Creative writing is, without a doubt, one of the most perplexing topics in the English curriculum. Students in the HSC cannot escape it, and performing well in this section is a challenge for many. Section Two of Paper 1 requires students to compose an imaginative text that demonstrates what they have learnt about the concept of belonging and or/non belonging. In order to compose a band 6 response for this section, students must weave the concept of belonging into a creative composition using imagery, sophisticated vocabulary and a variety of language features and devices.

 

 

 

The following is an example of a Belonging creative piece written by Ms Hien Dang. Students are welcome to use this orginal composition as inspiration for their own creative piece. However, no part of this story is to be copied or duplicated. For further clarification, students are advised to refer to the Board of Studies guidelines regarding plagiarism.

 

HOME

About two miles east of Lithgow on the Great Western Highway, I veer left onto Cox’s River Road, passing Blackheath and Mount Victoria. I begin to descend Victoria Pass, noting how the breath taking views of Hartley Valley is just as I remember it. I pass the Farmhouse Restaurant on my left and what had once been Mrs Molly’s Bakery to my right before continuing along Cox’s River Road, all the while mesmerised by the afternoon splendour of lush, rolling bush and farmland. Within five minutes, the road forks and I take the left, soon finding myself on Blackheath Creek Road. Another five minutes and I’m crossing a rocky creek which eventually leads to a winding driveway half hidden by overgrown flowering shrubs. Soon enough, my SUV is crawling towards a pair of wrought iron gates before it finally halts, the sound of crunching gravel and foliage the only hint of my arrival.

Tentatively, I pull on the brakes, twist the key out of the ignition and sit very, very still. I listen intently as the engine gradually settles to a low hum. The initial silence which pervades is somewhat unsettling, but it’s soon dispersed by the mating cries of two apostle birds jostling overhead. Grabbing my phone, I switch it to silent and shove it to the bottom my handbag. With the bag perched on my lap, I draw a deep, slow breath and close my eyes. As I exhale, my eyes pry open and readjust their focus to the imposing structure right in front of me. Once ready, I step out of the car and immediately welcome the release of a tide of emotions which I have suppressed up until now.

Home.

I approach the gate and with a gentle push, it begins to retreat, reluctantly beckoning me to return to a past to which I once belonged and to which I am now a mere intruder. As I begin my first steps toward the porch, I become acutely aware of the crackling of twigs beneath my boots. The house is unrecognisably familiar to me as everything is where it should be, although nothing is the same as what it once was.

Suddenly, my mind begins to wander to another era, where the same footsteps are greeted by a host of colour and fragrances that almost assaults the senses. I can still see Mother’s carefully manicured garden beds encasing this lawn in a vibrant display of violet, crimson and teal. It is an era where primroses and grevilleas festoon the footpath to herald the warmer months, and where yellow carnations sporadically line each side of the picket fence.

But where gerberas and iris had once encircled the old Banksia tree, it now sits bare and idle to my left, surrounded by nothing more than waist high weeds and stringy bark, a desperately unappealing replacement to what was there before. Thorny weeds are now a uniform fixture in this landscape, and I simply cannot ignore it.

I also begin to notice how the house appears to be slightly leaning against the giant Jacaranda which looms haphazardly from the side fence. Its Victorian facade, clearly wearied by neglect and decades of exposure to the elements, seems almost despairing for days long gone by. The ashen grey paint on the weatherboard have peeled away, with several of the panels now jutting rudely at various odd angles. The partially tiled roof, although intact, sits lazily atop the first floor, its eaves almost drooping along the rusted gutters which skim the house’s perimeter.

Ascending the porch, I fumble through my bag for the keys while carefully studying the solid double doors to the entrance. The once striking red jarrah has now faded to a rather dreary russet, and the cast iron handles no longer shine back at me as it did before. With the key finally in my hand, I reach for the knob and without too much effort, gently turn the lock, sighing with relief as both doors gradually retreat to welcome my intrusion.

Undaunted by the eerie silence and ghostly darkness, I press forward, determined to accomplish what I had been neglecting for so long. Leaving the doors slightly ajar, I tread carefully across the hallway, my boots imprinting clear marks on the dust filled floorboards. Soon enough, I find myself facing the first room to my left, and as I stand in the doorway, the soothing melodies from a jazz trumpet begins to resonate from within...

It is late in the evening and Father, with his Habanos Cuban cigar in one hand and a glass of cognac brandy in the other, is retreating to his library. His Italian leather armchair spreads lethargically across the back corner of the room. Beside it, a roaring fireplace crackles marvellously as he busily immerses himself in the works of Homer, Tolstoy and Hemingway. The entire left wall is filled from floor to ceiling with leather-bound classics, as well as an extensive collection of American and European journals, every one of them a testament to Father’s inquisitive mind and bountiful knowledge. This is where I begin my passion for writing, having spent endless hours engrossed in Dickens’ narratives, Wilde’s satires and Keats’ poetic verses. And all the while, the music of Miles Davis and Little Richard echoes softly from an old gramophone which sits atop the mahogany cabinet.

Today, the room is silent, the book shelves are bare, and the armchair that once sat proudly in the back corner has been replaced by three unsightly milk crates. The carpet has been ripped from the floor, with a broken ladder now lying strewn across the exposed timber. The window has been half boarded up, with the fireplace secretly hidden behind a wall of concrete. My heart heavy and my memory pressing, I turn and make my way back through the empty hallway. Within a few steps, I turn to my right and find myself facing the sitting room where I begin to hear the piano keys resonating with Chopin’s B-flat minor Sonata...

Shantung curtains drape over the huge bay windows of this sitting room, forming a protective arch around a plush pink charmeuse sofa. But the real centre piece of this part of the house is Aunt Margret’s vintage Louis XV Steinway piano. Made of East Indian rosewood and maple, its satin finish dazzles under the soft glare of the afternoon sun. Here, I’d spend many a long evenings practising and refining Beethoven’s Concertos and Bach’s Piano Preludes. The music I would exert was so powerful and overwhelming that I often became lost in a whirlwind of unison notes of unvarying and unremitting tempo and dynamics.

But on this afternoon, the piano no longer takes pride of place as the room’s centrepiece. Ghastly brown venetians have replaced Mother’s prized curtains and where the plush pink sofa once took prominence, piles of newspapers lie scattered in disorderly bundles across the floor. With the concert melodies gradually dissipating from my mind, I turn and walk away, leaving behind yet another memory of bygone days. At the end of the hall, beside the foot of the grand staircase, an archway leads into an open space and a room which has witnessed its share of domestic life. As I approach, the fragrant smell of infused lemongrass, garlic and basil begins to stir a particular recess of my mind...

Amidst the clattering of skillets and saucepans, Mother busies herself around the wood fire oven. She is preparing a casserole and almond cheese cake for Sunday lunch. Ladles and spatulas of varying sizes hang above the breakfast bench. The kitchen wall is drenched in sunlight, its golden rays giving life to tubs of oregano and thyme which occupy the window sill. Along the outside of the pantry, a row of cinnamon, paprika and tarragon take pride of place, each spice frantically sizzling amongst the lemongrass on the skillet stove.

But today, the oven and stove are no longer there, having been ripped from their posts many years ago. And the breakfast bench now rests haphazardly against the back of the kitchen wall, leaving a large gaping wound all around the left side. The sun now feebly struggles to penetrate the wooden boards which are nailed across the window, and only the stench of mould and rotting timber lingers in the air.

I finally turn and make my way back to the entrance, where the cries of the two jostling apostle birds are being drowned out by a choir of sparrows perched along the limbs of the old Banksia tree. I hear a plane approach overhead, and it almost silences the crackling twigs beneath my boots as I turn to take one last look at the imposing structure I had once called home. With my memories intact and my acceptance of reality restored, I return to my SUV, safe in the knowledge that I now know where my past belongs.

 

By Ms Hien Dang