyo, surrounded by the bustling orchestras of a busy metropolis; by sushi bars and hug cafes. But everything about Nakata is boiling over my mind—his wrinkled brow, his croaky voice, his broken English.
He was the only one who would speak to me. He was the only one willing to relive the horror of 3.11, and possibly even worse, break the taboos of rural Japan.

But maybe I’ve been wrong to think that the Japanese take on suffering is strange. Is the desire for some semblance of social order after Mother Nature steals everything you ever had really unjustified? Nakata sure thought so, and so did I.

But I don’t anymore. In a strange kind of way, I can see it from both sides. People are people, and people adapt. With all the scars of endless water rushing at your family—and your life—I can understand the want, the need for order.

This is going to be one hell of a blog post.

[elysepopplewell]

hey elyse  if you've got the time, could you have a peep at my creative? i'm not sure if my concept of discovery is too convoluted.

thanks heaps ((:

Hey girl, welcome to the forums again, you've been around since January! I'll definitely take a look at your creative, but it will be tomorrow morning, first thing! You haven't been overlooked, and it'll be ready for you tomorrow

[shailerpennell]

I posted my essay just now but i attached the document instead of copy and paste idk if it matters? haha
i said in my last post that i got 4/7 for my creative and was underwhelmed by not only my mark but the comments from my teacher, which was "the use of spiritual discovery is an interesting one however the lack of figurative language did not add depth" i would love it if you could give me some more constructive and useful comments! thank you xxx

Spoiler

Lost but not forgotten
                                                                                                              “Yet what we suffer now
                                                                                                              is nothing compared to the glory
                                                                                                             he will reveal to us later.”
                                                                                                             - Romans 8:18

 I felt as if there was a hole in my heart. I did not feel content nor complete nor truly happy. Yes, I laughed and smiled politely but the immense pain would not pass. Each day was like a throbbing headache. I slipped so easily into a mood that would chain me down, forcing me to remember the lingering pain. I found myself desperately trying to find a way to express how I was feeling and how I could possibly find peace in my situation. It was hard to explain, again and again I filled the gap with temporary happiness longing to find a way out of the dark hole. It seemed like these years of life were all I had ever dreamed of as an innocent, unknowing child, being a teenager was supposed to be exhilarating and dangerous and memorable for all the right reasons, but I felt trapped and dejected, I was weak and unable to think for myself, this was not what I had expected. I felt as though every fibre of strength and willingness I once had had fled and taken refuge in a body that was thriving and healthy. I found myself turning to material possessions that I hoped could close the gap between my current state and where I wished I was. Every day I woke wondering what I could do to regain a happy spirit and rediscover myself once again. I felt lost and forgotten.
I turned the radio on to help me escape my unrelenting thoughts.
Channel 104.1: “Justin Bieber’s nude photos leaked on Instagram! Did you get a sneak peek?!”
Channel 96.9: “Ring us up and tell us your dirtiest secret to go in the draw to win one thousand dollars’ cash!!”
Channel 103.2: “…Amen, I would now like to leave you with my favourite verse out of the book of Romans, Romans 10:9-10: If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is LORD and believe in your heart the GOD raised him from the dead, you will be saved, anyone who trusts in him will never be disgraced.”
For some reason that was unknown to me in that moment, hearing that verse brought a tear to my eye and an uneasy yet ever so reassuring feeling to the pit of my stomach that had been numb for so long. I did not know it then, but that very moment was the beginning of my rediscovery of self through GOD himself and the day I would discover Heaven for the very first time.

That night as I was immersing myself in reality television to take my mind off my own unfortunate reality, the clock struck 11:00pm *tick tock*, my que to take myself off to bed and sleep my way into another day that would be just as numb and lifeless as the one before that. Sleep was bitter-sweet for me, my crisp sheets enclosed me and warmed my skin but the dead silence exposed my echoing thoughts and reminded me of the unrelenting pain, chilling me from deep within. However, that night was different. I fell to sleep peacefully, feeling warm and comfortable between my sheets. As I drifted into a deep sleep, the world of my sub-conscious began to unravel, I saw I bright light, no, a blinding light, a light that was pure and unearthly. As the light dimmed I stood before thundering, brass gates that opened in front of me beckoning me to enter. The gates were weaved with rich green vines that ended at each stalk with precious white flowers. I entered, passing through the gates, I felt immediately clean, as if I was shedding my misery and hopelessness and closing the gates behind me. As I ventured onwards, footsteps weightless, two angles appeared,

“The LORD has brought you here for reasons unknown to man, a great miracle is upon you”,
They harmonised. Then they disappeared.

“I must be in heaven”

 I wept. It was more beautiful than any place I had ever been capable to imagine, it was pure and incomparable by earthly measure… oh it was grand. The grass overflowed in vast abundance of lush and seem to have no end, just like the sky, it consumed me in all its power, I felt small in this great, immortal world. I stood there, unable to move, overwhelmed by the depths of its beauty. Whenever I had thought of what heaven would look like, I had imagined entering and being greeted by loved ones who had passed, having my clothes swapped for robes and being able to fly without fear and have unlimited supply of fine wine and exotic fruit, however I saw no one, this place was not what I expected. As I stood in a field of lush green grass I wondered how GOD would make his entrance, I imagined him hovering in a great light, or walking on water or greeting me as he broke bread and divided fish, all great and mighty appearances. However my thoughts were interrupted as a man appeared in the distance, he was washing his face by the river. It was Jesus, GOD had sent himself to me in the form of his son Jesus Christ. The all mighty, all powerful Jesus was bathing himself like a peasant, humble and gracious. He turned to me calmly,

“Come sit with me my child”

His voice beckoned.

I timidly sat beside the son of GOD, the man who performed miracles with his hands, the one who died and rose again, the saviour of the world, I was afraid to look at him, ashamed of my sins, ashamed of my pathetic, immortal appearance. With his voice echoing among the trees, he said to me,

 “My child look at me, do not be afraid, do not feel disheartened or discouraged for you are loved.”

 He paused,
 “You were fearfully and wonderfully made in the hands of God. Do not let worldly distractions inhabit your mind, do not be intrigued by strange, new things, separate yourself among the unbelievers and live your life according to the purpose I have for you”

 I fell to the feet of Jesus as I wept uncontrollably,
 “For I know the plans I have for you, they are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope... in those days when you pray I will listen, if you look for me wholeheartedly, you will find me.”

I woke, breathless, unable to fathom what I had just experienced. I had discovered heaven, I had met Jesus. I sat up in my bed, my sheets felt unfamiliar and unclean, those of my past life, I hurried to remove them from my mattress, certain not to let anything taint this new found inner peace. I danced and sung for joy as I cried jubilant tears, for I had been saved. I stood as tall as the trees I had sat beneath in Heaven and my tears ran like the water Jesus used to wash his face.

I swept my curtains open, letting the light of day flood my room just as Jesus had once flooded the earth, and I was in the arc, I safe. I fell to my knees as did before Jesus in Heaven,

 “Thank you Lord! I am a new person; you have filled the hole in my heart, a new life has begun! Although I was lost, you never forgot me.”

[jamonwindeyer]

I posted my essay just now but i attached the document instead of copy and paste idk if it matters? haha
i said in my last post that i got 4/7 for my creative and was underwhelmed by not only my mark but the comments from my teacher, which was "the use of spiritual discovery is an interesting one however the lack of figurative language did not add depth" i would love it if you could give me some more constructive and useful comments! thank you xxx

Hey shailerpennell! Thanks for posting your creative, definitely doesn't matter whether you attach or copy paste! Either is fine  just letting you know I've deleted the version of this you posted in the Essay Marking Thread, we'll get you some feedback here ASAP! 

[isaacdelatorre]

Hi,
I would be eternally grateful if you would please take a look at my creative and give some feedback.
It has been an arduous task trying to write it and have been struggling for ages with it.
Could you check to see that the story makes sense and fulfils the rubric. Also I'm concerned with the length, but not sure what parts of it to cull. If you also had some ideas on how to adapt it to other questions or stimuli, I would greatly appreciate it.
Thank you so much!

The old door groans as I push against it; its ancient hinges barely surviving the mundane task of opening. Dark stains appear where I stand, the rain on my robes, dripping onto the wood beneath. My hand steadily holds the brass doorknob that burns me with its icy touch. Inside the church, my eyes struggle to see clearly but instantly focus when fluorescent shards of glass plummet towards the already shattered tabernacle, like a bird that is casually hunted and falls screaming to the floor. Looking upwards, I sharply inhale the stale air, looking at the once illustrious stained glass window, that men and girls flocked to like moths. But is now fractured and cracked; ensuring no light of God shines through. In the centre of the window stands Archangel Michael, the soldier of heaven and leader of God’s angel army, who looks down shamefully, at the grotesque parade in front of him.

The church that I’ve called home for so long, now feels freakishly foreign. Familiar pews and familiar statues lay shattered and scattered; strewn across the floor in an unfamiliar fashion. Woven through the labyrinth and mountains of chairs, lie pieces of bodies; unmoving, as if they were toy soldiers waiting to be played with.
I try to move. I try to scream. But I am paralysed by the gory sight of corpses that compel my gaze like Medusa. Everywhere I look, the corpses scream pain; their volume grows with the sight of fragments of flesh that are splattered all over the pews.I finally scream at the sight of a single, detached arm; its fingers outstretched towards the heavens like a sunflower bending towards the sun. Blood drips from the gruesome joint, flowing over the exposed flesh and bone, onto the unrecognisable face of its owner three metres beneath him, who is impaled by a cross that drips with blood. Flailing like a bird with a broken wing, I claw at my neck which has closed itself as if the rosary beads on my neck was a serpent coiling itself tighter and tighter.

My thoughts loud and unnerving, yell at me, reverberating in my ears, “This war for ‘independence’ is just a foolish pursuit that will end in death.” The broken icons of my faith become blurrier, “How horrific is this scene around me, caused by the war that I once thought would save us. How stupid of me. War is merciless in the torture it inflicts, trapping those who fight for freedom in a prison of death.” I scorn myself for commending those fighting for Italia’s unification; when Napoleon is just a ring leader, delivering us to evil, intentionally leading his army to the slaughter. “Unlike the war in Heaven, this second war for independence will only cause death and destroy our nation. Why should we sacrifice our soldiers, our nurses, our children; to the gruesome grasp of war?”

Falling to my knees, I stare at the broken stained glass window above. Archangel Michael’s forlorn expression compels my gaze. The rain outside attacks the window, falling through the cracks and holes as if the angel is crying.
***
       “Congratulations Sister Maria! We are proud to welcome you as a nun” Father Antonio exclaimed, his jubilance shone inextricably across his face. Luminous beams shined through the stained glass window, and projected a kaleidoscope of colours on the insides of the church. The angel Michael stands within the window, he seemed to comfortingly smile down on me.
***
Looking at this same window, no comfort comes. Only dread. The memory of my perpetual profession of vows, when I first became a nun, comes flooding back to me, denying any other thoughts. “As a vowed nun, I will continue my growth and development of ministerial, personal and communal life of a sister” the words I once profoundly professed are muttered with disgust, “I will embark on a life of chastity, poverty and benevolence; endeavouring to address all injustices of the world.”

My eyes drift to the once pristine altar, which is now tarnished with streaks of crimson that stain its ornate design. An Austrian soldier lies on top, limbs dangling over the sides of his crucifix. His crown of thorns, marked with an Austrian military symbol is barely held together by the single strap that is fraying at the edges. Staring into his pained eyes, the undeniable look of suffering is branded upon his face as if he was now a possession of death. This same familiar expression is sewn on every toy soldier’s face inside the church.

Scrupulously staring at each soldier’s face, I am overwhelmed by this same expression of suffering. How hadn’t I noticed this before? Darkness appears when I close my eyes, screaming out even though nobody will hear. Constant thoughts permeate my mind, “How could God allow this to happen? If he is our protector, why has he brought this fate upon us?” I stand, trembling in confusion. “I don’t understand; we preach God’s will and those who follow it are all rewarded with death.” Praying for help, safety or guidance seems naïve like a child’s ignorant and optimistic dream. Another shard crashes onto the scorched statue of the crucifix, knocking it off its podium and shattering on the floor, billowing through the hallowed halls. “A God of any religion would not inflict this kind of fate onto his people” I firmly speak out loud, to myself as I stare into the eyes of the Austrian soldier.

Defiantly walking towards the door, I eagerly rip off my habit and toss it liberatingly over the Austrian soldier. My robes fall off easily and fall in a crumpled heap, slowly sagging next to the disfigured face of a man. Statues and corpses all in random piles attempt to block my path, but are easily overcome, falling to rubble when stepped on. I turn and stare at the horrific sight in front of me, looking at my beloved stained glass window. Michael’s figure is barely recognisable from the holes and cracks; but he seems to solemnly smile with his arms in the same outstretched pose. A faint breeze carries with it the delicate scent of daffodils that lure me outside into the reassuring sun.

[jamonwindeyer]

Hey everyone!! Just letting you know that Elyse (creative writing marker to the stars) is feeling a bit unwell at the moment, she's told me she'll hopefully be back into it tomorrow, so in the meantime, sorry for the delay and thanks for your patience! 

Hi can you guys again look through my creative, I've posted this once before and told that the plot needed work, has the plot line improved and where about do you believe in your opinion this story lies in terms of band.
Thanks ))

Hey Alalamc!! Just letting you know that under the new essay marking policies (see link in my signature), you'll need one more post if you want both this and your AoS essay marked (two pieces = 10 posts required)    You can post here to get that last post if you like 

[marynguyen18]

Hi i was wondering if you could look at my creative (hopefully i can qualify) i wasn't sure about whether or not you can tell that theres a discovery and if it logically makes sense. It is Alice in Wonderland inspired I'm just a bit worried it sounds too much like the original. Thank you in advance

Creative Writing for Discovery

Time moves ever so slowly now that you’re gone. Why do bad things happen to good people? It’s just not fair! You were gone within a blink of an eye, all Lauren could think about were those last words, “Take care of Cassie, I’m sorry I couldn’t be the mother she wanted me to be. I’m so proud of the young women that you and your sister have become.” As the casket slowly lowered into the ground, wet patches appeared on the ground where Lauren and Cassie had been standing. This was it, the last farewell. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. How could this happen? Lauren had always been there for her mother and spent her free time caring for her mother. Whilst Cassie struggled to understand what her mother had gone through both mentally and physically. As the clouds started to cover the rising moon Lauren and Cassie slowly started to categorise their mother’s possessions into three separate boxes: keep, donate and throw away.

Whilst cleaning Cassie tripped over a pile of books that were left scattered around a vintage bookshelf. “What does this mean?” Cassie said, as all the words and diagrams that her mother had drawn didn’t seem to correlate with each other. There was an image of a small flute, next to an ever ending rabbit hole. Did this show her mother’s love for interesting instruments? As Cassie carefully flicked through the pages of the journals she had found her mother’s adventures in Wonderland. The way Wonderland was described made it like a real place.

“I need to follow the white rabbit down the rabbit hole, he promised to take me to Wonderland”. Lauren was very concerned about her mother’s mentality as Wonderland doesn’t exist and is only a figment of Alice, her mother’s imagination. The sun in Wonderland would smile and radiate upon Alice creating an atmosphere of joy and happiness, it created a safe haven for Alice. She could no longer tell the differences between reality and imagination, it had engulfed her perception. She was lost in reality. Alice would always be writing or drawing in her journal, even if she was unable to do anything else.

Lauren knew her mother couldn’t be left alone so she enrolled to study her classes online to take care of her mother. At night her mother would be muttering words in her sleep, no doubt that Alice was dreaming about Wonderland. Every night during dinner Alice would be paranoid about whether or not the food she was about to eat would make her grow or make her shrink.

Red, the colour red can symbolise emotions as well as memories of constant hysteria.  Alice would occasionally cry out “Oh no! She’s coming for me, off with my head, off with my head, oh! I’ve grown quite fond of my head, don’t let her get me Lauren!”. The constant paranoia was slowly eating her mother alive and Lauren had no way to help her mother’s antagonising pain.

As Cassie slowly continued to flick through the pages of her mother’s journal, she slowly understood her mother’s life and regretted not spending time with her. Alice drew a picture her cat, Dinah in the house she grew up in. Alice cared for Dinah as if Dinah was her child, Cassie had no idea that her mother loved animals and felt at ease when she was around them. There was a photograph of Lauren, Cassie and Alice huddled by a camp fire, and roasting marshmallows.
All the memories had been stored in this simple, worn out journal, memories could have been lost if Alice never wrote them down. The gradual ticking of the clock created a pathway for Cassie to understand what her mother has been through. The adventures of meeting a talking caterpillar that was inhaling hookah smoke and offered the worst advice with such a rude, concise tone.

“Hey Lauren, what does it mean when mum says: the white rabbit was a symbol of hope as he gave her a sense of adventure?”

“Well, Cassie I remember mum telling me that she wanted to follow the white rabbit and how unusual it was to see a white rabbit with a golden pocket watch that glistened in the sunlight. All the adventure that she mentions is her time she had in Wonderland and all the wonderful things that she had encountered; I know it may seem like a ridiculous concept but mum really did believe that Wonderland existed. The only thing we can do is accept it. As for the symbol of hope part maybe Wonderland was her safe haven where she felt happy.”

Every entry from the journal were expressed in explicit details and one of the few phrases Alice would constantly repeat were “Follow the White Rabbit”.  Cassie kept reading every journal entry and all she could see was an extended message of hope, live life like it was an adventure and dreaming big. Slowly, elements of Lauren’s and Cassie’s childhood was incorporating within the journal. Memories were all captured and became a part of her history, from the moments of laughter and joy. There was even a letter that Cassie wrote for her mother telling her that she had made her first friend, how they would play in the garden pretending to be fairies. 

Cassie’s heart starting to beat in time with the ongoing metronome in the background, she was almost at the end of the journal. Just one more page and it would be over. There was a small yet complicated picture in the bottom left hand corner of a small key hidden underneath a box, the same box that Cassie had in her room. As if it was second nature, Cassie bolted into to her room to find the key that her mother had drawn hoping that it would answer her questions. There it was, the key it was right where her mother had drawn it. She slowly placed the key into the box and kept turning the key until she heard a tiny click. There lying on the bottom of the box was a perfectly engraved golden pocket watch with a note attached reading “I’m late”.

[jamonwindeyer]

Hi i was wondering if you could look at my creative (hopefully i can qualify) i wasn't sure about whether or not you can tell that theres a discovery and if it logically makes sense. It is Alice in Wonderland inspired I'm just a bit worried it sounds too much like the original. Thank you in advance

Awesome job on meeting post criteria Mary! You definitely qualify now 

PS: Elyse is still feeling ill guys, I'll try and come give some feedback if I can get through a bit of stuff on the essay side. Until then, lots of love and hang in there 

[shailerpennell]

Hey shailerpennell! Thanks for posting your creative, definitely doesn't matter whether you attach or copy paste! Either is fine  just letting you know I've deleted the version of this you posted in the Essay Marking Thread, we'll get you some feedback here ASAP! 

thank you!!

[Aliceyyy98]

Hi,

Could you please have a look at my creative the main thing I am struggling with is making my discovery concept clear but not too obvious some suggestions would be awesome!

Cheers heaps

[Essej]

Hello there! Super happy to have a look at this for you

It's in the spoiler here with my comments in bold throughout...and then I'll make a more overall comment at the end

You've done some amazing things here! I've read wonderful creative pieces, but none have approached the complexity of allusions like you have. The Mecca allusion brings to mind Islam, when I think you should keep it Christian based to the best of your ability to suit the purpose of the story.

Your ideas are so complicated, which I think is why the story appears complicated in turn. The ideas are amazing, but the expression is convoluted. I mentioned above that I didn't know if you were in a submarine or in an elevator? Thinking back, now I've been to the end, I can't make the connection between the concrete jungle and the garden of Eden. I can't see how the same character made that transition. I can draw some conclusions, but I think that with the unclear plot transition being combined with some confusing imagery within the paragraphs, the work becomes crowded. The allusions are complex, but wonderful. I think with two complicated scenes, and then a transition between them, it needs to decrease in complexity or the expression needs to be completely clear. I pointed out a few sections where I was a bit lost. I don't want you to tell me everything as it happens without leaving anything to the imagination, but my imagination was failing to connect the dots. The office, the elevator, the submarine, the desert, the garden, then to Damascus. There's a lot of settings presented, which isn't bad in itself. But, the expression has to be perfect to nail that. I'm fearing that I'm not being clear enough myself now! Please clarify if something doesn't make sense.

Your allusions are incredible. Your ending sentence is crisp. You transport a reader. These are amazing features of your work.

Now? Making the settings link smoothly so that the plot can be transmitted fluently, and making sure descriptions are as clear as they can be!

You're doing an amazing job. I think clarity will push you into the highest band!

All the best! Let me know if you have any questions

Hi Elyse! Hope you are feeling better!

Just wanted to thank you for marking my script, as always AN goes above and beyond the feedback my teachers give me 

I've made comprehensive edits to the narrative in line with your recommendations, trying to make the connections clearer and a little less convoluted and crazy. I've highlighted the parts where edits have been made - the stimulus (a picture) is also included which may help you to understand the saturation in religious allusions!

Any suggestions in being able to adapt the piece to unseen and, well, secular or non-religious stimuli would be helpful as i sorta feel i'm limiting myself, would appreciate your thoughts

Please take a look when you have time, thankyou once again!!

[elysepopplewell]

hey elyse  if you've got the time, could you have a peep at my creative? i'm not sure if my concept of discovery is too convoluted.

thanks heaps ((:

Thank you for your patience! I'm on the way up to feeling better now

Here is your creative, in the spoiler, and I've put my own comments throughout in bold font

Spoiler

They jumped to and from the makeshift monkey bars. It wasn’t a real playground; mud sufficed for sand and layers of cardboard were haphazardly pasted together to resemble a swing – but it was their wonderland. Using the hyphen here works, but I think that if you put that in a sentence of it own it would be even more powerful. Isolated and powerful! No matter how grey the air of the complex, the giggles of Kazuya and his little sister Takako would always breathe life into my mornings. Iwate wasn’t as polluted as Tokyo, but the scars of endless streams of floating homes and fatal phone calls were as raw as Tokyo’s industrial quarter without a gas mask. It seemed as if the entire prefecture was deceived by the false promises of a fog – yielding to her claims of bliss, instead feeling her biting chill.

Meant to be a ‘temporary’ complex for the displaced, those who escaped called it ‘the lost and found’, and those who remained named themselves ‘Mother Nature’s Leftovers’. As far as I know, the place seems to permanently engulf both the body and the mind of anybody who dares to tread even in the shallow end of its spirit.

Even a travel writer with the ‘I’ve seen it all’ ego like me.

Seeing these two little critters; watching them swing from bar to bar without a care in the world for their torn t-shirts and uncertain futures, keeps me from drowning in the cesspool of a misery they can’t even comprehend. I don’t understand. I’ve been through the remnants of the Bosnian Civil War; the Nazi death camps; the Congo’s horror. And yet, a run down temporary housing complex in rural Japan is the tightest lock on my soul? I'm not sure what this sentence means - "The tightest lock." I think it is kind of unpicking your soul a bit, not locking it. It doesn’t make sense, but something tells me that sense is a dime a dozen in the ghetto of floaters; in the world of souls neither living nor dead, of the forgotten bosom of Japan upended by the indiscriminate brutality of Mother Nature.

**
   
Each of the homes—if you can call them that—is identical. Demountable shacks plotted across the wounded village, almost like caravans without the promise of adventure. Everything is square, orderly; much like you’d expect of Japan. But the lives of the floating souls inside are far from orderly. It’s been three years since the tsunami, and the wounds are still fresh. Nobody I’ve spoken to will speak to me about 3.11.

Except Nakata, the frail old man from demountable 7 who has been here from day one.

Nakata tells me about an unspoken social hierarchy of suffering here. Nobody dares complain if their loss is deemed less than somebody else’s. His eyes dart around, as if to check incase somebody is listening. 

“We cannot say, we cannot cry, we cannot scream.”

His English is broken, but I think I understand. There’s a taboo about who can feel what; and it’s almost like a simple calculation. If one man lost his home on 3.11, but another lost his home plus a newborn, the first cannot show his suffering. The second is the rightful heir to scorn; the guardian of self-pity. But if another loses all that plus a wife, he is now sorrow’s rightful owner. Simple. Easy to understand. An orderly model for social interaction. This is a very beautiful paragraph.

But I think Nakata is an exception to the rule. He’s so open with me, as we lounge on the makeshift tatami mat inside his temporary home.

“You know, is like prison here. When water come, everything go..”

Tears stream freely down his wrinkled face. Tears streaming is a cliche which you should avoid. Maybe draw some imagery from tears rolling through the crevices of his wrinkles like rivers. Something more original that draws attention to your work.I can feel the tidal wave of pain. This time the water is voluntary.

“My wife, she drown. My grandchild—“

He breaks down, but catches himself before the tears engulf his entire being.

“You know, I don’t understand. Why can we not feel? Why does 3.11 become forever?”

 
**


I’ve been thinking about Nakata all week. I’m in Tokyo, surrounded by the bustling orchestras of a busy metropolis; by sushi bars and hug cafes. But everything about Nakata is boiling over my mind—his wrinkled brow, his croaky voice, his broken English.
He was the only one who would speak to me. He was the only one willing to relive the horror of 3.11, and possibly even worse, break the taboos of rural Japan.

But maybe I’ve been wrong to think that the Japanese take on suffering is strange. Is the desire for some semblance of social order after Mother Nature steals everything you ever had really unjustified? Nakata sure thought so, and so did I. I think give "so did I" it's own line or its own sentence, just to add to the power of it.

But I don’t anymore. In a strange kind of way, I can see it from both sides. People are people, and people adapt. With all the scars of endless water rushing at your family—and your life—I can understand the want, the need for order.

This is going to be one hell of a blog post.

I think there's room to enhance this story. The discussion with the old man is the highlight, as it is the most interesting, the most well written, and the vehicle for discovery. I think that in order to enhance the discovery, you should try bring more of a contrast between Western ideas of sympathy and sorrow to Japan's, or, your own ideas of emotion could be compared to what is learnt in Japan. By this I mean, your discovery will have another level added to it if you show what the author knew before, compared to what she has learnt, and knows now. I'm not sure if I'm expressing this clearly at all...

Essentially, if you spend some time at the start talking about how the writer is in the vicious market of travel blogging, or how she was bummed out she got downgraded to economy on the plane, or that she scuffed her new shoes on the way there, then you compare it to the way that the elderly man sees emotion, sympathy, and its worth, then you show an intellectual, emotional, and spiritual discovery at a very deep level. Maybe you could talk about the blogger going to Nazi camps or to Congo, but add an ulterior motive. Perhaps talk about how the travel writer did it because it hadn't been covered yet by the competitors in the writing biz. But in Japan, this whole new revelation came that was worth a whole lot more than clicks on a blog.

Right now, the story is well written, the discovery is clear, but it is shallow. I think you open yourself up to a greater likelihood of getting high marks for responding to the question and the stimulus if you prepare a little more at the start to discuss the "before" so that the "after" discovery is more clear

Thank you for your patience again! Not a good time to get sick

[elysepopplewell]

Hello creative writers! I've been sick over the weekend, I'm so sorry! The kind of sick where I was drowsy from antihistamine medicines so I was no use to anyone wanting comprehensive feedback. I'm back in full throttle tomorrow, I'm dedicating 11am-5pm to ATAR Notes, so you're guaranteed to receive your feedback tomorrow.

Thank you all for your patience! Jamon has been working like a horse (ew a cliche - I'm such a hypocrite) to keep things afloat over the weekend! Thank you Jamon!

As for everyone waiting feedback, check back tomorrow and I promise your work will be here with feedback!