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Someone please read over my "short" creative writing based on belonging? (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter Zokunu
- Start date
BUMP, i guess i will post up my creative then. I will remove it as soon as i get some responses. Please give me some suggestions 
. TY
She kept turning and turning and turning and turning. But she wasn’t dizzy – she never ever got dizzy. Her dress tassels were merry go round ponies and the braid of her silver hair did its best to keep up.
But now there was a new game; spinning was fun but this was better. She carefully made her way down the darkened corridor, balancing along a single oak floor board. Arms outstretched, tongue poking out, toes at their tippiest. She swayed and lost her balance, hopping to safety on another thin board. That had been close.
The game stopped. Her bare feet touched the ground, side by side, and she lifted her head and peered down the hall, where a small orange glow beckoned. The gaping maw of night threatened to swallow it up whole, tearing at its edges, and it waxed and waned. She moved closer, the floor boards aching under each step. It looked so inviting; warm yet ever so timid, flickering in the hope of another.
She rested herself on the archway and her heart danced. Alexander sat in the middle of the room, at his little desk, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, scribbling away under the candle’s light. He always came here. He loved it here – they both did. He would sit and let his quill take flight, gliding across the parchment, and she would sing and play his music on any instrument: on the harp; the piano; oh, and the violin. That was her favourite. And he loved to listen to it.
But he looked frozen in his ash wood chair. His face was wrinkled and gaunt, and his eyes were sunken and scornful, staring through the window at the rising moon. The pale light pushed into the room but the trees outside grabbed at it with splintered fingers, as if he had commanded them.
She would make him feel better; he would always smile when she was there. And so she spun and jumped and kicked and danced, and the moonlight made her ethereal as she moved past the windows. The dress, the hair, the skin, the eyes all shined liked diamonds; she was the brightest star of the night – of any night. The moon beamed, the candle burst, and light echoed gloriously off the walls.
And he simply went back to his scratching, forcing black blood to dribble from his quill. His stare would not be moved from the composition, and he bit the candle dead with finger and thumb. His green eyes no longer twinkled like they used to and his skin looked stretched and cracked. Where had her Alex gone?
Her fingers tangled along one of the harps stuffed away in the corner, and each string pulled hummed with renewed joy, shaking away layers of dust. Alex drew the blanket further over his head. She moved onto the piano, tapping a playful key here and there, but he would not rise. And then she cried out in despair and threw her arms around him.
All the happiness in the world could not equate to that moment, and the embrace enveloped the pair. Their warmth burned bright, and set the room alight with a wave of fire, each tongue of flame dancing wildly. The orange filled the room and the corridor and everything that would welcome it until finally – Alex shed tears onto her bosom. He cried for what felt like hours, maybe even days, and he dare not let her go.
But the black of night was unforgiving and he opened his eyes to the moon’s piercing gaze. It’s huge, morbid face only carried sadness. No fires surrounded him; no light embraced him and no warmth nuzzled at his heart, and now he knew the cold truth he once could not admit.
The composition lay scrunched in his hands and buried in his chest, with watery marks dotted all over, and the same word at the top, scribbled over and over. Emily.
. TYShe kept turning and turning and turning and turning. But she wasn’t dizzy – she never ever got dizzy. Her dress tassels were merry go round ponies and the braid of her silver hair did its best to keep up.
But now there was a new game; spinning was fun but this was better. She carefully made her way down the darkened corridor, balancing along a single oak floor board. Arms outstretched, tongue poking out, toes at their tippiest. She swayed and lost her balance, hopping to safety on another thin board. That had been close.
The game stopped. Her bare feet touched the ground, side by side, and she lifted her head and peered down the hall, where a small orange glow beckoned. The gaping maw of night threatened to swallow it up whole, tearing at its edges, and it waxed and waned. She moved closer, the floor boards aching under each step. It looked so inviting; warm yet ever so timid, flickering in the hope of another.
She rested herself on the archway and her heart danced. Alexander sat in the middle of the room, at his little desk, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, scribbling away under the candle’s light. He always came here. He loved it here – they both did. He would sit and let his quill take flight, gliding across the parchment, and she would sing and play his music on any instrument: on the harp; the piano; oh, and the violin. That was her favourite. And he loved to listen to it.
But he looked frozen in his ash wood chair. His face was wrinkled and gaunt, and his eyes were sunken and scornful, staring through the window at the rising moon. The pale light pushed into the room but the trees outside grabbed at it with splintered fingers, as if he had commanded them.
She would make him feel better; he would always smile when she was there. And so she spun and jumped and kicked and danced, and the moonlight made her ethereal as she moved past the windows. The dress, the hair, the skin, the eyes all shined liked diamonds; she was the brightest star of the night – of any night. The moon beamed, the candle burst, and light echoed gloriously off the walls.
And he simply went back to his scratching, forcing black blood to dribble from his quill. His stare would not be moved from the composition, and he bit the candle dead with finger and thumb. His green eyes no longer twinkled like they used to and his skin looked stretched and cracked. Where had her Alex gone?
Her fingers tangled along one of the harps stuffed away in the corner, and each string pulled hummed with renewed joy, shaking away layers of dust. Alex drew the blanket further over his head. She moved onto the piano, tapping a playful key here and there, but he would not rise. And then she cried out in despair and threw her arms around him.
All the happiness in the world could not equate to that moment, and the embrace enveloped the pair. Their warmth burned bright, and set the room alight with a wave of fire, each tongue of flame dancing wildly. The orange filled the room and the corridor and everything that would welcome it until finally – Alex shed tears onto her bosom. He cried for what felt like hours, maybe even days, and he dare not let her go.
But the black of night was unforgiving and he opened his eyes to the moon’s piercing gaze. It’s huge, morbid face only carried sadness. No fires surrounded him; no light embraced him and no warmth nuzzled at his heart, and now he knew the cold truth he once could not admit.
The composition lay scrunched in his hands and buried in his chest, with watery marks dotted all over, and the same word at the top, scribbled over and over. Emily.
essayqueen
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It's heavily descriptive and the relevance to the belonging rubric is very weak. There is also not much action or story progression; no complication. Is this for an assignment or are you intending it to be a generic creative for Trials or HSC?
These phrases are also quite 'cliche'/amateur.
* floor boards aching
* cried onto bosom
* nuzzled at his heart
* cold truth
I would definitely scrap it and start again: 9/20
These phrases are also quite 'cliche'/amateur.
* floor boards aching
* cried onto bosom
* nuzzled at his heart
* cold truth
I would definitely scrap it and start again: 9/20
Spiritual Being
hehehehehe
Jumped from a 2013 student to a teacher in less then two weeks. Impressive.
I would have to agree with essayqueen, though I have to say that it was starting to become one of those belonging essays that were about choosing to move on into society and belonging. I can see a pattern of how 'he' is choosing not to belong to society, but it's just not reaching "there". We are getting a feel, not not a clear conveyance.
Other than that. It is a beautiful story.
Definitely suggest you do (if you don't already, that wouldn't make sense) creative/short story writing.
Good luck
Other than that. It is a beautiful story.
Definitely suggest you do (if you don't already, that wouldn't make sense) creative/short story writing.
Good luck
rumbleroar
Survivor of the HSC
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I think some things need to be shown more, rather than told...there's not a very strong or complex idea of belonging presented...all I kind of get is that she's a dancer and he's a bit of a failing composer and their love allows them to belong with each other? Sorry if I've interpreted it wrong.
Some of the description is good though, but you need to balance the description with a sufficient plot, even if all you have is 600 words.
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Some of the description is good though, but you need to balance the description with a sufficient plot, even if all you have is 600 words.
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k, THX guys
. Just asking, if I was to write a story about one of my dead family members (dog,person....) and looking back at about how important he/she is towards the family. Would that be a bit TOO basic based on belonging? Is a band 6 possible for stories like this?
Last edited:
essayqueen
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You need to grab a copy of the rubric and find exactly what element it would be addressing. If you have a creative that you would like a professionally marked for FREE (1) please PM me and I will provide my email address (essay/creative marking includes extensive annotations throughout the piece, indicative score, as well as a final summative marker's comment with suggestions for improvement and how to more clearly address the syllabus)
I reckon its about 17/20 atm. I went to James Ruse ag school and the teachers mark so strictly that one creative writing i got peer read (as in from my fellow classmates) many many times. My friends and even a girl who topped english said my story was worth like a 19 but in the end i only got 17. Unfortunately this only happens at ruse and not at other school so assuming u dont go to ruse i guess your story is really worth about 17. There are a few cliches but all you have to do it remove them and change it into something more authentic. If u tweak ur story a little bit i guess u can definately reach a 19/20