Free AOS Creative Writing Marking!

[justwannawish]

Hate to be a bother but I was wondering if you guys could mark my creative? I posted it a bit earlier but didn't realise the marking requirements had changed, but now I'm at the correct number of posts I was wondering you could mark it

As it's for both discovery and for extension one (after the bomb) (I'm sorry Jamon  ), I was hoping Elyse could look over it.

Thank you to you both for your great service

[jamonwindeyer]

As it's for both discovery and for extension one (after the bomb) (I'm sorry Jamon  ), I was hoping Elyse could look over it.

Deeply hurt on a personal level

Should be able to have Elyse mark this for sure! You're on the list

[av-angie-er]

Hi! I'm just wondering how many posts I would need to get to have a creative piece marked?

[jamonwindeyer]

Hi! I'm just wondering how many posts I would need to get to have a creative piece marked?

Hi! The requirement is currently 50 posts!

[av-angie-er]

Hi! The requirement is currently 50 posts!

I've had a History Extension essay marked before for 15 posts, so does that mean I'll have to get up to 65? Or just 50? Thanks

[Natasha.97]

I've had a History Extension essay marked before for 15 posts, so does that mean I'll have to get up to 65? Or just 50? Thanks

Hey!

You'll have to get up to 65 (50 posts/essay as outlined here)

[av-angie-er]

Hey!

You'll have to get up to 65 (50 posts/essay as outlined here)

Okay, thanks so much!

[justwannawish]

Would it be possible for me to edit my work before it gets marked by Elyse? I was talking to someone on the English advanced chat and they gave me so many ideas that I wanted to include. Ofc if Elyse had already started editing it, I'll let her work her magic

[cookiemonsterxoxo]

Hi !! Would you be able to read through my creative and provide some feedback please ! Thank you !!!   

No Longer Stolen

Priya and I sweltered as we drew squares on the crumbled street and numbered them with the stolen chalk. We played lagoori with a pile of stones and a dirt-covered plastic ball. Each day, the streets crumbled some more, but the chalk was always stolen and the stones were always free.
***
We run, further and further. The woods darkening, as if night came in seconds. Twigs scraped past my face, entangling themselves into my hair. My feet slip and I’m falling. I can’t open my voice to scream, fear, paralysing my body. I’m falling down. Down. Down. Down. I hit solid ground.
“Go Priya! They won’t find me here. Find another place and I’ll come get you.”
Minutes have passed. I can no longer hear the crunch of dried twigs or the rustling of leaves. Looking for a makeshift foothold, I hoist myself up, climbing up the side of the ditch like we would climb the Banyan tree.
“Priya! Priya!” I call out as I run.
A tiny red-brick cottage, with windows no larger than a sheet of tabloid newspaper, stands skeletal, a crumbling beauty of an era long past. An enormous Banyan tree stands overshadowing the cottage, its spreading branching hiding it from the rest of the world.
“Priya! Priya!”
She steps out of the darkness of the house and into the light of the setting sun.
“I think the boys gave up. Let’s go home.”
“They are terrible at hide and seek.”
“Well, we have an advantage now,” Priya tilts her head and raises her eyebrows at me, “This house.”
Laughing, we run back to our homes.
“Myra, let’s come back tomorrow.”
***
My mother’s cold palm wakes me.
“Namaste. Welcome to India.” The stewardess smiles. 
A sea of faces moves like an unseen current towards the terminal building. Eyes of elderly women in saris glare at me and become more horrified as they take in my sleeveless midriff top and my denim mini skirt.
A few withering trees cast small pathetic patches of shade onto the baked tarmac.
“Mum! How long are we here for again?”
“Mother! Esha! Are you even listen--?”
“STOP IT, Myra! You were born and raised here for SIX YEARS! Can’t you stop complaining for just six weeks?”
Why did she always bring that up? We left ten year ago. We are Australians now.  
I reach for my phone to call for an UBER before I realise. Instead, I stick out my tired hand in hope for a SUV with leather seats and air conditioning. What do I get instead? A metal cabin on three wheels. I reach for the seat belt. None. I clutch my mother’s arm. The rickshaw stalls, brakes abruptly and lets out a plume of grey smoke which consumes the vehicle. I watch the local children giggle as they draw hopscotch grids with chalk. I tell mum to go ahead without me.
“I think I want to explore a little.”
I couldn’t, for the life of me, recall the street on which the small cottage stood but I attempt to describe it to my rickshaw driver. She wouldn’t be able to get it. She smiles, nods and starts the motor again.  
As the rickshaw rumbles on, the crowded streets start to resemble those that I once knew.
The old place now looks just a little more glorified than a shed. I place my hand on the Banyan tree, my fingertips gripping into deepening crevices.
“I can’t believe how long it’s been.”
“Me neither.”
What does she…? Who…? For the first time, I pay attention to the approaching rickshaw driver. Her frame says she is eighteen or nineteen years old, but she looks much older. She stands with one hip jutted to one side, her right arm draped across her slender body, clasping the other elbow. A deep curve begins to form on her lips and precious dimples…no way!      
“It’s me. Priya.” She laughs.
Before I could breathe, I melt into her form. Her hands fold around my back and draw me closer. I feel my body shake.
“Oh my god! How…where…. what have you been up to?”
Priya paces uneasily and then sits down on the ground, beside me. She recounts her recent plight and laments her brief foolish relationship with Raj – the curiosity of our childhood – who had decided she wasn’t what he wanted after they had run away.  She spoke in a soft tone, as if someone would hear and hurt her. But then, when Priya returned, it was to an empty house. Her parents couldn’t live with the shame. How could they do that? Leave her…? Mum would never give up on me. As she continued her story, I couldn’t help but stare at the scars on her neck and arms. Priya rolled down her sleeves and hunched further. I pulled her closer to me and that was when she started weeping into my shoulder.
“Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay.” I reassured her.
I feel so much at ease with Priya. Sitting there, beside the Banyan tree I envisage my past. I don’t despise the weather. I don’t get irritated with the unique aromas. I am six-years-old again!
I reach for her hand.
“Promise me, when you can, you will come to Australia.”
*****
She presses her face to the plane’s window as it touches the tarmac. The airport looks like a shopping mall with gleaming white tiles. Two glass elevators lift simultaneously, leading to the upper floor food court. The air is cool with a faint aroma of sausages and bacon which drifts from above. In the middle of many large open areas are white fabric covered seats. Priya walks past a group of girls in short skirts and crop tops and boys with only board shorts. They smile at her. She walks towards the chalk in a stationary store.
“$3.00”    

[justwannawish]

Hi !! Would you be able to read through my creative and provide some feedback please ! Thank you !!!   

No Longer Stolen

Priya and I sweltered as we drew squares on the crumbled street and numbered them with the stolen chalk. We played lagoori with a pile of stones and a dirt-covered plastic ball. Each day, the streets crumbled some more, but the chalk was always stolen and the stones were always free.
***
We run, further and further. The woods darkening, as if night came in seconds. Twigs scraped past my face, entangling themselves into my hair. My feet slip and I’m falling. I can’t open my voice to scream, fear, paralysing my body. I’m falling down. Down. Down. Down. I hit solid ground.
“Go Priya! They won’t find me here. Find another place and I’ll come get you.”
Minutes have passed. I can no longer hear the crunch of dried twigs or the rustling of leaves. Looking for a makeshift foothold, I hoist myself up, climbing up the side of the ditch like we would climb the Banyan tree.
“Priya! Priya!” I call out as I run.
A tiny red-brick cottage, with windows no larger than a sheet of tabloid newspaper, stands skeletal, a crumbling beauty of an era long past. An enormous Banyan tree stands overshadowing the cottage, its spreading branching hiding it from the rest of the world.
“Priya! Priya!”
She steps out of the darkness of the house and into the light of the setting sun.
“I think the boys gave up. Let’s go home.”
“They are terrible at hide and seek.”
“Well, we have an advantage now,” Priya tilts her head and raises her eyebrows at me, “This house.”
Laughing, we run back to our homes.
“Myra, let’s come back tomorrow.”
***
My mother’s cold palm wakes me.
“Namaste. Welcome to India.” The stewardess smiles. 
A sea of faces moves like an unseen current towards the terminal building. Eyes of elderly women in saris glare at me and become more horrified as they take in my sleeveless midriff top and my denim mini skirt.
A few withering trees cast small pathetic patches of shade onto the baked tarmac.
“Mum! How long are we here for again?”
“Mother! Esha! Are you even listen--?”
“STOP IT, Myra! You were born and raised here for SIX YEARS! Can’t you stop complaining for just six weeks?”
Why did she always bring that up? We left ten year ago. We are Australians now. 
I reach for my phone to call for an UBER before I realise. Instead, I stick out my tired hand in hope for a SUV with leather seats and air conditioning. What do I get instead? A metal cabin on three wheels. I reach for the seat belt. None. I clutch my mother’s arm. The rickshaw stalls, brakes abruptly and lets out a plume of grey smoke which consumes the vehicle. I watch the local children giggle as they draw hopscotch grids with chalk. I tell mum to go ahead without me.
“I think I want to explore a little.”
I couldn’t, for the life of me, recall the street on which the small cottage stood but I attempt to describe it to my rickshaw driver. She wouldn’t be able to get it. She smiles, nods and starts the motor again. 
As the rickshaw rumbles on, the crowded streets start to resemble those that I once knew.
The old place now looks just a little more glorified than a shed. I place my hand on the Banyan tree, my fingertips gripping into deepening crevices.
“I can’t believe how long it’s been.”
“Me neither.”
What does she…? Who…? For the first time, I pay attention to the approaching rickshaw driver. Her frame says she is eighteen or nineteen years old, but she looks much older. She stands with one hip jutted to one side, her right arm draped across her slender body, clasping the other elbow. A deep curve begins to form on her lips and precious dimples…no way!     
“It’s me. Priya.” She laughs.
Before I could breathe, I melt into her form. Her hands fold around my back and draw me closer. I feel my body shake.
“Oh my god! How…where…. what have you been up to?”
Priya paces uneasily and then sits down on the ground, beside me. She recounts her recent plight and laments her brief foolish relationship with Raj – the curiosity of our childhood – who had decided she wasn’t what he wanted after they had run away.  She spoke in a soft tone, as if someone would hear and hurt her. But then, when Priya returned, it was to an empty house. Her parents couldn’t live with the shame. How could they do that? Leave her…? Mum would never give up on me. As she continued her story, I couldn’t help but stare at the scars on her neck and arms. Priya rolled down her sleeves and hunched further. I pulled her closer to me and that was when she started weeping into my shoulder.
“Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay.” I reassured her.
I feel so much at ease with Priya. Sitting there, beside the Banyan tree I envisage my past. I don’t despise the weather. I don’t get irritated with the unique aromas. I am six-years-old again!
I reach for her hand.
“Promise me, when you can, you will come to Australia.”
*****
She presses her face to the plane’s window as it touches the tarmac. The airport looks like a shopping mall with gleaming white tiles. Two glass elevators lift simultaneously, leading to the upper floor food court. The air is cool with a faint aroma of sausages and bacon which drifts from above. In the middle of many large open areas are white fabric covered seats. Priya walks past a group of girls in short skirts and crop tops and boys with only board shorts. They smile at her. She walks towards the chalk in a stationary store.
“$3.00”   

Hi, welcome to atarnotes!

Currently the marking policy for any piece of creative writing or an essay is 50 posts. I know this may seem like a lot, but if you start engaging yourself in the various forums, helping answering questions and asking any questions you may have, it'll be a lot easier and you'll be surprised at how quickly your post count rises!

https://atarnotes.com/forum/index.php?PHPSESSID=tkksm802sng1jk1di4e3rkoif2&topic=165968.0
Here's a more legit explanation.

Let me know if you have any concerns

[jamonwindeyer]

Would it be possible for me to edit my work before it gets marked by Elyse? I was talking to someone on the English advanced chat and they gave me so many ideas that I wanted to include. Ofc if Elyse had already started editing it, I'll let her work her magic

Go for the edit, I'm pretty sure Elyse hasn't started

[justwannawish]

Go for the edit, I'm pretty sure Elyse hasn't started

Okay, here it is again haha. Hopefully it's a bit more coherent this time round
It's still really long, and I never know where to cut down. I'm also not sure what aspects of the rubric I have/have not talked about either, so any help with that would be really appreciated. I have some sections labelled "extension", which is things I don't plan to put in the aos creative writing since i didn't think it was relevant.

Spoiler

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be you, the hero of the Manhattan Project, the star on their spangled banner. Absorbed in your scattered sketches and sheets of calculations, you’re consumed by your attempts to defeat the enemy, to build a weapon deadlier than the atomic bomb. And what better way than destroying commies, hey?


Sometimes I think of you and wonder what it’s like to be a murderer.


Once upon a time, not so long ago, a desperate nation dropped two bombs on another. We all know how this story ends.


Cracking your neck, you recalculate the ionisation power required to ignite the fusion fuel, carefully plotting deaths like the madman we all know you are. I’ve seen a lot of them in my time, but you, rational, intelligent you, sipping your Tang frighten me more than a psychopath.

 (It was war, they excuse it as a one-off. It’s humanity, I reply. You can’t trust them)

Extension: I hope you make a mistake and give up. I hope that you change your mind and give up. I hope the world ends before you end it because you don’t want to be death, the destroyer of the world. Trust me. I pray and pray, but God doesn’t exist much nowadays. People have better reasons to die than religion.

Whistling Ain’t I Right, you scribble the last lines and let your shaking hands drop the pen. The numbers don’t make sense to me, but I can tell by your wide-eyed grin that you did it.

Congratulations. You’ve just made a hydrogen bomb, one more powerful than the atomic bomb, one without fissione that’s just going to make more work for me. I’ve already overworked and understaffed.

(One death, two deaths, what more is another million? Tell me, have you ever seen a corpse?)

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I can’t! You’re going to end the world and I’m the only one who cares.

And they say Death is heartless.

***
As you cradle the papers to your chest, your smile slowly combusts into a cheer. Months of testing. Mocking smiles from the other scientists. Failure after failure. It all paid off! You have to tell Eva.

Throwing open the door, you skid to a halt behind her silhouette, illuminated by a candle stub. Eva’s reading glasses slip from her exasperated sigh, as she reads the papers. You pity her- small print is the bane of your life as well.

You scan the article she’s reading, grinning at the photo of the mushroom cloud. You’ll make that look like a peace pipe. “Darling, I didn’t know…” you read, you like to do things besides your hair. “You like politics.”

Eva starts, covering the paper with her body.  Extension: After kind John Smith next door got taken away by the Committee, you’ve both been more jumpy, more frown lines decorating your foreheads. But you have nothing to fear, making bombs is not un-American at all.

Taking her hand, you laugh “We can have conversations again.”

She loosens her shoulders, smile flickering like a candle in the wind. It’s nothing like the steady glow of the girl you married and you wonder where she went. “I don’t think we share the same views.”

You kneel in front of her, “Try me, Eva.” You miss her wince- you’ve been forgetting since your new job that she’s your ‘Evie’. You’ve been ignoring a lot about her- her new bouffant, her pretty dress, her calls for dinner.

And maybe thinking about all of this, she spits out, “I think the Americans are murderers for the Japanese bombings.”

Murderer- you a murderer? She’s gone mad.

Extension: Eva continues, her words more blazing than the flames. “I don’t think communists are bad. For god’s sake, I’m a communist! I don’t want to end American society. I think the only bad people out there are our government.”

“Those murderers went to Hiroshima under the guise of freeing Western democracy. Was our democracy worth the deaths of innocent kids? What did they ever do to us? What did the civilians do?” Eva’s eyes flash and her bitter curses start echoing in your mind.  Murderer.

“And you know what’s really tragic? They’re planning another set of bombings. Bigger and better! Do they know what they’re doing?” Extinguished, she stops, bringing her hand to her mouth. “I think a lot of terrible things.”

“They didn’t kill anyone directly,” you whisper, fixating your eyes on her wedding ring.  What if she knew that your high-earning fancy job in the city, the one that paid for her pretty dresses and ring, was earned by the blood of innocents?

Eva scoffs, and you wonder when the sweet housewife you married left. Did she ever exist?

“The bombs didn’t magically transport themselves. People dropped it. People created it. Nothing is made evil. People- I don’t know if you can call those scum humans really-make things evil.”

She quietens, quivering in the vulnerable way fire does when it’s burnt out.  “Are you going to call the Committee on me?” You shake your head, knees giving out, and collapse into the seat next to her. She flinches, perhaps disgusted by the blood surrounding you. “I’ll bring your dinner.”

Staring in silence at the food, you tremblingly hold your gravy filled spoon above the peas.
Over Japan, an aircraft had held the bombs above the people.
Somewhere, someday, someone’s going to do the same with your hydrogen bomb.

You drop it. They drop the bomb. They’re going to drop the bomb.
The peas are covered. The people are buried. They’re going to die.
By your hands. By your hands. By your hands.

Is that tomato or blood on your hands?

***
At night, you glower at the ceiling, uncomfortable in your soft bed. Thoughts of the bomb, your bomb, run through your nightmares. You don’t know what it felt like, of course, you’re not dead. But it comes alive whenever you close your eyes. Hot and blinding, red as blood. Black and cold, a silent killer. Explosive. Screams. Corpses. Dead by your hands.
 
Is this what it feels to be a murderer?

No. NO! You scream into your duvet and struggle to free yourself from the blankets, nearly tripping over the bedside table.
 
Eva furrows her brows, “What’s wrong?” Killer.
 
You bite your lip, “Just have to do something.” Slaughterer.

Walking into your study, you run a hand through your hair and find the blueprints again, examining it under the candlelight. Hours and hours of dedication, you’ve spent so long on it. It’s such a pity. You clutch the sheets, the words wrapping themselves around your fingers, tethering you. Murderer.

The flames burn and you wonder if all those people you killed burned as well. Closing your eyes, you let the candle digest your recipe for death and watch the ashes fall for the last time.

You go back to bed and kiss your wife for the first time in months. “You looked beautiful today, Evie.” She gapes at you, because you finally remembered. Wrapping an arm around her, you smile, “Let’s go on a holiday.”

Evie laughs but her eyes sparkle in agreement.
 
Tomorrow you’ll tell your employers it’s impossible and ignore your colleagues’ taunts at the fact the wonder-boy couldn’t do it. You’ll finally use up that vacation on your paycheck and take Evie away for a weekend.
 
A break will do you both good.

***

On the other side of the world, I let out a sob as the familiar twinges of pain, the suffering of souls you were going to create, finally leave. The girl I was waiting for straightens her crying mother’s kimono and kisses her goodbye, attempting to memorise every touch, every glance. As she takes my hand, I thank you for not making more people die like she did.


Extension: (Once the country asked you to do something and you did the right thing brilliantly. Thank you for not letting it break you.)

Sometimes, I think of you and wonder what’s it like to be a hero.

[elysepopplewell]

Okay, here it is again haha. Hopefully it's a bit more coherent this time round
It's still really long, and I never know where to cut down. I'm also not sure what aspects of the rubric I have/have not talked about either, so any help with that would be really appreciated. I have some sections labelled "extension", which is things I don't plan to put in the aos creative writing since i didn't think it was relevant.

Hey there!! Happy to sit down and read this

Spoiler

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be you, the hero of the Manhattan Project, the star on their spangled banner. Absorbed in your scattered sketches and sheets of calculations, you’re consumed by your attempts to defeat the enemy, to build a weapon deadlier than the atomic bomb. And what better way than destroying commies, hey?


Sometimes I think of you and wonder what it’s like to be a murderer.


Once upon a time, not so long ago, a desperate nation dropped two bombs on another. We all know how this story ends.


Cracking your neck, you recalculate the ionisation power required to ignite the fusion fuel, carefully plotting deaths like the madman we all know you are. I’ve seen a lot of them in my time, but you, rational, intelligent you, sipping your Tang frightened or frightens* me more than a psychopath.

 (It was war, they excuse it as a one-off. It’s humanity, I reply. You can’t trust them)

Extension: I hope you make a mistake and give up. I hope that you change your mind and give up. I hope the world ends before you end it's because you don’t want to be death, the destroyer of the world. Trust me. I pray and pray, but God doesn’t exist much nowadays. People have better reasons to die than religion.

Whistling Ain’t I Right, you scribble the last lines and let your shaking hands drop the pen. The numbers don’t make sense to me, but I can tell by your wide-eyed grin that you did it.

Congratulations. You’ve just made a hydrogen bomb, one more powerful than the atomic bomb, one without fissione that’s just going to make more work for me. I’ve already overworked and understaffed.

(One death, two deaths, what more is another million? Tell me, have you ever seen a corpse?)

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I can’t! You’re going to end the world and I’m the only one who cares.

And they say Death is heartless. I'll add at this point that I've read everything out loud so far to make sure that your grammar is stopping and starting the story in the flow that you want. So far, VERY good!

***
As you cradle the papers to your chest, your smile slowly combusts into a cheer. Months of testing. Mocking smiles from the other scientists. Failure after failure. It all paid off! You have to tell Eva.

Throwing open the door, you skid to a halt behind her silhouette, illuminated by a candle stub. Eva’s reading glasses slip from her exasperated sigh, as she reads the papers. You pity her- small print is the bane of your life as well.

You scan the article she’s reading, grinning at the photo of the mushroom cloud. You’ll make that look like a peace pipe. “Darling, I didn’t know…” you read, you like to do things besides your hair. “You like politics.” This sentence here, I just don't think I'm reading it the way you intended. It's almost like that middle bit there, the part outside of the quotation marks, is part of the quote? and I'm not sure if it's being read from the paper of it these are the words the person is saying? I think the thing that makes me think it's on the paper is, "you read," but then the "you like politics" is mixing the voice of the person and the narration and it's just not quite clear for me.

Eva starts, covering the paper with her body.  Extension: After kind John Smith next door got taken away by the Committee, you’ve both been more jumpy, more frown lines decorating your foreheads. But you have nothing to fear, making bombs is not un-American at all. *shudders* YES. THIS.

Taking her hand, you laugh “We can have conversations again.”

She loosens her shoulders, smile flickering like a candle in the wind. It’s nothing like the steady glow of the girl you married and you wonder where she went. “I don’t think we share the same views.”

You kneel in front of her, “Try me, Eva.” You miss her wince- you’ve been forgetting since your new job that she’s your ‘Evie’. You’ve been ignoring a lot about her- her new bouffant, her pretty dress, her calls for dinner.

And maybe thinking about all of this, she spits out, “I think the Americans are murderers for the Japanese bombings.”

Murderer- you a murderer? She’s gone mad. This italicised bit can be stronger, I think. I'm not sure about the exact way you're intending for me to read this.

Extension: Eva continues, her words more blazing than the flames. “I don’t think communists are bad. For god’s sake, I’m a communist! I don’t want to end American society. I think the only bad people out there are our government.”

“Those murderers went to Hiroshima under the guise of freeing Western democracy. Was our democracy worth the deaths of innocent kids? What did they ever do to us? What did the civilians do?” Eva’s eyes flash and her bitter curses start echoing in your mind.  Murderer.

“And you know what’s really tragic? They’re planning another set of bombings. Bigger and better! Do they know what they’re doing?” Extinguished, she stops, bringing her hand to her mouth. “I think a lot of terrible things.”

“They didn’t kill anyone directly,” you whisper, fixating your eyes on her wedding ring.  What if she knew that your high-earning fancy job in the city, the one that paid for her pretty dresses and ring, was earned by the blood of innocents?

Eva scoffs, and you wonder when the sweet housewife you married left. Did she ever exist? I love this bit. I like that it's not WHERE is she, but just recognises she has left by wondering WHEN - it shows a preoccupation of the husband for a long time.

“The bombs didn’t magically transport themselves. People dropped it. People created it. Nothing is made evil. People- I don’t know if you can call those scum humans really-make things evil.”

She quietens, quivering in the vulnerable way fire does when it’s burnt out.  “Are you going to call the Committee on me?” You shake your head, knees giving out, and collapse into the seat next to her. She flinches, perhaps disgusted by the blood surrounding you. “I’ll bring your dinner.”

Staring in silence at the food, you tremblingly hold your gravy filled spoon above the peas.
Over Japan, an aircraft had held the bombs above the people.
Somewhere, someday, someone’s going to do the same with your hydrogen bomb. OMLLLL YESSS. Love this imagery - so domestic, yet so global.

You drop it. They drop the bomb. They’re going to drop the bomb.
The peas are covered. The people are buried. They’re going to die.
By your hands. By your hands. By your hands.

Is that tomato or blood on your hands? Just a small thing which I'll leave up to you, I'd put a comma after "blood" so the "on your hands" rings with greater salience to tie into the repetition of "by your hands" above.

***
At night, you glower at the ceiling, uncomfortable in your soft bed. Thoughts of the bomb, your bomb, run through your nightmares. You don’t know what it felt like, of course, you’re not dead. But it comes alive whenever you close your eyes. Hot and blinding, red as blood. Black and cold, a silent killer. Explosive. Screams. Corpses. Dead by your hands.
 
Is this what it feels to be a murderer?

No. NO! You scream into your duvet and struggle to free yourself from the blankets, nearly tripping over the bedside table.
 
Eva furrows her brows, “What’s wrong?” Killer.
 
You bite your lip, “Just have to do something.” Slaughterer.

Walking into your study, you run a hand through your hair and find the blueprints again, examining it under the candlelight. Hours and hours of dedication, you’ve spent so long on it. It’s such a pity. You clutch the sheets, the words wrapping themselves around your fingers, tethering you. Murderer.

The flames burn and you wonder if all those people you killed burned as well. Closing your eyes, you let the candle digest your recipe for death and watch the ashes fall for the last time.


***

On the other side of the world, I let out a sob as the familiar twinges of pain, the suffering of souls you were going to create, finally leave. The girl I was waiting for straightens her crying mother’s kimono and kisses her goodbye, attempting to memorise every touch, every glance. As she takes my hand, I thank you for not making more people die like she did.


Extension: (Once the country asked you to do something and you did the right thing brilliantly. Thank you for not letting it break you.)

Sometimes, I think of you and wonder what’s it like to be a hero.

Wonderful. Brilliant. Incredible.

How do I articulate how much I enjoy this piece? It's clean AF. I read it verbally to make sure it lulled and sung the way it should, and it did. The wording is JUST enough every time - crisp, and clean, and never too much. You've thought so carefully about the techniques, I can see it especially in the gravy/bomb scenario. Who would've thought??

In terms of plot, I love love love the ending. The two people, so significantly connected, but never meet. The only thing that I think we could probably do away with in order to give the reader a little more work to do, a little more respect for their ability to put the pieces together, is the holiday thing.

You go back to bed and kiss your wife for the first time in months. “You looked beautiful today, Evie.” She gapes at you, because you finally remembered. Wrapping an arm around her, you smile, “Let’s go on a holiday.”

Evie laughs but her eyes sparkle in agreement.
 
Tomorrow you’ll tell your employers it’s impossible and ignore your colleagues’ taunts at the fact the wonder-boy couldn’t do it. You’ll finally use up that vacation on your paycheck and take Evie away for a weekend.
 
A break will do you both good.

This here, could in fact just be, "You went to sleep that night in debt to Evie. You nodded off thinking about the taunts of your employers when you tell them it's impossible, and yes, even the wonder-boy himself couldn't do it. So nobody could."

Sometttthing like this, brings all of the above into just two sentences and it leaves stuff to the imagination. So because we look at Evie with debt and gratitude, the reader can assume that Evie has swayed his opinion. This is then confirmed in a very short manner in the next sentence, rather than leaving the "oh my god he changed his mind" experience of the reader as an experience of a few sentences, distracted by a holiday. I think it's more cutting this way. Then, moving on to the person in Japan - BRILLIANT. The You + I of the story is wonderful. A very clever technique. The discovery is strong, and it works on multiple layers at multiple points.

In terms of Extension - you've also ticked all the boxes. Ways of thinking, yes. The religion at the beginning is subtle but strong, the war, the gender roles, the science, the world order - it all works together so seamlessly. Are you extending on this version for extension or just presenting it like this?

For discovery - this is strong, cutting, very clean, and I would surely give this a band 6, hinging on the fact that it is developed to the stimulus of course!

[justwannawish]

Hey there!! Happy to sit down and read this

Spoiler

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be you, the hero of the Manhattan Project, the star on their spangled banner. Absorbed in your scattered sketches and sheets of calculations, you’re consumed by your attempts to defeat the enemy, to build a weapon deadlier than the atomic bomb. And what better way than destroying commies, hey?


Sometimes I think of you and wonder what it’s like to be a murderer.


Once upon a time, not so long ago, a desperate nation dropped two bombs on another. We all know how this story ends.


Cracking your neck, you recalculate the ionisation power required to ignite the fusion fuel, carefully plotting deaths like the madman we all know you are. I’ve seen a lot of them in my time, but you, rational, intelligent you, sipping your Tang frightened or frightens* me more than a psychopath.

 (It was war, they excuse it as a one-off. It’s humanity, I reply. You can’t trust them)

Extension: I hope you make a mistake and give up. I hope that you change your mind and give up. I hope the world ends before you end it's because you don’t want to be death, the destroyer of the world. Trust me. I pray and pray, but God doesn’t exist much nowadays. People have better reasons to die than religion.

Whistling Ain’t I Right, you scribble the last lines and let your shaking hands drop the pen. The numbers don’t make sense to me, but I can tell by your wide-eyed grin that you did it.

Congratulations. You’ve just made a hydrogen bomb, one more powerful than the atomic bomb, one without fissione that’s just going to make more work for me. I’ve already overworked and understaffed.

(One death, two deaths, what more is another million? Tell me, have you ever seen a corpse?)

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I can’t! You’re going to end the world and I’m the only one who cares.

And they say Death is heartless. I'll add at this point that I've read everything out loud so far to make sure that your grammar is stopping and starting the story in the flow that you want. So far, VERY good!

***
As you cradle the papers to your chest, your smile slowly combusts into a cheer. Months of testing. Mocking smiles from the other scientists. Failure after failure. It all paid off! You have to tell Eva.

Throwing open the door, you skid to a halt behind her silhouette, illuminated by a candle stub. Eva’s reading glasses slip from her exasperated sigh, as she reads the papers. You pity her- small print is the bane of your life as well.

You scan the article she’s reading, grinning at the photo of the mushroom cloud. You’ll make that look like a peace pipe. “Darling, I didn’t know…” you read, you like to do things besides your hair. “You like politics.” This sentence here, I just don't think I'm reading it the way you intended. It's almost like that middle bit there, the part outside of the quotation marks, is part of the quote? and I'm not sure if it's being read from the paper of it these are the words the person is saying? I think the thing that makes me think it's on the paper is, "you read," but then the "you like politics" is mixing the voice of the person and the narration and it's just not quite clear for me.

Eva starts, covering the paper with her body.  Extension: After kind John Smith next door got taken away by the Committee, you’ve both been more jumpy, more frown lines decorating your foreheads. But you have nothing to fear, making bombs is not un-American at all. *shudders* YES. THIS.

Taking her hand, you laugh “We can have conversations again.”

She loosens her shoulders, smile flickering like a candle in the wind. It’s nothing like the steady glow of the girl you married and you wonder where she went. “I don’t think we share the same views.”

You kneel in front of her, “Try me, Eva.” You miss her wince- you’ve been forgetting since your new job that she’s your ‘Evie’. You’ve been ignoring a lot about her- her new bouffant, her pretty dress, her calls for dinner.

And maybe thinking about all of this, she spits out, “I think the Americans are murderers for the Japanese bombings.”

Murderer- you a murderer? She’s gone mad. This italicised bit can be stronger, I think. I'm not sure about the exact way you're intending for me to read this.

Extension: Eva continues, her words more blazing than the flames. “I don’t think communists are bad. For god’s sake, I’m a communist! I don’t want to end American society. I think the only bad people out there are our government.”

“Those murderers went to Hiroshima under the guise of freeing Western democracy. Was our democracy worth the deaths of innocent kids? What did they ever do to us? What did the civilians do?” Eva’s eyes flash and her bitter curses start echoing in your mind.  Murderer.

“And you know what’s really tragic? They’re planning another set of bombings. Bigger and better! Do they know what they’re doing?” Extinguished, she stops, bringing her hand to her mouth. “I think a lot of terrible things.”

“They didn’t kill anyone directly,” you whisper, fixating your eyes on her wedding ring.  What if she knew that your high-earning fancy job in the city, the one that paid for her pretty dresses and ring, was earned by the blood of innocents?

Eva scoffs, and you wonder when the sweet housewife you married left. Did she ever exist? I love this bit. I like that it's not WHERE is she, but just recognises she has left by wondering WHEN - it shows a preoccupation of the husband for a long time.

“The bombs didn’t magically transport themselves. People dropped it. People created it. Nothing is made evil. People- I don’t know if you can call those scum humans really-make things evil.”

She quietens, quivering in the vulnerable way fire does when it’s burnt out.  “Are you going to call the Committee on me?” You shake your head, knees giving out, and collapse into the seat next to her. She flinches, perhaps disgusted by the blood surrounding you. “I’ll bring your dinner.”

Staring in silence at the food, you tremblingly hold your gravy filled spoon above the peas.
Over Japan, an aircraft had held the bombs above the people.
Somewhere, someday, someone’s going to do the same with your hydrogen bomb. OMLLLL YESSS. Love this imagery - so domestic, yet so global.

You drop it. They drop the bomb. They’re going to drop the bomb.
The peas are covered. The people are buried. They’re going to die.
By your hands. By your hands. By your hands.

Is that tomato or blood on your hands? Just a small thing which I'll leave up to you, I'd put a comma after "blood" so the "on your hands" rings with greater salience to tie into the repetition of "by your hands" above.

***
At night, you glower at the ceiling, uncomfortable in your soft bed. Thoughts of the bomb, your bomb, run through your nightmares. You don’t know what it felt like, of course, you’re not dead. But it comes alive whenever you close your eyes. Hot and blinding, red as blood. Black and cold, a silent killer. Explosive. Screams. Corpses. Dead by your hands.
 
Is this what it feels to be a murderer?

No. NO! You scream into your duvet and struggle to free yourself from the blankets, nearly tripping over the bedside table.
 
Eva furrows her brows, “What’s wrong?” Killer.
 
You bite your lip, “Just have to do something.” Slaughterer.

Walking into your study, you run a hand through your hair and find the blueprints again, examining it under the candlelight. Hours and hours of dedication, you’ve spent so long on it. It’s such a pity. You clutch the sheets, the words wrapping themselves around your fingers, tethering you. Murderer.

The flames burn and you wonder if all those people you killed burned as well. Closing your eyes, you let the candle digest your recipe for death and watch the ashes fall for the last time.


***

On the other side of the world, I let out a sob as the familiar twinges of pain, the suffering of souls you were going to create, finally leave. The girl I was waiting for straightens her crying mother’s kimono and kisses her goodbye, attempting to memorise every touch, every glance. As she takes my hand, I thank you for not making more people die like she did.


Extension: (Once the country asked you to do something and you did the right thing brilliantly. Thank you for not letting it break you.)

Sometimes, I think of you and wonder what’s it like to be a hero.

Wonderful. Brilliant. Incredible.

How do I articulate how much I enjoy this piece? It's clean AF. I read it verbally to make sure it lulled and sung the way it should, and it did. The wording is JUST enough every time - crisp, and clean, and never too much. You've thought so carefully about the techniques, I can see it especially in the gravy/bomb scenario. Who would've thought??

In terms of plot, I love love love the ending. The two people, so significantly connected, but never meet. The only thing that I think we could probably do away with in order to give the reader a little more work to do, a little more respect for their ability to put the pieces together, is the holiday thing.

You go back to bed and kiss your wife for the first time in months. “You looked beautiful today, Evie.” She gapes at you, because you finally remembered. Wrapping an arm around her, you smile, “Let’s go on a holiday.”

Evie laughs but her eyes sparkle in agreement.
 
Tomorrow you’ll tell your employers it’s impossible and ignore your colleagues’ taunts at the fact the wonder-boy couldn’t do it. You’ll finally use up that vacation on your paycheck and take Evie away for a weekend.
 
A break will do you both good.

This here, could in fact just be, "You went to sleep that night in debt to Evie. You nodded off thinking about the taunts of your employers when you tell them it's impossible, and yes, even the wonder-boy himself couldn't do it. So nobody could."

Sometttthing like this, brings all of the above into just two sentences and it leaves stuff to the imagination. So because we look at Evie with debt and gratitude, the reader can assume that Evie has swayed his opinion. This is then confirmed in a very short manner in the next sentence, rather than leaving the "oh my god he changed his mind" experience of the reader as an experience of a few sentences, distracted by a holiday. I think it's more cutting this way. Then, moving on to the person in Japan - BRILLIANT. The You + I of the story is wonderful. A very clever technique. The discovery is strong, and it works on multiple layers at multiple points.

In terms of Extension - you've also ticked all the boxes. Ways of thinking, yes. The religion at the beginning is subtle but strong, the war, the gender roles, the science, the world order - it all works together so seamlessly. Are you extending on this version for extension or just presenting it like this?

For discovery - this is strong, cutting, very clean, and I would surely give this a band 6, hinging on the fact that it is developed to the stimulus of course!

Honestly, words cannot describe how much your feedback means to me. I've been underperforming in all my creatives though I considered them to be my most developed skill in English and I've been rereading your comment because it made me feel a lot better about everything.

About your feedback:
"You scan the article she’s reading, grinning at the photo of the mushroom cloud. You’ll make that look like a peace pipe. “Darling, I didn’t know…” you read, you like to do things besides your hair. “You like politics.”
What I intended this to be was the words he was saying out loud juxtaposed with his thoughts. It was meant to be a reflection on how much they grew apart because there is so much he still doesn't know about her

"Murderer- you a murderer? She’s gone mad." This italicised bit can be stronger, I think. I'm not sure about the exact way you're intending for me to read this.
For this, I think I was trying to get like a shocked "lol what is she saying" feel about it. There's meant to be a tone of disbelief, which is later juxtaposed with his realisation at the end that she was right all along

I totally agree with your suggestion. Do you think this works better?
You go back to bed and, kissing your wife for the first time in months, you murmur a quiet "Thank you, Evie" into her hair. 
You nod off, thinking about the taunts of your colleagues when you tell them it's impossible, that the wonder-boy himself couldn't do it, that no one could.

You fall asleep with a smile.


I'm glad you found it flowing, I tried to make it as smooth as possible and make the words sing as much as I could.

For the whole extension/advanced difference, I think i marked out a couple of sections as "Extension" (I wasn't going to put them in the discovery story because I thought the themes were more relevant to Extension, but if you think otherwise (whether it be that those sections fit better in discovery/why other sections aren't as relevant for discovery), please let me know! I'll be glad to change it.

This is such a long comment, I apologise , but is there anything else you think I should add/remove?

[Iminschool]

Hey guys, here's my creative writing piece. Any constructive criticism would be appreciated 
Thanks