Week 1 Writing Homework
Rewrite the first exemplars through INVERSION or CHANGING OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES. Ensure you use a unique narrative voice through quirky objects, mannerisms etc. (200 words each)
Slides: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1I4h1A0b1Y7eiFxULrb-HTp0xpyrrleen?usp=sharing
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- Due Date : October 21, 2025
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68 thoughts on “Week 1 Writing Homework”
piece 1:
I should have known the parcel wasn’t for me the moment I spotted my mother’s cursive signature flowing on the parchment cover. She had been dead for 7 and 13 days, which made receiving a letter from her either a miracle or clerical error. I’m not the sort of person lots of miracles happen to. I mean, it’s a possibility, just not what I would say is very likely. I’m the sort who likes to read each word in the dictionary VERY carefully along with checking expiry dates and making sure my books on the bookshelf are aligned in precise alphabetical order.
The package had been lying on the marble countertop for 2 days. I’ve walked past it seventeen times-I’ve counted-before finally opening it. My mother would have torn it open immediately, scattering the parchment and messily tied bow in the middle like confetti, swooning over whatever things that lay in its wake. I am not my mother. I inherited her dimples and her inability to whistle, but not her spontaneous joy.
When I finally slit the tape with a pocketknife (I couldn’t find the butter ones), I found a map. Not the regular ones that you buy from a store or the ones on your iPhone. It was a hand drawn map, with its edges crumbling like old bread, the ink faded but still whispering secrets. The hemming was embedded with glints of gold and silver, two turquoise basilisks intertwining through the yellowish page of parchment. The compass rose – which had a literal rose, that hadn’t decayed – was ethereal, shades of velvety maroon jumping at your eyes with a vague cocoa scent. Ferns curled in the corners beside mountains shaped like sleeping beasts.
It was the map of our town -the one both my mother and I had shared a childhood in. But not the one that co- existed. The one that existed in my mother’s eyes. With savage titles at the school ‘The Cage of Curriculum’ but magical headings for the lake like ‘The Splash Sanctuary’. I faintly smiled. Seems like my mother didn’t think the world was sunshines and rainbows after all. Each place that I only imagined as their proper name had become rethought, reimagined, rewritten, in a multiverse.
At the bottom, in her runny letters read. ‘For Amelia. This is the real town, the one you see is just an illusion, the cover. Love, your mother.’
I traced the rich ink of the roads, following it from ‘Home Sweet Home’ to the ‘Splash Sanctuary’. I’d walked there 107 times – I always kept track – not even noticing that the sunflowers bloomed in different directions or the flying squirrels that flew around at dusk. My mother had saw it. She’d seen every single little detail.
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WK1-Jo Gao
The package was for me, I was sure of it, but my dead father’s handwriting was on it, which dimmed my certainty. If it has my dad’s handwriting on it, it is sure to be mine, isn’t it? Maybe it was a shipping error or just a miracle. Yes! A miracle! That was sure to be the answer! I think miracles are something that happen to me often, like how I lost my dog in first grade and found it again a few days later, or how I always win board games and trivia nights with my old high school friends (Did you know lemons and limes are the the fruits with the most amount of citrus in them? Did you know that a pomegranate has up to 1400 seeds?）. But there was still a small hint of nervousness that was squashing out my flame of curiosity.
The box was on the kitchen floor-my counter was covered in mugs, plates and letters that I never opened, and my dining table was engulfed in letters that I had opened and never came back too. I paced back and forth, trying to count how many times, like my dad would, but lost count after two as my mind was drowned in many questions. Finally, I sat down, my undersized multicoloured craft scissors in hand and stabbed them in, ripping them through the cardboard. I flung packing peanuts away, sprinkling them over my kitchen floor until I found something.
Half of a map.
It wasn’t the maps that you bought from some corner store or the ones that your boring cousin gave you when you were going somewhere new.
It was a hand drawn map. It was my hand drawn map, half of it, at least.
I looked over at the one that my dad gave me so long ago of our town. It was pinned up on a cork board, stabbed above all the other notes that I placed there (and also never read). It was neatly printed, the building all perfect grey rectangles with labels on it, the trees and grass a normal, standard green. I looked down at my map. The grass was a dark blue (I lost my green crayon during school), scribbled on hastily with pencil, most of it white. The building were labelled, not in the same printed writing, but my writing, in year one.
‘Brother always here.’ The basketball court was labelled. I remembered the endless hours of watching my brother and his friends throwing a ball to each other and trying to get it in the hoop.
‘Boring.’ The library was labelled, and the memory of me, watching my father read a book about seeds flashed through my head.
‘Barney here??’ The park said, and I remembered seeing my dog wiggling out of his leash and running away. As I continued to read my map, my hand shuffled a little, and once I took it off, I realised there was graphite smudged onto it. I flipped the page over to see three words, the words slightly smudged.
‘-emember this, Amme?’
I smiled, walking over to pin the drawing on the corkboard, right next to the one dad gave me. I yanked out one of the pins that was already holding up a note and pinned it next to the normal map of my town. Some brushed against my foot and I looked down at it.
A ripped note was lying on my slipper, something taped onto it, covered in tiny words. I bent down to picked it up and read it.
‘Found your map from first grade. Do you remember sitting at the kitchen table with me, trying to do a school project? Figured you still don’t have a green crayon, so here.’ There was a small arrow pointing to a paper pouch so I tore it open, taking out a new green crayon. I continued reading with a smile. ‘Yeah, have you finished it yet? The project was to draw the map and label it, if you forgot. Hope you didn’t forget about this map. R-‘ I flipped the note and saw the second half of my map. I stood up, raising the map so it connected with the other piece. I quickly took off the pin from the other piece of the map, putting both of the pieces on the floor and grabbing some tape, hastily connecting the two pieces. I flipped the page over.
‘Remember this, Amme?‘ I pinned the map back onto the corkboard,
“Yes, dad.” I said, smiling ” I do remember.”
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WK1-Elisa Liu
piece 1
The Cartographers Son
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WK1-Guan Rui Chen
sorry i didn’t have too much time
The moment I saw the package at the steps of my now-gloomy house, I knew it couldn’t be for me. It was written completely in my Uncle John’s neat, cursive handwriting which could make anyone’s day, but he’d been dead for nearly two years up to this point. So, either this is a huge miracle, and the doctors somehow made an error, or it’s just a post mistake. And you can guess which one it probably is – I am not the kind of guy a lot of miracles tend to happen to. This package had been lying there on my kitchen counter for weeks, sitting there and sucking he happiness out of everything of a ten feet radius. I’ve walked past it about a thousand times now; I just can’t think why I really need it. Uncle John would have opened it at that very moment, hoping it was a letter from the council of his complaint of the neighbour’s flowers on his yard. Sadly, he’s not here anymore, and I would just leave it on the counter – hence, I did do that. I may have inherited a bit of his calmness through my dad’s side, but not his everlasting love for parcels. Finally, I decide to give it a shot. I grab the butter knife and cut open the box, revealing an amulet. But not just any amulet – this amulet was a special family heirloom, surviving 7 generations. My uncle inherited it from his mom when he grew up, but I never thought it would return to me. I turned the box upside down and found a note taped onto the box I hadn’t noticed before – For Mark. Continue the family. Don’t give up hope. Then I knew. All the huddled moments. The so-called ‘secrets’ Uncle John was keeping. I didn’t understand his vague letter too much, but I knew I better cherish the next few days, as my life was about to change.
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WK1-AryanR
I should have known that the letter wasn’t meant for me the moment I spotted my mum’s delicate handwriting in ink only available during 1834 December 12 5:30 to 9:30. It was a gift from her mum’s friends. It was either a miracle or a clerical mistake. My mother died 6 months 3 day and 12 hours ago and I’m not a person who believes in miracles. I’m the sort of person that reads every word in a receipt, keeps books in height and alphabetical order and arranges everything based on size and letters.
The package started getting dusty as it sat there on the kitchen table for 2 straight days. I walked and ran past it 28 and a half times (I was walking and I was halfway across the package and turned around) before opening it. My mother would have torn it into a septillion little pieces of paper like confetti flying around the house. When I finally opened it with a butter knife (I couldn’t find my butter knife) I saw a map of our town but not one that you could find at a shop. It was a town how my mother saw it. The library was named The Palace of infinite doors, The primary school was named academy of impossible questions. She reimagined and transformed this town. At the bottom it For Emma this is the real map the other ones just show you where things are.
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WK1-Kyle Hui
piece 2
The Organ Turner’s Apprentice
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WK1-Guan Rui Chen (1)
The message came on a Sunday, which always seemed like a graveyard day to me. Not the end of the week, not the beginning, just a stillness in between. My reels groaned as I spooled the tape. I hadn’t been used in years, not since smartphones took over. But someone had pressed play.
I didn’t recognize the voice at first. It had been two decades, after all. Voices shift with age, get gravelly or smooth over, depending on what life has squeezed out of them. But the way she said “hello,” like it was a window opening instead of a greeting, that was Sarah. No mistaking it.
“I’m dying,” she said, without hesitation. Just those words, like she was dropping them off at the curb. “Six months, maybe. I’m calling people I’ve wronged. You’re at the top of the list.”
The attic hummed. Dust swirled. A mouse sneezed in the insulation. Below, someone shuffled through boxes. I wanted to play the message again. Not for them. For me.
Sarah, who used to laugh right into my microphone. Sarah, who vanished mid-sentence one night. She thought she’d wronged them. But I remember. They stopped listening first.
I remember everything.
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WK1-Emma
A little brown package was at my door. I blinked rapidly as I didn’t think I had ordered anything
at all. I crouch down and then I let out a gasp. My heart pounded as I stared at the familiar
cursive. My mothers cursive. I sat there like a monk during their prayer session. Every limb of
my body was frozen. My mother got involved in a car accident a few months ago. That meant
she could not have sent me this. I think. Then a question clouded my head: Could it actually be
my mother or is this another prank from the neighbourhood teenage gang? (They toilet papered
my neighbour, Ms Anne’s house last week and she stood there screaming as the teenagers
cackled demonically.)
My eyes searched the street for any teenagers dying of laughter on the sidewalk. Nothing. As if
my hand had a mind of its own, my hands started unwrapping the package. Inside was a map
that had seen better days. I placed my hand on the velvety, ancient paper. I picked up the map
and read it. Different places in our small town had words on it. The lake read: Where we would
compete against each other on who can get the biggest fish. The library: Where we both slept
out of boredom. School: One word=torture. Then the worlds that made my whole word crumble.
Jewelry shop: Where we got necklaces that made a heart that joined.
I felt burning hot tears trickle down my face and land on the already fraying paper. Under all the
sadness. I smiled as I knew, my mother may be gone, but part of her still lives with me.
Scholarship writing week 1 term 4
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WK1-Marina Chen
I should’ve been able to deduce that the package wasn’t meant for me the second I saw my mother’s signature hastily scribbled on the tiny note above the box. My mother had been dead for 6 months, which made receiving mail from her either witchcraft or a calligrapher impersonating her to get to me. I’m not what I would consider a particularly important person, but this just gives me six more reasons to be paranoid, the latter of which I’m not bothered to explain. I’m the type of person to click the close button on the elevator twice just to make sure no one else enters and to watch tutorials on how to stay safe from assassinations.
The package had sat on my doorstep for 2 days, 21 hours and 36 seconds, even though I hadn’t checked my watch in almost a minute. I walked past it 17 times, but only 4 of those times I chose to actually look. My mother would have already ripped it open with no regard for the condition the package was in, and dug in like a wild animal to grab whatever the contents of the box were. I, Gordon Kent, am obviously not my mother. My mother was an erratic old fool. I am a depressed 21-year-old. I had inherited her blue eyes and weird fashion sense, but I didn’t inherit her apparent disregard for any sort of organisation whatsoever.
When I finally cut the package open with a pen (I couldn’t bother using one of my clean knives for cutting a cursed package), the inside was a map. A map. How pointless. And it wasn’t even the newspaper type I could use for wiping my feet when my towel was in the dry cleaner. It was the old, worn type, the type that couldn’t theoretically be used for anything else except the sole purpose of being a map. I sighed, forced to actually read the contents. Oh bother, this was also the type with the small doodles that represented each place. Sketchnoting didn’t work for me in high school; it’s not going to work now.
This just reminded me of how imaginative people can be, unlike me. The tiny roses illustrated to the dot in the garden, the sea monster in the lake, a dragon on top of the school, and a bunch of other things people find amusing and creative. I just find it annoying and useless. Yet I have to give a hatsoff to whoever’s impersonating my mother; they really captured her personality perfectly. I’m not saying my mother’s pointless; the mountains and buildings have a surprising amount of beauty and detail added, so much so I could almost imagine a multiverse where everything in the map is true, a utopia for my parents to live in peace alongside god. The problem is, I’m an atheist.
Oh yeah, I forgot. This was a map of our town. Yet, this looked so far from my town it could almost be Narnia, and I wouldn’t notice. I also forgot how bold and expressive my mother was. I used to be disgusted by it, but now at least she’s not shouting it at our family dinners. Every landmark was a buttload of mumbo jumbo, in what would be my mother’s words. I traced my eyeline carefully, moving around the key focal points just to prove I wasn’t under the influence of modern “psychology”. At the bottom of the page, it read, in the same wasteful pencil I told my mother countless times not to buy because there was a cheaper alternative, “For Gordon. I know you’re not me, but at least see this place from my perspective.”
I traced a line with my finger from “Our Beautiful Home” to “The Sea Creature’s Den”, or the lake across the street. I had walked down that path 79 times now, every time taking the best route around the old birch tree and straight across the grass. Yes, I have more regard for packaging than for government property. I went there simply to admire nature, as well as ponder how pointless life is. Yet I never noticed the pigeons would always congregate at a specific spot on the grass, or the violet pattern that I always stepped past. My mother had noticed. She’d notice everything.
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WK1-Cyrus Chan
I should have known the package wasn’t for me the moment my eyes spotted my mother’s cursive writing flowing impeccably on the cardboard cover. It was impossible, my mother has been dead for 6 months, which made recieving mail from her either a miracle or a clerical error. I examined the parcel closer. Signatures were carelessly scribbled in haste, and the stamps were yellowed and dried up, barely noticeable. I brushed my fingertips against the thick crinkled, cardboard – the corners were chipped, showing clear signs of wear and tear. I doubtfully stared at the package, perplexed how it had the right location and estimated delivery date printed on a smudged sticker. My organised mind rotated endlessly in circles, pondering about how this could potientally happen. Was it a miracle? I mean, it’s a possible, but it has never occured before to me and and is not very likely. Even if it was, I normally prepare myself for the worst. So I would say probably not. I’m not the sort of person lots of miracles happen to. I’m that perfectionist who likes to organise my room, sort my belongings in alpabetical order using folders, memorising expiry dates and ensuring that everything looks neat.
I left the parcel lying neglected on the marble table for 2 days. I walked past it precisely seventeen times – I counted – before my curiosity took control and made me open it. My mum would have torn it up immediately, scattering packing materials all over the room like confetti, covering up anything that laid in its grasp. I am nothing like my mother. Although I genetically inherited her dark brown hair and her inability to whistle, I don’t bear her spontaneous excitement.
When I finally slit the tape with a washed butter knife (I couldn’t find the package cutting ones), I found a map. It wasn’t any ordinary map – ones that you buy from a store or the ones you can download on your phones. It was a meticulously crafted hand-drawn map, with its ancient corners crumbling like rustic bread, the ink smudged and discoloured. Tiny illustrations filled up the margins: a compass rose that looked like a flower, a sea serpent coiled around the legend, mountains painted in such realistic detail that it appeared 3 dimensional – you could nearly feel their granite faces.
It was the map of our town. Not the one that exists now. This was the town both me and my mother experienced – the one which had the substanial, grand library which was labelled ‘The Palace of Infinite Doors,’ the park marked ‘The Nation of Flora,’ my primary school that me and my friends dubbed ‘The Polytechnic of Paradoxes. I realised – every landmark had been renamed, reimagined and metamorphosed into something otherworldly.
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WK1-Kingsley
yesss
Week 1 Schoarship Writing
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WK1-zhuyingdorahotmail-com
Here
Scholarly Wk1
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WK1-Tricia Yi
I should’ve guessed the parcel wasn’t mine when I saw Mum’s handwriting on the front. It was loopy and uneven, like she’d written it while walking. She’s been gone for seven years and some days—I forget the exact number—but getting mail from her felt weird. Like a mistake. Or maybe something magical. I don’t usually get magical things. I do get receipts, and I keep them all in a shoebox labeled “Important-ish.”
The package sat on the counter for a while. Two days, maybe three. I walked past it a bunch of times. I didn’t count properly, but it was a lot. Mum would’ve ripped it open straight away, probably with her fingernails. She never liked scissors. Said they were “too sharp for soft things.”
When I finally opened it (with a butter knife that was kind of sticky), there was a map inside. Not a normal one. It was hand drawn, kind of crumbly, with faded ink and weird little drawings. A rose was stuck in the corner. A real one. It smelled like chocolate and dust.
It was our town, but not really. The school was called “Homework Prison.” The lake was “Splashy Place.” I smiled, sort of. Mum saw things differently.
At the bottom it said:
“For Amelia. This is the real town. The one you see is just pretend. Love, Mum.”
I followed the roads with my finger. I’d walked them lots of times but never noticed the squirrels or the weird way the sunflowers leaned. Mum did.
She always did.
done
The cartographer’s daughter (rewritten Tanush’s way)
second writing completed:
The organ tuner’s aprentice (Tanush’s version)
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WK1-Tanush
When I saw the package I should have known it didn’t belong in my hands as soon as I saw my mother’s sloppy cursive handwriting. She had been dead for six months, which made receiving mail from her either some sort of error or an interesting phenomenon. Normally, miracles like this don’t occur when I’m around, because I’m the type of person who doesn’t eat something a minute over the expiry date, and keeps their house spotless and organized. I even keep all my important files in folders labeled in order of the dates I obtained them.
The package lay underneath my table waiting to be opened for hours. I made seven laps of laundry before I thought of opening the parcel. I thought of my mother, who would have ripped it open as soon as she saw it in the mail. The wrappers would be strewn across the kitchen counter until I came home and put them in the bin. I could imagine the smirk on her face as she scattered everything everywhere like a stray dog. I know that I was never like my mother. I may have gained her ability to think very logically, and her hazelnut brown hair, but not her capability to bring joy into every room she stepped into.
After I carefully ripped open the plastic sealing with my hands, a found a delicate map. However it was not regular, it was an intricately illustrated map, with symbols in the corners of the parchment paper. A rose that had floral patterns carved in it’s thorns, an octopus with tentacles that pointed in the directions of a compass. and some seaweed curled across the borders of the map. I traced my fingers across the soft paper, some patched lumpy which felt like paper once dipped in water.
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WK1-Tanisha
I winced as a high-pitched scream echoed through the little room which we were sitting in. I stared at the pipe. This wasn’t a usual out of pitched instrument for it war it sounded like a human, paper thin and lacking that musical tingle which you feel after hearing a wrong note being played. My master didn’t even move; he just tuned the organ and sighed. “D#, this usually happens, don’t worry,” his strained voice did not reassure me.
I had been working for him for almost a term which is long enough to know that no instruments scream. Alright, they occasionally produce noises that sound like dying crows. I turned to face him, ready to state my explanation, but I barely started talking before he stuck his finger in front of my mouth, signalling me to shut up. I listened for a few seconds, but nothing came. I sat up straight, ready to start speaking again, but another scream interrupted my sentence. This time I was surer of it. This was definitely human and was coming from the old, out of tune organ sitting in front of me. The roof of the great cathedral loomed over me, as if questioning my ability to interpret musical instruments. My master glanced at me, gesturing me to guess what happened with this ancient, dusty organ.
I thought the parcel was not for me the second I spotted my mother’s gothic cursive writing dancing on the parchment cover. She had been dead for 1 year now, which made receiving a parcel from her either a miracle, or a clerical error. I was not the sort of person who miracles would come across. There was a possibility of being one, just a 2/10 chance. I was the sort of woman whose papers, old receipts and books read months ago lay strewn, spilled all over the kitchen table.
I placed the package on top of a few worksheets and books. With a sigh, I sat on a croaky stool, staring at the parcel for 36 minutes. Lost in wonder and thought, I pondered what was inside. Suddenly, my fear dissolved and excitement took over, so I roughly tore it apart, leaving the parchment paper flying around like confetti. My mother would disapprove – she had OCD, and would get a butterknife, carefully slit open the tape and unwrap it cautiously, leaving the parchment paper in tact at the end of unwrapping. I inherited her sleek eyebrows, and her silky black hair which drooped to my hips. But I didn’t inherit her ever-lasting gloom, her love for moody black, her longing to be something other than a human; a vampire. She even got permanent vampire teeth to show her dedication towards them.
Exhilerated, I ripped it open and there was a chest box with the words OPEN ME etched on messily. Hesitantly, I creaked it open. Inside, there was a note, a dry yellowing map crinkled with with scarred edges and a new book, with a spooky silhouette standing under a full moon on its cover. I probably would never read it. I opened the map first. It was a map of our town. It wasn’t your ordinary map like on your phone, it was a dark, mysterious map with an eerie snake slithering around the compass, twisted, with each place in town named something else. The park was named ‘A land of much light’, my primary school ‘A sanctuary where darkness secretly dawns’. I grinned. Even though my mother was the complete opposite of me, I was still enjoying her map as much as I enjoyed the ice-cream parlour when I was six. ‘Blood orange, chocolate, cream’. That was her ice-cream order and the name of the ice-cream order. At the bottom, in her flow-y handwriting, read ‘go to the note’. So I did.
The note read: ‘For Amethyst, my dearest daughter, the map and the first copy of a book. From now, it will be launched around the world. The map is of our times together when I was here with you. You were always glittering, no matter what happened. Take the map, and go to the ice-cream parlour. Order my ice-cream. – Love, Mum.’ I never noticed the details she did. How my school had a random statue of the principal hidden amongst trees, hwo the ice-cream parlour always had – always, no matter what, an odd number of people. Looking the map, memories came flooding back. Clouds faded away; flowers bloomed; I smiled at the box, map, note and book.
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WK1-Chloe Chan
There, a package for me, at least that was I thought. I skimmed over it too see anything weird. There in such a beautiful handwriting my mother had wrote, which changed my certainty. This wasn’t a coincidence or any mistake or was it. It definitely had to be a coincidence. These coincidences didn’t happen occasionally; it felt like to happened to me all time. Whether it is me and friend going to same area for a holiday or us wearing the same shoes. I had never touched or seen this package ever since, it was laying there for 5 days. I have been walking past it every day, thinking when I should open it.
My mother would’ve gone crazy seeing this, she would tear it up like a lion, or threw it across the room several times, cuddling every day. Doing whatever she wants to do with it. I could imagine it all with her exaggerated face. I had her genes of being smart and quirky, but I didn’t have her happiness.
I finally built up the courage to take a tiny peek into the package. I got a butter knife (couldn’t find anything else better) and gently cut through the tape, curious to see what was inside. I peeked and saw drawing. I couldn’t control my curiosity and had to open it fully. I was shocked. A map teared in the corner. It wasn’t one of those maps you would find in local store or plaza. It was a hand drawn one that I had made in my childhood.
It was modified and had a lot of tweaks. It had a compass, drawings, and labels. The compass was a vintage one from the 1800s inherited from my great-great grandfather. The drawings were carefully drawn with exquisite and exclusive pens. The labels were all … true. Places from my childhood that I remember.
It was the map of my city. It was the one for a special project my mother gave me- to map out the entire city without any resources. I had not completed this project, but it looks like my mother put the cherry on top. It had familiar headings like Goulburn, Hawkesbury, and Sydney. I smiled, with a picture in my mind seeing me try to map the city.
In the corner, was her writing and it read. ‘Remember this. This is our childhood city, the one that they have it other maps is nothing compared to this. I love you, Jacob.’
An image went through my mind, remembering all the memories I had with my loving mother. All the times we tried to work on this map. All the times she tried her best to help and raise me as child. My mum was my true self.
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WK1-Varoon
I saw it at 7:42 a.m. Brown paper, folded tight, taped like someone cared about corners. It was sitting on the black countertop, dead center, like it had been measured into place. The handwriting was hers. My sister’s. She’s been gone three years. I didn’t touch it. I walked past it 31 times. Once with coffee, once with wet hair, once just to see if I could ignore it. I couldn’t.
Miracles don’t happen to me, they’re fake, deceiving little lies to sustain your happy life, when they’re really just temporary repairs to cope. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I opened the fridge and stared at the eggs. I checked the locks. I checked the timestamp on my security camera, even though I don’t believe in cameras. I didn’t find anything.
I thought about opening it. I didn’t. I made toast. Ate it slowly. I kept looking at the package like it owed me something. I took a photo. I didn’t send it. I didn’t want opinions. I wanted proof. I wanted to know who knew her handwriting well enough to fake it. I wanted to know why they’d send it to me, and why today. I wanted a reason that didn’t involve ghosts or breakdowns.
Eventually, I sat down across from it. I said, “If this is real, I’ll deal with it tomorrow.” I said, “If it’s fake, I’ll deal with it tomorrow.” I didn’t open it. I didn’t throw it away. I just left it there, untouched, like a question I wasn’t ready to answer. I turned off the lights and left the room. I didn’t look back.
At 11:03 p.m., I came back. I didn’t plan to. I just ended up there. I picked it up. It was heavier than I expected. I opened it slowly, like it might bite. Inside: a photo of us, taken from behind, recent—me at the sink, her silhouette in the window. A note in her handwriting: I’m watching you. No date. No explanation. I stared at it for a long time. Then I put it back in the envelope, taped it shut again, and placed it exactly where I found it. I haven’t slept.
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WK1-Summer
I should have known the package wasn’t meant for me the moment I saw my mother’s delicate scowl. She’d been dead for six months, 2 weeks and 5 days which made receiving mail from her either a miracle or a mistake able to be solved by double checking. I’m not the sort of person miracles happen to. I’m the sort who has lousy luck in lotteries, wears sunglasses during night and triple checks everything to the exact number.
The package sat like a surveillance camera on the kitchen counter for two days, watching my every movement. I walked past it 57 times in the last few days before I opened it. Like a starved dog seeing bacon my mother would have dived into it immediately. Cardboard and tape go flying like confetti while she digs and then exclaims over whatever treasure lay inside. I am not my mother. If our joy were packed into jam bottles, my joy would only fill a miserable tenth but my mum’s will hold an entire ocean supertanker. On the other hand my carefulness will fill the same ocean supertanker but mothers will only fill the same tenths of a jar.
When I finally slit the tape with the biggest knife I could find (I couldn’t find the scissors or any more knives), I found a map. Not any old map like the kind you buy at petrol stations for two dollars. This was hand-drawn on thick paper that felt like fabric.
It was a map of our town. But not the town as it exists. This was the town as my mother viewed it: the pond labelled “The Home of Infinite Fishes,” the zoo marked “The Kingdom of Crazy Monkeys,” my primary school designated “The Academy of Impossible Questions.” Every landmark had been renamed, reimagined, transformed into something magical. I smiled at the thought of my mothers imagination.
At the bottom, in her familiar script: “For Emma. This is the real map. The other one just shows you where things are but not the spiritual connection to it.”
I traced the ink painted streets with my finger, following familiar paths from our house to the Kingdom of Crazy Monkeys. I’d walked that route 1538 times (I always count), always taking the most efficient path with my head down looking at my feet counting the steps I take. I admitted guiltily that I never noticed that the 37 oak trees provided shade that otherwise would have scorched the bushes or that Count Olaf’s garden had wilted long ago under the consistent heat. My mother had noticed. She’d noticed everything. Then included every single detail onto the map.
I should have known the package wasn’t meant for me the moment I saw my mother’s delicate scowl. She’d been dead for six months, 2 weeks and 5 days which made receiving mail from her either a miracle or a mistake able to be solved by double checking. I’m not the sort of person miracles happen to. I’m the sort who has lousy luck in lotteries, wears sunglasses during night and triple checks everything to the exact number.
The package sat like a surveillance camera on the kitchen counter for two days, watching my every movement. I walked past it 57 times in the last few days before I opened it. Like a starved dog seeing bacon my mother would have dived into it immediately. Cardboard and tape go flying like confetti while she digs and then exclaims over whatever treasure lay inside. I am not my mother. If our joy were packed into jam bottles, my joy would only fill a miserable tenth but my mum’s will hold an entire ocean supertanker. On the other hand my carefulness will fill the same ocean supertanker but mothers will only fill the same tenths of a jar.
When I finally slit the tape with the biggest knife I could find (I couldn’t find the scissors or any more knives), I found a map. Not any old map like the kind you buy at petrol stations for two dollars. This was hand-drawn on thick paper that felt like fabric.
It was a map of our town. But not the town as it exists. This was the town as my mother viewed it: the pond labeled “The Home of Infinite Fishes,” the zoo marked “The Kingdom of Crazy Monkeys,” my primary school designated “The Academy of Impossible Questions.” Every landmark had been renamed, reimagined, transformed into something magical. I smiled at the thought of my mothers imagination.
At the bottom, in her familiar script: “For Emma. This is the real map. The other one just shows you where things are but not the spiritual connection to it.”
I traced the ink painted streets with my finger, following familiar paths from our house to the Kingdom of Crazy Monkeys. I’d walked that route 1538 times (I always count), always taking the most efficient path with my head down looking at my feet counting the steps I take. I admitted guiltily that I never noticed that the 37 oak trees provided shade that otherwise would have scorched the bushes or that Count Olaf’s garden had wilted long ago under the consistent heat. My mother had noticed. She’d noticed everything. Then included every single detail onto the map.
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WK1-rockyli
EXAMPLE 1
I gulped in regret. After tearing up a package with my dead mother’s tidy handwriting, I have just realised that the package probably wasn’t for me. But I‘m not the sort of person who reads instructions or follows them anyway. I’m the sort that daydreams all the time and always bursts out laughing for no reason.
The half opened package sat on the kitchen counter for two days. I walked past it a few times before I opened it. My mother would have split the tape delicately with scissors, an expressionless face staring at whatever lay in the package. I am not my mother. I inherited her dark hair and her inability to whistle, but not her way of being a neat freak.
Finally, I couldn’t resist but ripped the rest of the wrapping off. I found a map. Not a regular map, the kind you buy at petrol stations or download on your phone.This was hand-drawn on thick paper that felt smooth and silky, with tiny illustrations on the sides: a compass drawn in a perfect circle, a stack of books next to the legend, mountains rendered in such detail you could almost feel their granite faces. I didn’t know my mother could be that artistic.
EXAMPLE 2
The pipe screamed. Not the usual discord of an out-of-tune organ pipe, but an actual scream-high, thin, and unmistakably human. I glanced at Master Cornelius. He didn’t flinch. He simply adjusted his tuning fork. My tense expression relaxed. Bright Christmas lights hung around the cathedral ceiling. The air smelled faintly of organic flowers left too long in a vase. Cornelius made a note in his leather-bound journal, and said, ”C-sharp. As I suspected.”
I’d been his apprentice for three months, long enough to know that organ pipes don’t scream. They whistle, they wheeze,they occasionally produce sounds like dying cattle,but they don’t scream. I tried to assure myself it was just an accident and nothing would happen. Afterall, only this morning had I felt that nothing could stop me. But it had.I opened my mouth but Cornelius silenced me with a raised finger.
“Listen,”he commanded.
I listened. The great cathedral organ towered over us in the cheerful light, its thousands of pipes ranging from pencil-thin whistles to massive bronze columns thick as tree trunks.
The scream was back. Definitely C-sharp. Definitely human. Definitely coming from somewhere deep within the organ’s wooden case.
A voice broke the silence.
“The cathedral organist disappeared in 1847.”
Week 1 writing attached
week 1 HW
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WK1-Westley Yao
I should have known that the package wasn’t for me. I desperately wanted to know what that was. I stopped and looked a it, the writing looked familiar. I inspected the note and got something to eat and went to the sofa desperate to open the crispy box sitting there patiently. I walked past it about 30 times now sometimes with food and sometimes just curiously staring at the box. At the end I couldn’t resist the temptation and opened the box carefully with a butter knife.
Inside was toys, books, pictures and a map that looks like one that is not found across the shops but one that was seen by someone in a different way. It looked exactly like town we live in. The library was called The Palace Of Infinite Doors, the school was called the academy of impossible questions this how my mother saw the town. She noticed the purple flowers that I walked past at least 20 times and I never noticed it. The picture looked one that I remember seeing around the house that I drew before. The picture was carefully placed in the box. She noticed everything.
I closed my eyes as the high-pitched echoed through the room that I was in. I glared at the pipe after I opened my eyes. I looked at Master Cornelius. He didn’t move. I was getting frustrated.Then he told me to play C# but still no other word said.
I have already been playing for long enough to know that organ pipes don’t screech or scream. I needed ask him something but he was face was showing that he wanted me to listen to him. I played C# but a loud high pitched-screech came back. Was this normal? I started to wonder. I stared back to the instrument. I spotted a small group of dust on the side of the pipe clinged on. Well ,Master Cornelius did not say anything yet. I kept on playing to see if it would screech again while staring at the group of dust.
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WK1-Ariana Huang
Aarin Basu’s writing for both exemplars attached here
Week 1 Text 2 Scholarly
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WK1-Anirbasu
I should have known the parcel wasn’t meant for me when I saw the neat cursive handwriting written on the side of the parcel. She had been dead for 6 months and a week (which I believe is quite a long time), which made receiving such a large parcel from her was either simply a miracle or a clerical error. I’m not the sort of person miracles happen to. I’m the sort of person who checks the expiration date of a snack every 2 days, reads instruction manuals 24 times a day, and arranges my books in a perfect alphabetical order.
The package had been on the kitchen counter for 3 days. I walked past it 23 times—I counted—before I opened it. My mother would have torn open the box immediatly, scattering contents like packing peanuts, styrofoam blocks and other sorts of items. She would then be exclaiming over what she had been sent before sending a three hundred word,’Thank You’, letter showing her gratitude. I am not my mother. I may have inherited her jet black hair and inability to click her fingers but not her ability to show a vast capacity of spontaneous joy.
When I finally decided to slit the tape with half a scissor(I couldn’t find a knife or a butter knife), I neatly Moved the packing peanuts into a blue bucket I had grabbed just before. The huge cardboard box merely had a singular item. A map. Not a regular map like the kind you find at petrol stations and download on your newly acquired IPhone 17 Pro Max. No. Not at all like any of those. It was hand-drawn on a thick sheet that seemed like silk but slightly stiffer, with tiny illustrations in the margins: a compass rose that looked like a maroon flower, a sea serpent coiled around the legend and mountains rendered in such exquisite detail you could almost feel their slate faces. It was a map of our village. But not the Village I see out the window. The Village as my mum saw it: the museum labelled,’Palace of Ben history,’ the park marked, ’Town of Nature,’ my primary school I used to go to was dubbed the Hall of Unsolvable Puzzles. Every landmark had been given a new name, reimagined and recreated into a mystical world.
At the bottom in her unforgettable script:”For Emma. This is the Real world. The other only tells locations.” I traced my finger along the way from the Town Of Nature to home and saw so many secrets revealed. I never had noticed that the books on display outside of Dimmy’s Book World made a rainbow with their covers. I never realized that the curtains at old uncle John’s window were closed daily at 9:46 at the 53 second. I never saw these things but my mother did. She’s noticed everything.
I should have known the parcel wasn’t meant for me when I saw the neat cursive handwriting written on the side of the parcel. She had been dead for 6 months and a week (which I believe is quite a long time), which made receiving such a large parcel from her was either simply a miracle or a clerical error. I’m not the sort of person miracles happen to. I’m the sort of person who checks the expiration date of a snack every 2 days, reads instruction manuals 24 times a day, and arranges my books in a perfect alphabetical order.
The package had been on the kitchen counter for 3 days. I walked past it 23 times—I counted—before I opened it. My mother would have torn open the box immediately, scattering contents like packing peanuts, Styrofoam blocks and other sorts of items. She would then be exclaiming over what she had been sent before sending a three hundred word,’ Thank You’, letter showing her gratitude. I am not my mother. I may have inherited her jet black hair and inability to click her fingers but not her ability to show a vast capacity of spontaneous joy.
When I finally decided to slit the tape with half a scissor (I couldn’t find a knife or a butter knife), I neatly Moved the packing peanuts into a blue bucket I had grabbed just before. The huge cardboard box merely had a singular item. A map. Not a regular map like the kind you find at petrol stations and download on your newly acquired iPhone 17 Pro Max. No. Not at all like any of those. It was hand-drawn on a thick sheet that seemed like silk but slightly stiffer, with tiny illustrations in the margins: a compass rose that looked like a maroon flower, a sea serpent coiled around the legend and mountains rendered in such exquisite detail you could almost feel their slate faces. It was a map of our village. But not the Village I see out the window. The Village as my mum saw it: the museum labelled,’Palace of Ben history,’ the park marked, ’Town of Nature,’ my primary school I used to go to was dubbed the Hall of Unsolvable Puzzles. Every landmark had been given a new name, reimagined and recreated into a mystical world.
At the bottom in her unforgettable script:”For Emma. This is the Real world. The other only tells locations.” I traced my finger along the way from the Town Of Nature to home and saw so many secrets revealed. I never had noticed that the books on display outside of Dimmy’s Book World made a rainbow with their covers. I never realized that the curtains at old uncle John’s window were closed daily at 9:46 at the 53 second. I never saw these things but my mother did. She’s noticed everything.
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WK1-huashang66
The Cartographer’s Daughter Version 2:
Mother, what is this mysterious package sitting on the kitchen table? I feel a little tremor of trepidation, as if it has a heart of its own.
Mother, I am scared. I am terrified. Its gaze is so strong and threatening, yet I feel my mind and hands pulling closer to the tape out of curiosity.
Mother, help. I am not you. No, I have not inherited anything except your brown hair and your ability to whistle like a delicate bird. My anxiety has only deepened, and my pile of alphabetical ordered receipts are still in my drawer, dust gathering around the surface.
Happiness is strong, Mother, but not strong enough to keep you alive.
I shall open the package. I must open the package. It has stayed there long enough, no, beyond long. It has stayed there for two days, but the box’s anchor of stubbornness is not moving. I’m sorry, but I will open it.
I will use the butterknife you so dearly cherished, because the scissors could not be found. I will cut open the tape with caution, but I promise, your butterknife won’t be broken. It will still gleam with elegance, and its smile would not change one sparkle.
I’ve opened it. Everything has gone just as I pictured it would be like. The butterknife still lies on the table, sunbathing under the dappled sunlight seeping through the moth-eaten curtains.
But what did I find Mother? I found a map like no other. Its paper’s texture is soft, almost imitating a piece of fabric. What does it say? Hmmm…. Oh!
The Palace of Infinite Doors.
At the bottom, you wrote something I have read it.
“For Emma. This is the real map. The other one just shows you where things are.”
Mother! You drew this! What fine skills you have!
But I am sorry. Mother, this is not the real town, didn’t you know? I am not the one who noticed that Mrs Hendersons garden bloomed in a coloured sequence, or that the trees perfectly formed a holy arch. You have noticed every single detail, yet I am still walking through a route 13 times.
This is how you saw our town in your eyes, a paradise. Now I see it too. It has been waiting for me on this ink-stained map.
Freedom.
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WK1-Tina Y
I should have known that the parcel wasn’t meant for me the moment I saw my mother’s neat but rushed handwriting, the unmistakable handwriting of my mother. It felt unnerving to see an instance of my mom – she had died two years ago, so it was either a miracle or a serious error. I decided that neither was likely; serious errors rarely happened, and I am never the person that miracles happen to. I’m the sort who cleans my room when I am bored and keeps everything I possess in a neat, ordered fashion.
The parcel had been sitting on the ebony countertop for three days – I had walked past it 38 times and considered opening it 29 times – I had counted – before I decided to open it. My mother would have quickly opened the box, shredding the packaging and leaving tiny scraps on cardboard lying idly on the floor like leftover confetti, but I am not my mother. I inherited her hazel eyes and her quick thinking, but not her capacity for spontaneous joy.
I didn’t know where the scissors had gone, so I carefully slitted the duct tape with a kitchen knife (it was the closest thing to a scissor I could see), and the tape was cut cleanly in half as if it were made of butter.
Inside the packaging was a parchment. Unrolling it, I brushed my fingers over the rough, leathery texture of the parchment. It turned out to be a map, not a regular map like the ones on GPS maps or the ones you get on brochures, but the old-fashioned map, like the one Captain Cook made when he voyaged around Australia.
This was hand-drawn on cartography paper, and the first thing I noticed were the detailed decorations: The scrawly words: for Annie, a compass shaped like a four-leafed clover, A sea serpent coiling itself around the scale and the key as if it were guarding it. mountains rendered in the distance, illustrated with such detail you could almost feel their granite faces and rough rock cliffs.
It was a map of our town, but this map was from my mother’s perspective. Her cartography workshop was labelled as ‘The Room of World Creation’, my school labelled as ‘The Academy of High Expectations’. Every aspect of our neighbourhood had been reimagined and transformed into something mythical.
At the back of the map, I realised my mother had left a note for me. It read: “For Annie: This is the real map. The rest are just guides to where things are.”
As I scrutinised the map more, I noticed more and more. The way the oak trees had grown together, making an arch overhead, the way our school had playgrounds of different themes, the way the roads were built in a criss-cross pattern. She had noticed everything.
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WK1-Zac Cui
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Scholarship Writing Week 1
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WK1-melodyc
I didn’t expect a package. I should have known it wasn’t for me especially because it was coloured brightly and tied with ribbon the colour of ruby red. But the handwriting on the front stopped me cold: a familiar cursive loop, unruly in places, unmistakably hers.
My mother had been dead for thirteen years, 3 months and 14 days. It simply wasn’t possible.
There are names for things like this—hoaxes, hallucinations, grief playing tricks—but none of them felt right. I wasn’t the sort of person who trusted tricks. Or feelings. I alphabetized my books by title and genre. I carried a stain-remover pen in my bag. I liked things neat, named, and preferably non-surprising.
It felt like a miracle, but it couldn’t be. It wasn’t that miracles didn’t happen to me. It just, a miracle happening to me is statistically hard. But what if my mother is still alive in heaven, being the happy person, she is. I pushed the thought out of my head. The uncertainty was too big for science, so it was definitely too big for me.
I left the parcel untouched for 2 weeks and 5 days. Walked past it. Watched it from corners of the room like it might blink or whisper. My mother would have opened it without a doubt, even if someone told her there was a snake inside. But I’m not like my mother. Sure, I’ve inherited her blue eyes and blonde hair but I’m more like my father on the inside. I’m proud to be the son of Albert Einstein but not so much Elsa Einstein. One hundred and seventeen passes before I finally opened it, with a letter-opener that had never seen real use.
Inside was a map.
Not digital, not folded from a tourist stand, not even something you could buy at a dusty old bookshop. This was something else entirely.
Its parchment was soft and brittle, like it had been exhaled by time. The edges were stitched with gold thread, and two serpents—turquoise and coiled—slid through the margin like they were alive beneath the ink. A compass rose bloomed in the corner, an actual rose, dried but still fragrant, held in the paper like pressed memory.
And the map… it was my town. But not the one I knew. Not the one I had walked through a thousand times with grocery lists and earbuds and thoughts of scientific equations and the theory of relativity. No. This was a town made of story and shimmer. A story and shimmer that could only be produced by my mother.
The school I once trudged through was renamed: The Cage of Curriculum.
The lake where I’d dropped my phone in eighth grade: The Splash Sanctuary.
Even the streets had different names—stranger ones. Braver ones.
It was her town.
Her version of it.
The one she must have walked through quietly, re-naming everything the way children name clouds.
At the bottom, in ink that wavered like breath, she’d written:
“For Margot. This is the real town. The one you see is just the cover. Love, your mother.”
I didn’t cry. That’s not who I am.
Instead, I stared. I traced the route from Home Sweet Home to The Splash Sanctuary with a fingertip. I’d walked that path so many times. Never once noticed the sunflowers bending both east and west. Never heard the squirrels’ wings rustling the dusk.
She had. She always had.
All my life, I thought she didn’t take things seriously. That she lived in dreams while I lived in days. But maybe she saw more. Maybe she saw through.
Maybe she left this for me not to follow a path, but to open my eyes.
I folded the map with care. No rush. No grand decision. Just the quiet sense that something had shifted.
Tomorrow, I might walk to the lake again.
Not to go anywhere.
Just to see what I missed.
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WK1-Aarav
I doubted the parcel was for me the second I spotted my mother’s gothic cursive writing dancing on the parchment cover. She had been dead for 1 year now, which made receiving a parcel from her either a miracle, or a clerical error. I was not the sort of person who came across miracles. I was the sort of woman whose papers, old receipts and books read months ago lay strewn, spilled all over the kitchen table.
I placed the package on top of a few worksheets and books. With a sigh, I sat on a croaky stool, staring at the parcel for 36 minutes while the clock tick-tocked in the background. Lost in wonder and thought, I pondered what was inside. Suddenly, my fear dissolved and excitement took over, so I roughly tore it apart, leaving the parchment paper flying around like confetti. My mother would disapprove, and would get a butterknife, carefully slit open the tape and unwrap it cautiously, leaving the parchment paper intact at the end of unwrapping.
I inherited my mum’s sleek eyebrows, and her silky black hair which drooped to my hips. But I didn’t inherit her ever-lasting gloom, her love for moody black, her longing to be something other than a human; a vampire.
Exhilarated, I ripped the packaging open and there was a chest box with the words OPEN ME etched on messily. Hesitantly, I creaked it open. Inside, there was a note, a dry yellowing map crinkled with scarred edges and a new book, with a spooky silhouette standing under a full moon on its cover. I probably would never read the book.
I opened the map first. It was a map of our town. It wasn’t your ordinary map like on your phone, it was a dark, mysterious map with an eerie snake slithering around the compass, twisted, with each place in town named something else. The park where she used to push me down a slide, acting like she was unhappy and claimed I enjoyed it too much was named ‘A land of much light’, my primary school where no matter what she had on, always went to each event ‘A sanctuary where darkness secretly dawns’. I grinned. Even though my mother was the complete opposite of me, I was still enjoying her map as much as I enjoyed going to the ice-cream parlour when I was six. At the bottom, in her flow-y handwriting, read ‘go read the note’. So I did.
The note read: ‘For Amethyst, my dearest daughter, the map and the first copy of a book I think you will like. From now, it will be launched around the world. The map is of our times together when I was here with you. You were always glittering, no matter what happened. Take the map, and go to the ice-cream parlour. Order my ice-cream. – Love, Mum.’ I never noticed the details she observed. How my school had a random statue of the principal hidden amongst trees, how the ice-cream parlour always had – always, no matter what, an odd number of people. Looking the map, memories came flooding back from our fun times together when I was younger.
The clouds faded away; flowers bloomed; I smiled at the box, map, note and book, knowing I would keep them forever.
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WK1-Chloe Chan 5.51.40 PM
I should have know the parcel wasn’t mine the minute I glanced at the spirally handwriting on the almost faded brown box. She’d been dead for six months already making receiving anything from her was either a miracle or error. I’m definitely not a person that is fortunate enough to be granted anything. I always am the person that stores things in the right order that suits me.
The parcel sat on the counter for two days. I walked right by it 17 times before deciding that it was time for me to open it. My mother would have for sure just torn it right through, possibly even breaking something inside through all the fun she was having. I did not inherit joy through my mother everything else except joy the full amount of joy that my mother had was not in my personality.
After an hour of trying to look for a pair of scissors I decided to use a knife which I found on the floor of the dining room. I finally got the chance to cut open the thick layer of duct tape covering the seal of the box I opened it and revealed a large box. Not any box. One that mother had received years ago but never opened or touched. I thought that this was very unlike her she is always so excited when we get mail but this one time we got it she put it high in the attic never to be seen again. Carefully lifting the parcel I looked through the packing peanuts to see what else there was inside. I found a thin slip of paper. On it, it read: Dear Emma your mother has asked for me to give this to you. It wasn’t signed so the note looked especially mysterious.
I opened the package and peered inside. Inside of it was a ball of fluff. I had no Idea why someone would post this but then I remembered that once mother and I had a kitten that died. This was one of it’s toys that it used to play with. I choked back tears remembering the tragic death of our kitten, pepper. One second he had crossed the road the next second a car had come speeding towards him then he was never to be seen again. I now know why mother never wanted to open the parcel. It was such a tearful memory. I looked deeper into the packing peanuts and found another ball of fluff with another message next to it. It read: Dear Emma, your aunt bought you this kitten two months ago like I asked in my will. Please keep it in memory of pepper. Love mother. I nearly cried of joy I didn’t even know that mother knew I wanted a kitten. She had realised and granted a wish. It is only now that I realise how much I miss my mother. I should have been grateful for all that she has done. Now that I have a kitten I will always, always care for it and now I will remember my mother forever.
There was a loud squeal. Not a normal one, of a violin out of tune. It was definitely a scream of a living thing. Master didn’t even flinch. He just simply adjusted the tuning pegs and also made a note in his journal saying, “C sharp exactly as I thought.”
I’d been in his apprentice for three months, long enough for me to know that violins never make that sound. They make lots of different sounds but they definitely don’t scream. I opened my mouth to tell Master but instead he silenced me with a quick swipe of his hand. I opened my mouth to protest but he then ignored me completely.
“Listen up,” He instructed.
Immediately, I listened. The violin casted shadows making me want to scream in the eerie dark glow. The air smelled of dust and something else. The smell was vaguely familiar but I just could recall what the smell was from.
Once again I heard a high pitched squeal. I spun on my heel, my new shoes squeaked and to my surprise I found nothing. The sound was for sure D flat. For sure the sound was human. It had a high sound but the deepness of a male’s voice coming from deep inside the violin or it’s case.
“The orchestras violinist disappeared in 1802,” Master said matter of factly running his slim fingers along the violin strings. “They found his violin in his house but nothing else was there. Many thought that he had been murdered and his ghost haunts this very place today.”
“This is your first lesson,” Master said staring at us with his luminescent green eyes that are definitely much like a black cats on halloween. “ you must learn that every instrument has it’s own unique identity. They may look the same but the deep truth is that every instrument is different wether it is it’s voice or it’s looks.”
I could visibly see my hands shaking, and it was definitely not from the snowy landscape outside. This was not what the apprenticeship magazine page had described, but then, it had mentioned “a uniqueness in it’s teaching” and “experience with antique instruments.” Maybe this is the unique type of teaching they mentioned?
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WK1-Stefanie
It was a dull day, and I was sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying my fried eggs and bacon. After breakfast, I stepped outside to check the mailbox. Most of the contents were just house payment notices and other financial letters, but at the very bottom of the pile, I found a box. It had my mother’s handwriting on it. I picked them all up and dropped them all except for the last one on the table. I sat down and inspected it.
A few months ago, the hospital messaged me, notifying me that my mother’s health had decreased drastically, and she passed away. I knew this was fake, or it was her request when she was in the hospital for it to be passed down to me.
I paced back and forth, thinking about what to do. After a couple of minutes, I decided to go grab a pair of scissors and slit the package open. It was all in my mother’s handwriting. There were two pieces of parchment, one with the map of our town, and another with the map of our town, but everything was labelled differently. I looked through every landmark, and saw that the town landfill was called The Rejected Amazon Returns Refuge, the police station was The Department of Tactical Yelling, the local fire station was labelled Guardian of Fire, the school was labelled The Academy of Uncommon Sense, and the Shopping Mall was labelled The Gas Station that sells about everything but GAS.
I smiled at my mum’s imagination; she was the best, and always will be. I would never forget her.
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WK1-Jayden Pan
The pipe let out a scream—not a mechanical wail, but a clear, cry. It was unmistakeably a C-sharp. And unmistakeably human. Master Cornelius didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled faintly, almost as if he’d been waiting for it.
“I knew it,” he whispered, raising a tuning fork that shimmered oddly in the dim light. “C-sharp. But it’s more than just a note. It’s the note.”
I’d been his apprentice for three months, but this was nothing I’d ever imagined. Organ pipes don’t scream. They hiss, wheeze, and sometimes mimic the faint moans of dying cattle. Yet here I was, listening to a voice trapped deep within the instrument’s wooden frame.
I had signed up for historical experiences that will change your life. I supposed this counted.
“Listen closely,” Cornelius said, his eyes gleaming. “The organ holds memories. Secrets.”
The scream came again, louder now, almost pleading. I leaned closer, heart pounding. The air smelled thick—dust, beeswax, and something else, something ancient and alive.
Suddenly, the pipe shifted in Cornelius’s hand. Not wood, but flesh. Warm and pulsing.
“The organist never disappeared,” Cornelius said, voice low and steady. “He became part of the instrument. Bound by a curse—one that sings through these pipes.”
Before I could react, the pipe twisted, and a cold hand shot out from its hollow. I stumbled back, eyes wide. The scream turned into a whisper: “Help me.”
Cornelius met my gaze, calm as ever. “Your apprenticeship begins now. Will you free the voice, or silence it forever?”