English News
Year 12 Standard English Craft of Writing
Year 12 have just completed their last HSC task. Students were asked to write either a narrative or discursive piece where they borrowed stylistic features from one of the short texts they studied in the Craft of Writing Module.
The following scripts ranked very highly for their creativity and standard of work.
Congratulations to Alessia D'Aquino and Henry Naseby for their excellent pieces.
More Than Just a Game - Henry Naseby
Never in my life had I witnessed anything like this: 80,000 individuals all wearing blue, roaring the words, “New South Wales”. Of course, I had seen it before; it was something that occurred this time every year. But never like this. Never with this much thrill and euphoria. Never with this much raw emotion. Never with such pride.
2014, game III. The decider. Every New South Welshman, whether at the game or not; completely healthy or burdened with sickness; whether born of rich or impecunious. They were all standing. For the Blues were about to win their first series in nine years. Queensland were in front the whole game. For nine years and 75 minutes, Queensland were better than us, but that game went for 80 minutes. And for the first time in his life, a ten-year-old me witnessed NSW raise the shield.
The sheer emotion which flooded through my body, like water raging up a river, was something I could not describe. After years of losing, finally, I would see victory. And perhaps I do envy the Maroon’s winning streak, however, one thing I’m certain of is the bitter, foul feeling of defeat makes the taste of victory 100 times more sweet, and that is something no Queenslander has ever experienced.
This is what origin is all about. Pride, passion, anguish. Two states whose only connection is through the paramount hatred conjured from this fierce rivalry. When you see the 17 players lined up, wearing the colours of the opposing state. Regardless of who they are; if they play for your team; whether a young rookie or experienced veteran; You hated them. Somehow, what once was just a game of rugby league, played for fun and watched as entertainment, manifested itself into a ferocious beast which feasted on the rich emotion poured into the sport by the fans. Words cannot describe the intense conflict shared by these two teams. Something so powerful; with the ability to destroy relationships, tear friendships to shreds and create disputes between otherwise the most harmonious of people.
But in the exact same way, it unites us.
Through the synchronised explosion of cheers when the blues score under the posts at ANZ. Through the devastating roar of “boos” received when they run out onto Suncorp. Through the empty feeling you get when looking around at your fellow fans after a loss, knowing that they are all suffering as much as you. The bond that origin gave birth to; the strength cannot be described in words. 13.3 million people who all share the passion and desire for their state to triumph. 4.7 million houses which are all tuned to the same channel. No rope or chain can match the fortitude of the connection shared between origin fans. And through the shared emotional rollercoaster each fan rides in every win, loss and draw, it only gets stronger.
Each and every person shares that same passion. And with that passion comes expectation.
When the 8.1 million New South Welshmen and the 5.1 million Queenslanders turn on their TVs to watch the game, they all share the same expectation. That their side will be the one to sing the song once the full-time whistle is blown. No matter how each teams line-ups are or who is the favourite, as a fan, it is almost that you know for a fact that your state will come out on top.
This belief likely stems from the legacy left from previous generations.
A legacy that one can only sit back and admire. Andrew Johns, Brad Fitler, Cameron Smith. Legends of the game whose greatness will be talked about for centuries. Every time a new player is granted the opportunity to wear the jersey once worn by them, they know that it is not just a piece of fabric they are wearing, but a piece of history. And for that reason, from that simple idea, it is impossible for them to go out there and put in less than 110%. Impossible for them to truly let their state down. Impossible for them to fail. If they are to lose on the night, never can it be put down to a lack of effort, desire or will to win.
For when these players embark on the journey that is a State of Origin campaign, they know that it is their duty to put everything into the harsh battlefield that is a rugby league pitch. Growing up, the pride, identity and honour for their respective states was of utmost importance as they watched the older generation of heroes. Now they are the heroes and they know exactly who they are playing for.
And for that reason, it is more than just a game.
A Wistful Evening - Alessia D'Aquino
Each evening, as the old grandfather clock would strike twelve, its familiar chime ringing down the dim, silent hallway, she’d be waiting. Each evening, tucked behind her door, her hand resting upon its knob, she’d be waiting until the night’s velvety darkness had swallowed up the sky, and a deep slumber had fallen over the house. Only then would she tiptoe out - hushed, cautious, alert - as she’d tentatively pad down the long, harrowing hall. She’d wander its lengths - the soft thud of bare feet upon the wooden floor - until she’d reach the window, where she’d pause, tilt her head, and gaze at the scene before her - an oasis of light in the midst of darkness, a city full of life, its congested highways and glowing streets pulsing like a heartbeat. Sometimes she would simply sit and watch for hours.
But, at each evening’s end, the sun would eventually surface, its golden fingers stretching ever outwards into the blackness of night. And, each morning, she’d be waiting once more.
A wintry chill hangs in the air, its frosty breeze nipping at my face as I draw my scarf a little tighter. Sauntering down the wide avenue, the setting sun had begun to cast long shadows across the sidewalk, coating the pristine glass panes of towering skyscrapers in a luminous glow. Passerbyers weave amongst one another, immersed in a continuous dance, as the bustle of vehicles causes traffic lights to frantically change colours, somewhat like a disco light in an overcrowded nightclub.
Stepping along the pavement, I pause as I near an intersection. Left, right, straight - I peer down the bustling avenues which stretch for miles, and tossing up a coin, a path is determined, and I stride off to the left. The street is lined with cafes and restaurants, and I halt by a particular coffee shop, the rich scent of roasted coffee beans wafting past, teasing my taste buds and beckoning me forward.
I wander up to its entrance, past the glass pane emblazoned with the words Via Dolce in white cursive writing, and swing the door open, as the brisk winter air whirls in behind me. I take a seat by the window.
“Mum, look!”
My gaze hitches on a small family sitting by the corner. A young girl huddles between her parents, a distinct line of white froth on her upper lip, prompting the warm sound of giggling.
At that moment, I am reminded of a young girl and the clanging of a grandfather clock, the melody of its chimes now resonating through my thoughts - lovely, dark, deep - as I am swept into time’s tide.
“I thought you’d still be awake.”
The sound of my mother’s voice propels me to my feet, and I almost topple over in the process. Like I had done most nights since glimpsing its vibrant lights, a dazzling array of colours that fit together perfectly like a jigsaw puzzle, I would sit by the window, my eyes relentlessly devouring the city’s wonders. The grandfather clock had rung what only seemed like minutes ago, though I found it rather easy to lose track of time, evident through the pale light which had begun to seep through the depths of the night’s darkness.
“Mum…” My voice trails off as my eyebrows furrow in confusion. For how long had my mother known of my secret midnight travels down the hallway?
“I’ve known for a while now, and with your high schooling coming to an end, it only makes sense I give you this.”
My gaze shifts to a crisp, white envelope outstretched in my mother’s clutches. Slowly, I reach for it, skimming my fingertips over my name printed on the envelope which boasts the loops and swirls of my mother’s handwriting. Tentatively, I tear at the end of the envelope before tilting it slightly to glimpse its contents.
I draw a sharp breath. Shock holds me fixed, like a proverbial deer caught in headlights. Reeling back, I glance up to meet my mother's glassy-eyed stare.
“A plane ticket?” my eyes grow wide, my voice flying higher in pitch by the second. “I can attend university living in the city?”
A single nod marked the beginning of a new dream. A single nod marked the end of a part of my life.
Each morning, as the alarm clock would strike seven, its rhythmic beeps would envelop the room and pull her from restful dreams. Each morning, she’d draw back her curtains in a graceful swoosh, glimpsing the day’s pearly light. Only then would she pause - pondering, motionless, nostalgic - as she’d recall the hushed hallways of her childhood and the light murmurs of family that would float throughout.
But, at each day’s end, the moon would surface, bringing with it the constellation of lights that was the city. And, each evening, as the city would come alive, she’d be reminded of the place that gave a feeling like no other, a place that allowed her to slip amongst all of its bustle and simply be.
For she had been thrust into a new world, one in which she was determined to make her own.
English Mr Mason
Year 9 English with Mr Mason designing a Shakespeare costume out of Newspaper
Mr Mason