Week 1 Writing Homework
- September 1, 2024
- 5:14 pm
- 13 Comments
WRITING HOMEWORK : The photograph fell from the old book, revealing a face I hadn’t seen in years and memories I thought I had forgotten. (400 words)
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13 thoughts on “Week 1 Writing Homework”
The photograph fell from the old book, revealing a face I hadn’t seen in years and memories I thought I had forgotten…
In the unbroken stillness of the lofty old attic, the dusty aroma of ancient things fills the air. As the curtain is drawn back, sunlight pours in from the petite window, casting shadows that make me shudder. My breath hastens as my fingers grasp the spine of a forgotten album. A photograph, with colours muted, drifts from the pages, landing gently on my lap. The image, a unremembered tapestry of forgotten faces and places beckoned to me, inviting me into join it in a world suspended in time.
The faces of the photograph, though frozen in time, told of a time, where positivity was woven through the family. There was my grandfather, a leader of resilience, his expression reflecting endless wisdom of determination and success. Next to him stood my grandmother, captured in a moment of limitless joy, eyes a beacon of love and kindness, her elegant smile silently conveying extreme happiness and satisfaction. And with them stood me, and my loving parents, eyes gleaming with joyousness.
As I gaze at the optimistic faces, the photograph beckons to me, letting me embrace the melody of nostalgia. It whispered of strong connections, a celebration of the lineage that spanned through boundless generations, leaving behind a priceless mosaic of memories, each memory a part of my own existence.
The photograph, a reminder of reconciliation, smoothed the old wounds, reconnecting the love and kindness of our hearts. Weaving together lessons from the past into the present, I begin reaching out, solving the broken tapestry of reunion, and painting a new, strong relationship bridging the silence between hearts. And each memory has transformed into a beacon of light, illuminating my life.
As the photograph returns to its place in the pages, the echoes of positivity and connection remains. The journey through time, led by the still photograph was not merely a simple relic of the past, but rather a guide for the future. Its vital lessons were a testament to the bond of shared relationships and experiences, which will always remain a cherished valuable in the centre of my soul. In that moment of exploration, I realised that a photograph can be more than a picture; it can be a gentle reminder that every moment is valuable, and it can be a compass, slowly guiding you through the labyrinth of your own existence.
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Nancy Wang
One dull, stormy day the heart of our tired living room tried to last another minute of pure torture. Everybody got a job and out of all the jobs, I got “clean the attic”. The chore was nothing in comparison to anything you hated. You had to dust cobwebs, wear a mask to prevent you from getting a disease, organizing items and it was an
”all-you-can-sneeze buffet”. It was a pattern until I saw something shiny, glimmering in the pile. It was a dusty book, fragile and ancient with a golden spine, made of oak wood. The first thing in my 35-year life that was in an attic that impressed me. Pictures inside the book sprang to life, welcoming me and without hesitation, I flipped to the very first page of the forgotten book. There, laid a single photograph.
I took out a photo from which I figured out was an album. The smooth, thin, single piece of paper stood out the children beaming at me. The faces looked similar but I realized something. The photograph fell from the old book,
revealing a face I hadn’t seen in years and memories I thought I had forgotten. I was in the photo. Smiling, though ragged, it was surely me. Me frozen in another time, another place. My face was as smooth as the photo itself. The other child smiled at me as if he wanted to take me on a adventure through time.
I flipped through another page. A wave of nostalgia brushed against me. It was myself, at the calm, soothing beach. That time I was about eleven years old. It was not like any other beach. The seagulls chirped with excitement and the waves were playing with each other. Boy, what a day it was. A cave and no unplanned winds. No disasters, it wasn’t crowded. It was just another world in another dimension and my heart always ringed of excitement, Eager to see what happens next. I saw many memorable milestones as the tide of nostalgia went over me rapidly, wishing I was there every single moment.
That was the end of my journey through time and I knew I had to do the same thing my parents used to do but except for the “Throw it in the attic” part of course. So, I randomly made up a excuse to go to the shops and I bought the exact thing I’ve been looking for. An album with a gold lining, and a oak exterior. At that specific moment a memory burst into my head and it was the exact moment my parents bought me their album. They were shopping for groceries but they randomly stumbled upon the book store. I also did the weekly shopping so no one would get suspicious and not trust me anymore.
When I got back from the shops, I placed the two albums in a gigantic bookshelf and then, I had an idea. Every milestone, we’re going to have an event. An event that no one would forget will be decided to do, take a picture of a significant part of it and sort it out in the albums. My family all agreed and I noticed that history is repeating and always will repeat in our family.
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Jess Zhang
I opened the attic door and a fog of dust appeared in front of me. I waited for the dust to settle. From the corner of my eye, I saw boxes surrounded by cobwebs. Near the window, there was a rusty metal shelf with many dusty books. I skimmed through the titles, looking for something interesting. I pulled out a book with faded colours and the title wasn’t visible. The photograph fell from the old book, revealing a face that I haven’t seen in years and I have forgotten.
I held the delicate photo in my hands tracing back in time, when I had many fantastic adventures with her. Silence filled the room while the moon light escaped into the room through the window. I stared at her. It was cupcake, my best buddy. She was a cute and joyful puppy that was always by my side. I lost her many decades ago. Tears formed in my eyes, running down my cheeks and landed on the old book.
When I first met her, I knew I found a friend. She ran around the whole house jumping and leaping. While some nights she barked none stop, over time she got use to me and her new home. I loved seeing her excited face when I return from school but I knew I had many homework to complete. She sat quietly beside me and waited patiently. This kept me focused on my work as I knew I could play with her after my work is done. After completing my work, we would always go to the park to play some games. We had lots of fun. I also slept with her. Her little bed was right under my glass table. We did everything together!
Until I lost her. I was shopping with my mum on a foggy day. When she was buying some broccoli, I saw a powerful looking water gun. I dreamed of having the toy since I was very young. It is a water gun that can shoot very far. I stared at it, dreaming of me and cupcake playing with it. At that moment, I let go of her. She skipped to the entrance, passing my mum. When my mum called me, I noticed that she was GONE!
I looked back to the present and whispered to myself “I miss her.”
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_Vivian Kweh
In the hushed silence of the attic, my hands brushed against the leather-bound spine of a book, its pages imbued with the scent of time. A sepia photograph, nestled between pages worn by time, slipped from the old book and landed softly on my lap. The photograph, a portal to the past, lay before me, revealing a face I hadn’t seen in years and memories I thought I had forgotten. As my fingers traced the delicate photograph, I was silently invited to journey through the corridors of memory.
The faces in the photograph spoke of a resilience woven through the tapestry of my family’s legacy. There was my grandfather, a figure of stoic strength, his eyes reflecting a wisdom borne of trials and triumphs. Beside him stood my grandmother, her smile a radiant beacon of love and warmth, her elegance timeless even as the world around her had flowed with the tides of change.
The photograph triggered the depths of my soul, its sepia tones a symphony of memories long silenced. It whispered of days when the house was filled with the melody of life, each note a testament to the bonds that shaped my very being. In the silent dialogue with those echoes of the past, I felt the resonance of shared joys and sorrows, each a thread in the intricate mosaic of my identity.
As I lingered in my past, the photograph in my hands became a compass guiding me through the puzzle of my own existence. It challenged me to reconcile the person I was with the legacy I had inherited, to weave the lessons of the past into the fabric of the present. Each step of the journey was a dance of rediscovery, a chance to embrace the myriad hues of my family’s narrative and to paint my own stroke in the vibrant mosaic of our shared story.
Finally, I placed the photograph back between the pages of the old book. In that moment of poignant solitude, I realised that the photograph was not merely a relic of the past but a beacon for the future, its legacy a compass guiding me through the uncharted waters of life, its sepia tones a gentle reminder that every moment was a precious thread in the intricate tapestry of our shared human journey.
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Benjamin Lee (7)
Hello sorry this is so long:
“The photograph fell from the old book, revealing
a face I hadn’t seen in years and memories I thought I had forgotten
‘What was that!?’ My step-father shouted from downstairs, ‘nu…nothing’ I said back, picking up the dusty old book from the floor, as I swept away the dust engulfing the thick leather cover, out of the corner of my eye I saw a slip of paper fall out of the corner of the book. As I bent down for the second time and picked the slip up, I saw it was yellowed with splotches of brown here and there. As I flipped it over, I noticed that someone in the picture was strangely familiar, but I just couldn’t seem to remember where I’d seen the person before.
Then it clicked, this was, no, it couldn’t be, he was gone, wasn’t he? I stared at the picture for what seemed like eternities, then my step-father called me down again, probably to help him with his lighter not working or something, he’s always smoking. As I walked down the flight of stairs I couldn’t stop thinking about the photo, it seemed to be my dad, my real, actual dad, who had left years ago, not this sorry excuse for a human being. After giving his lighter a quick shake I handed it back to him, as I walked away I could hear him muttering under his breath. As I walked back up the stairs, I couldn’t stop thinking about the picture, as I got back to my room, I picked up the both the book and the photo and started flipping through the pages, it was a album, page after page of countless photos of a young me with my father and a woman, presumably my mother.
I flipped through the pages with trembling fingers, each photo stirring a mix of nostalgia and confusion. There was a snapshot of a picnic in a sunlit park, my father laughing with a carefree smile and my mother’s radiant joy. Another showed us at a beach, the three of us building a sandcastle while the sea waves lapped at our feet. My heart raced as I came across a picture of my father holding me up to the camera, his eyes twinkling with pride and affection.
But it wasn’t just the happiness in those pictures that unsettled me; it was the realization that these were moments I didn’t remember. I kept turning the pages, searching for answers. There was a photo I hadn’t seen before, one of my father standing beside a man who looked eerily like the sorry specimen of humanity smoking downstairs. They were in what looked like an old-fashioned library, the bookshelves brimming with antique volumes. The two men seemed to be engaged in an intense conversation, though the photo captured only their serious expressions.
I paused on the final page of the album. There, neatly tucked into the corner, was another slip of paper, this one a folded letter. My hands shook as I unfolded it. The handwriting was neat and elegant, though slightly smudged in places.
Dear Emily,
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve found the album I left behind. I wish I could have been there to explain everything to you in person. The man you know as your step-father is not who he seems. He’s involved in things far beyond your understanding, and it’s why I had to leave.
The truth is, he’s a dangerous man. I was working to protect you and your mother, but circumstances forced us apart. I had to go into hiding, to ensure your safety and to try to gather the evidence I needed. The photos are not just memories but clues. They hold the key to understanding the full story, and they will lead you to the truth about him and why I had to leave.
Please be careful. Don’t trust anyone easily. Find the book I’ve hidden under the floorboards in the old study— it will guide you further. And remember, no matter what, I love you.
Forever yours,
Dad
My breath caught in my throat. The letter explained so much but raised even more questions. Why had my step-father been involved in such dangerous activities? Why hadn’t he shown any sign of it? And how had my father managed to leave so many clues without my step-father noticing?
The only way to find out was to follow the instructions. I raced down the hall to the old study, a dusty, rarely used room that had been closed off for years. With a sense of urgency, I began searching for the floorboards mentioned in the letter.
After a few minutes of frantic searching, I finally pried up a loose board near the corner of the room. Underneath was a small, hidden compartment. My heart pounded as I reached inside and pulled out an old, leather-bound book, its cover embossed with strange symbols and an air of mystery.
I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of my father’s words and the gravity of the situation. I had no idea what lay ahead, but one thing was certain: I needed to uncover the truth, no matter where it led me.
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_Ian Zhou
A Forgotten Face
I was shuffling towards the creaking door, one that we were originally forbidden to touch. I gently unlatched the rusty silver clasp. The deafening silence of the attic seamlessly blended with reeking mould and termite-infested wood, while I found myself slinking warily towards an ancient bookshelf. A photograph was tranquilly nestled between pages, disintegrating with the passing of time, was something, or rather, someone, who I had never thought to see again, yet here she was, beckoning me, an undesirable yet tempting offer, but one I would never, ever, accept. Alone, uneasy and tense, this passage of time was still, frozen, and I had no other to consult, just the hardest query, one where you were the only person in the room.
I scanned the pages, all the positive, beaming in the light. Their faces told series, volumes, eternities of happiness, simplicity, the good old days, the loving attention, all before they vanished to the far past. Primary school flashed before my eyes. The wobbly, bright lines of my playmates. My hands slipped into the abyss; an eerie green web caught me. At first, I was so relieved… but when I found out all the problems, I regretted all those choices. I lost so much, why should I be punished more? I peered into the picture; Marble Hills Elementary School had now been changed beyond recognition; the crumbling sandstone had been replaced with beautifully polished marble blocks. The tinted black glass was now wiped clear of any grime and clearer than crystal.
The photograph rippled in luminescent colours before it ripped a hole right into the centre of it! The edges glowed with energy. Strange enough, I could see the school bully, and me, the rest of her gang, my friends, and it was moving, like I was spectating it. I dived into the picture. I floated into the class, and I started banging with all my strength against the bookshelf in an attempt to communicate in morse code. I spelled out ‘Don’t do that’, ‘Listen!’, and ‘Be careful, teacher’s watching you’, which, of course, was me trying to change the passage of time. But then I realised, I was my ghost. When I was young, I always saw the books moving on my shelves in the classroom.
Abruptly, I slipped from behind the bookshelf and into the void, the pitch-black nothingness of primary school flashbacks. Novels, picture books and stories of vivid colours toppled from nowhere. Mrs. Knowell, the stern headmistress, was floating down in her sensible lavender dress, at her polished maple table, scolding, “Your scores in first term, were straight A’s and B’s, what has happened to you by second term? You have started flunking all quizzes, tests and exams! If your reviews don’t get better by third term, I will automatically give you detention every Friday at two! Two, you understand? You shall miss out on fun afternoons from then.” Mr Koets, our literature teacher, always dressed in a tweed jacket and black detective hat, was telling me, “You are fabulous at English, but what kind of reading do you give me? Work it on your expression!” Mrs Catalina, the Maths teacher, yelling, Mr Lendor, the Arts and Crafts Department principal shouting, Mrs Cremin, the PE teacher, criticising…
Back in reality, I was in a flood of tears. Then I perceived that how imbalanced my schoolwork was. I focused more on English, Writing, and almost nothing else. However, I had now to redeem myself. The fundraiser was coming up, I volunteered to help out. The recycling centre was in debt, so I donated a hundred dollars. I gave all I could to make amends and say sorry. Making yourself a better person can help the whole community. I had another dream when I was young, making my own treehouse. So today, I spent several hours buying supplies, swings, a trampoline, a pair of gymnastics rings, a bed, and a ladder. I completed it at late afternoon, and I had the night there. before I went to bed, I watched the beautiful scenery, the forest, the stars, my whole world. As one always said: ‘Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery. But today is a gift, that’s why its called the present.’
A Forgotten Face
“The photograph fell from the old book, revealing a face I hadn’t seen in years and memories I thought I had forgotten.”
As I approached my grandpa’s study room I was greeted by the sight of rusted, old yellowish papered books and spider webs dangling on every corner of the ceiling. In the middle of the room lay a desk. Planted in the middle of the desk was a shiny, leather wrapped book.
I cautiously opened the book as images fell to the ground. I knew it was an album by the look of it. Who are those people? Why does grandpa have hem in his photo album? Why? Questions raced across my mind as I tried to answer all of them at once.
I bent down to pick up two of the rusted, old pieces of discarded papers and placed it on the desk. One was a picture, of my great grandpa, who was a Veteran from World War Two. Another, was a letter, from him, and it read:
DO NOT READ UNTIL 2020
To the future
What’s it like in the future? Are there robots and that can fight and drive a tank?
It’s horrible in the present right now. There are fighter planes that drop bombs on your houses! I hated it when Hitler decided to start the war!
Right now I’m writing this to you in a war bunker.
OVER AND OUT
“Woah. I did not know that!” I thought.
“Dinnertime!” screeched mum as everyone headed to the table.
I bought the letter and the image to the table and handed the valuables to my parents and my sister. Tears rolled down my parents eyes as they read the letter.
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