This term Year 10 English have been learning about different writing forms and developing their writing skills by engaging with texts from different cultural perspectives.  The recent Year 10 Assessment Task gave students a choice of stimuli in which they needed to compose a short composition from their learning intention for the task was "I am working on developing my writing skills, learning to understand how to craft a piece of writing to achieve a particular purpose. In doing this, I am learning about the value of language, structure and form to communicate my ideas”.

The composition below is a creative piece from 10.4 English Student, Oliver Zarate.  Oliver's clever use of extended metaphor and imagery creates an engaging and clever narrative.  Please enjoy his story below, which has been shared with his permission. 

Rory Byrne has also given permission to share his excellent discursive composition below.  A discursive composition combines anecdote, first person experience and an informal conversational tone to create an engaging and intelligent piece of work titled 'Daydreamers'.

Jamaya Pearse
English Teacher

Into the Battle

However, the silence soon erupted to life.  I listened to the soft tapping of small waves against my orange canoe, trees rustling in the wind combining into a glorious chorus greeting my anticipated arrival.  The soft breeze graced my skin with its cold touch, the mountains parting long ago to allow illustrious life in the form of the river to form and grow. 

The further I continued my journey, the storm grew, the sun slowly cowered behind a thick cover of clouds.  Cracks of thunder and the flashes of lightning marked the beginning of an ancient tale, a skirmish between man and nature, on top of that, the struggle only compounded when the rumbling of the rapids like the sounds of a battle began to grow.  The mist of the waves from the rapids clogged the view.  Nonetheless It was only a natural barrier to attempt to stop me from continuing the journey. 

Worry began to dig in my mind, and like moles, tunneled itself and created networks of fear.  “I won’t make it, what if I plunge into the icy cold waters, what if I die, why don’t I turn back?”  But my thoughts began slipping away the closer I made it to the rapids.  The tune of the harsh waves battering against the rocks was like the beating of the drums of war.  The first sign of the storm had arrived as the droplets of the rain crashed down onto the earth and the waters; it all created a new song of survival.  The rush of adrenaline overwhelmed my simple brain, blood coursing through my body as I entered into a primitive survival mode.  I had already chosen to prove myself to nature or die trying. 

My canoe blitzed down the rapids, thunder cracking like a whip, lightning lit the way as the wind howled like a wolf.  The waves smashed against my orange canoe attempting to wrestle my body, the waters called begging for me to join the sweet embrace of the cold river below.  The rain beat down on my canoe and attacked my skin like frozen needles.  My eyes barely making out my surroundings due to the relentless onslaught of water engulfing my canoe and eyes, impairing my view, drenching me and my vessel.

The rocks joined the fight as each one crashed into my canoe and threw me off balance.  I would only regain it by shifting my position or using my paddle to rebalance myself.  The river below dipped, dropped, and dived, decimating my attempts of rebalancing, forcing me to make split second decisions which could determine my fate. 

The canoe was rocked by another set of dips, waves, and deadly rocks.  My balance was destroyed as the canoe dipped once again below the waves.  I fought to regain control, but the longer I fought the worse the situation became.  The situation grew more dire each time I wrestled with the waves.

My blood and adrenaline bolted through my body.  I could no longer feel the cold, my whole body working in a combined symphony of survival and my brain embraced the music my body had created as I fought desperately for survival.  A ray of hope appeared and revealed itself through the dying down of the rain.  With it, the whip of thunder and lightning began to slow, with the rapids starting` to join the descent of the journey.  The winds howl slowly returning to a soft breeze.  The speed of the journey slowed, as the hissing of waves returned to the soft tapping against my orange canoe.  The crashing of rocks also slowed.  With the absolute immovable power of the rocks becoming little more than bumps on the journey towards the end.  The needles of the cold rain slowly drifted into the background ambience of my mind.  Adrenaline steadily leaving my body, as my thoughts returned.

The vibrancy of the canoe brought my mind back to the tranquility of the trip, as the battle concluded, I had proven to myself and to nature, that I was worthy. 

Written by Oliver Zarate, Year 10

My Chosen Stimulus Picture (above)

I used the discursive text literary structure with stimuli 3.

Daydreamers

“The man who moves mountains first starts by carrying away small stones”.

I come from a family of daydreamers, not mountain-movers.  My whole family talk like visionaries; we can sell mirrors to blind men, we can produce incredible multistep plans for success and we can create unparalleled castles in the air.  We just can’t build them.  I guarantee you that while that proverbial mountain man was dragging his great hunks of stone, Great Grampa Byrnes was kicking rocks at the bottom and daydreaming of a comfier seat.

My childhood was full of empty plans.  From the beginning, my brothers and I could concoct fantastical plans; swings, treehouses, lemonade stands, all planned out to the smallest of details.  So far, none of these grand plans have come to fruition.  Sometimes, one of them would clasp on to a hobby and become unswervingly attached to it, “badminton,” one of them would say, “is the only valuable use of one’s time”.  Of course, within a week this would change to another one of the infinite hobbies they could latch onto.  Not that I’m any better.  The grandiose “Mr Toad” gene isn’t lost on me.  In the short fifteen years I’ve lived on this earth, I have had more than a lifetime of failed daydreams.  You could fill a swimming pool with the number of times I’ve talked the talk and walked away (not that I have an actual swimming pool, that idea manifested into a number of small dents in the ground that still regularly twist ankles).

Maybe if Greta Thunberg and every other teenage wiz stopped saving the world, I would be a little less gloomy.  If you watch Kochi of a morning anymore, you’d be sure to know that every second tween is inventing a new type of science or starting a revolutionary business.  For dreamers like me, breakfast has become a meal of soggy Weet-Bix and overwhelming failure (I often think about making an elaborate banquet for breakfast, but I always end up with Weet-Bix).

My mother, a woman who has very much come to terms with our lack of drive, often gives me sage advice about such things.  “Castles in the air are always much nicer than castles on the ground”, she will say, flipping through a book on horticultural design or some other outlandish enterprise.  This is a quote I cannot vouch for.  My swift counter to her lofty generalisation is the Sydney Opera House.  The original vision for the Sydney Opera House was comprised of orange peels, and the result was of course, far finer than that.  Instead of my mother’s wisdoms, I comfort myself with the colossal failures of those who build their dreams, because, in many cases, most mountains should really stay where they are.  Had Einstein kept his theorems to himself, the world would be free of the atom bomb.  If Thomas Andrewes had done something more useful with his life, there would be no Titanic to sink (and no mind-numbing movie), and if, the creator of Sesame Street had gotten a proper job, the world would be bereft of a whiny red freak we all know as Elmo.

With the dice rolled and the game set, we are stuck with this radioactive, slip slop world, whether we wanted Cookie Monster or not.  For me, the only thing keeping me sane is my daydreams.  Ticking away behind my often blank expression is the enticing world of “Future Rory”.  An amalgamation of Don Draper and Jack Donaghy, Future Rory (me in about 20 years) is the kind of guy men want to be and women want to be with.  He is a charismatic business wolf - a man of sharp suits and Cuban cigars.  His life, one of abundance.  In my head, future Rory basks in the favours of success:  he has at least one trophy wife; at least three sports cars and an immeasurable number of yachts (most of Future Rory’s time, however, is spent dealing with anyone who has ever vaguely dissed me).  The Rory Byrne of the future walks with the confidence of a man who has figured it all out.

For these dreams to become reality, it would require an immense amount of grit, sweat and cosmetic surgery, none of which I am particularly partial to.  In all likelihood, I will end up a grey-haired, thirty-something man who spends his days dreaming of being a silver fox with a sportscar.

At the start I said, “I come from a family of daydreamers, not mountain-movers”.  What I didn’t add was the fact I come from a family that is warm, happy, and generous; that care about what matters and laugh about what doesn’t.  The people in my household are the best kind of people you can meet, the people most of us look for but never find.  Yes, we have our flaws - Great Grampa Byrne’s Mountain never moved an inch - but I can tell you right now, the happiest days of my life were spent listening to my brothers’ ludicrous plans and designs.  And sure, we’ll never be like Greta Thunberg or Julius Caesar.  But I know that whatever I choose to do with my life, my family will support me all the way.  I come from a family of daydreamers.  I wouldn’t change that for the world.

Written by Rory Byrne, Year 10