Week 4 Writing Homework
Write a narrative that explores the significance of the past. Use an extended motif to strengthen your message.
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- Due Date : March 8, 2025
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Felix SUN Week 4 Writing Scholarship
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Schol-Y5_WK4 – zhuyingdorahotmail-com
The wind howled through the gaps of the old, rundown house, carrying the scent of soil and dust. It was years since Emily had laid eyes on the property. As she ran her hand down the wood railing, a shiver went through her. The past, she thought, was always one to stay.
Her mother’s words echoed in her mind as she walked along the empty halls. “This house is a reflection of our family’s history, a place where the past is always alive.” The old photographs on the walls seemed to watch her, minutes in the past which no longer belonged to her. Nevertheless, as she entered deeper into the house, she was attracted by a paining, unwilling force that drew her toward the reminiscences that she had long tried to foresee but never evaded.
She halted in the living room in front of the old grandfather clock, which was cracked but still ticking. Time had not been good to the clock, but it continued ticking away nonetheless, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to leave the past behind, somehow it always seemed to stick with you. The hands were at midnight. A new day, but the same familiar pattern. The thought struck her like a bell clanging in her brain.
“You can never quite leave it behind,” she whispered aloud, not sure if she was talking to the house or to herself.
The memories flooded back then her father, his peculiar ways, his hurtful words that he would distort in fights. The cold nights that seemed to last forever. She had fled, run to the city where time went fast, where no one asked anything about what she had left behind. But now, standing in the house, she recognized the past had been pursuing her, waiting patiently for her to try and escape, following her steps quietly. It was not just the creaky walls or the faded wallpaper. It was her choices, her remorse, her bitter guilt. The groan of a door interrupted her daydream. She turned to find facing her a face she had not looked upon in over ten years.
Her father. He stood before her, as if he had never left, his eyes dark and distant. “You think you can hide from it?” he snarled, his voice gruff but welcome. The air in the room became thick, the past weighing on her like a boulder. “I didn’t come back for you,” she said softly, almost to herself. But he said nothing. He turned and disappeared into the blackness of the house. The door closed behind, a slow creaking slowness that startled her. Emily stood frozen, unsure if she should follow or leave.
The clock continued ticking.
Time passed, relentless in its duration, indifferent to her struggle, to the history that had clung to her, as it had clung to this home for decades. The question hung in the balance—Could she ever truly move on from the weight of her past, or would she have to bear it for the rest of her days?
The wind howled through the gaps of the old, rundown house, carrying the scent of soil and dust. It was years since Emily had laid eyes on the property. As she ran her hand down the wood railing, a shiver went through her. The past, she thought, was always one to stay.
Her mother’s words echoed in her mind as she walked along the empty halls. “This house is a reflection of our family’s history, a place where the past is always alive.” The old photographs on the walls seemed to watch her, minutes in the past which no longer belonged to her. Nevertheless, as she entered deeper into the house, she was attracted by a paining, unwilling force that drew her toward the reminiscences that she had long tried to foresee but never evaded.
She halted in the living room in front of the old grandfather clock, which was cracked but still ticking. Time had not been good to the clock, but it continued ticking away nonetheless, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to leave the past behind, somehow it always seemed to stick with you. The hands were at midnight. A new day, but the same familiar pattern. The thought struck her like a bell clanging in her brain.
“You can never quite leave it behind,” she whispered aloud, not sure if she was talking to the house or to herself.
The memories flooded back then her father, his peculiar ways, his hurtful words that he would distort in fights. The cold nights that seemed to last forever. She had fled, run to the city where time went fast, where no one asked anything about what she had left behind. But now, standing in the house, she recognized the past had been pursuing her, waiting patiently for her to try and escape, following her steps quietly. It was not just the creaky walls or the faded wallpaper. It was her choices, her remorse, her bitter guilt. The groan of a door interrupted her daydream. She turned to find facing her a face she had not looked upon in over ten years.
Her father. He stood before her, as if he had never left, his eyes dark and distant. “You think you can hide from it?” he snarled, his voice gruff but welcome. The air in the room became thick, the past weighing on her like a boulder. “I didn’t come back for you,” she said softly, almost to herself. But he said nothing. He turned and disappeared into the blackness of the house. The door closed behind, a slow creaking slowness that startled her. Emily stood frozen, unsure if she should follow or leave.
The clock continued ticking.
Time passed, relentless in its duration, indifferent to her struggle, to the history that had clung to her, as it had clung to this home for decades. The question hung in the balance. Could she ever truly move on from the weight of her past, or would she have to bear it for the rest of her days?
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Schol-Y5_WK4 – Varoon
A loud sound at the doorbell woke me up from my sleep. The sun was clearly only starting to rise from its bed and there was no reason anyone should’ve been out of bed. I stepped out into the frigid winds to find a parcel that looked like it had just run a marathon. With no one in my sight, I decided to take the box into the warm house-hold for further investigation. When I opened the delicate box, a flood of perplexity hit me. A rusted, old watch covered in dust was staring straight through my soul. On the visibly cracked screen, there was a countdown with only 10 hours left. What was it counting down to? I had no idea. There was also a fragile note with the scent of dust that read “watch the change happen at the heart of the city”. Though I did not know what that meant, the countdown pushed me into immediate action.
I started with the city’s cozy library, which was as warm as hot chocolate on a winter night. Expecting to see some sort of change about to happen, I began quickly pacing around every section of the library. Yet even there, where every single heart of the city had been to, nothing looked like it was going to change. Desperately, I started scouring through the books for anything that could help me, but all the information was hiding from me. With that, I ambled down-heartedly through the welcoming doors of the library.
But I wasn’t going to stop there because I knew that the museum had millions of pieces of ancient items. As soon as I stepped into the museum, I headed for the watch section. However, everything was as it normally was, and I felt my heart sink into my stomach. As I trudged out of the building, the museum owner blandly told me where the oldest building in town was and I was ecstatic.
Walking into the creaky building was spine chilling. There were 10 seconds until something, big or small, was going to happen. As soon as I recovered my senses, the minuscule town’s history started to make sense. The making of the museum, the pizza restaurant and the library were all starting to make sense. In my head, I secretly praised the worker who woke up so early just so that I could see this happen.
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Schol-Y5_WK4 – Tricia Yi
Elf Street
The old oak tree on Elf Street had been there for as long as Ella could remember, its branches sprawling wide like arms reaching for the sky. To most, it was just a tree, but to Ella, it was something much more, a keeper of memories, of moments long passed. Its leaves whispered in the wind, as if telling stories from years gone by, and its thick trunk was covered with decades of carved initials, some barely legible, some still sharp and fresh.
When she was little, Ella spent hours beneath its shade. She would run her fingers over the weathered bark, tracing the initials of couples who’d carved their love into it decades ago, and listen to her grandmother’s stories about the town. There was one she loved, about how her grandparents had first moved into a small house just down the road, and how this tree had been there through every step of their lives. Her grandmother would tell her how they would sit together beneath it on summer evenings, the tree a silent witness to their quiet conversations, their plans for the future. Ella’s father, too, had memories of climbing the tree as a boy, seeing the whole neighborhood from its highest branches. He’d always laugh when he told the story of how he once tried to jump from the tree to the roof of their house, only to end up in the flowerbed, much to his mother’s dismay. For Ella, these stories made the tree feel like more than just wood and leaves; it was a part of their history, rooted in everything that came before her, a bridge between generations.
But when the town announced plans to tear it down to make way for a new road, Ella’s heart sank. She couldn’t understand how something so full of memories could be taken down so easily. She fought to keep it standing, talking to the town council, pleading with them to see the tree the way she saw it, as something irreplaceable, something that held the heart of the community. She organized petitions, shared stories of the tree’s importance, but to them, it was just an obstacle in the way of progress—a thing of the past, too old and too slow for the bustling future they envisioned.
The night before the tree was to be cut down, Ella went to visit it one last time. The air was cool, and the ground felt soft under her feet, the smell of damp earth mingling with the scent of pine. She touched the carvings again, feeling the weight of all the moments they carried. She could almost hear the echoes of the laughter, the hushed conversations, the quiet promises made beneath its branches. It was as though the past was alive in that tree, in every knot, every scar, every memory embedded in its bark. She sat beneath it for hours, lost in thought, wishing there was more she could do, but also knowing she couldn’t change the course of time.
The next morning, the sound of chainsaws cut through the quiet. Ella watched, heart heavy, as the oak fell. She stood there, the bitter taste of defeat in her mouth, as the tree’s mighty trunk cracked and thudded to the ground, sending a cloud of dust into the air. But as it hit the ground, she knew something the town didn’t—its story wasn’t over. She wrote about it, about the love, the memories, the generations who had shared their lives beneath its branches. She wrote about the tree’s strength and resilience, how it had weathered storms, how it had stood as a symbol of permanence in a world that constantly changed. The tree was gone, but its roots ran deep in the hearts of those who remembered, in the memories that could never be erased.
Because the past doesn’t disappear. It lives on in the stories we carry with us, in the small, quiet places that remind us who we are.
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Schol-Y5_WK4 – Jayden Zhou _ Ian Zhou
The thunderstorm roared as I was walking to my hundredth-year old house. I just couldn’t believe how old it was so many years and that flooding memories always just always must come back to my mind something that I will never forget. I walk around the empty echoing halls thinking it is like a haunted nightmare. It was all because of that old clock, it just had to go so fast, and I was losing my parents, both even worse, it was horrifying, and I felt deep guilt in my bones.
I remember that day the happiest family on earth walking through the hallway’s family walking together. It was then that I realized the clock hanging bright in the middle of our hallway every year that went passing the clock at the bottom would show the years of how long that time had gone by. I decided to look at how many years it took to see how long my parents had, had this clock for and what I saw was horrifying and traumatizing. It showed on the clock it had already been 99 years and today was the hundredth day I dreading and wondering how strong my parents might be if they do not have any sickness at all? Which of course I was happy about! But just one thing was bugging me lots of people can’t even get up to their 80s so how did my parents get up to their hundreds?
Then something hit me, not meaning hitting people but meaning I looked up at the clock again and it flashed it is time repeatedly again until my parents looked up for the time. I was so confused what did it mean it was time? Why did it say it was time? How did the clock know it was time? I have so many questions, but you clearly can’t ask a clock anything can you. But at that very moment my mum and dad at the very exact time fainted with me in the middle of the hallway running to get the phone to call the ambulance immediately but, unfortunately, I was too late if only I was quicker. When all the sorrow comes to mind, I think of the clock is this what it meant? Did it mean time up for my parents, how could this happen how could a clock in the middle of the hallway do such a thing to people and how could a clock be so powerful being able to destroy two whole lives in just one go I was miserable. So, I ran home quickly grabbed the clock and… what i did next will shock you!
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Schol-Y5_WK4 – Abbygail Fan
The thunderstorm roared as I was walking to my hundredth-year old house. I just couldn’t believe how old it was so many years and that flooding memories always just always must come back to my mind something that I will never forget. I walk around the empty echoing halls thinking it is like a haunted nightmare. It was all because of that old clock, it just had to go so fast, and I was losing my parents, both even worse, it was horrifying, and I felt deep guilt in my bones.
I remember that day the happiest family on earth walking through the hallway’s family walking together. It was then that I realized the clock hanging bright in the middle of our hallway every year that went passing the clock at the bottom would show the years of how long that time had gone by. I decided to look at how many years it took to see how long my parents had, had this clock for and what I saw was horrifying and traumatizing. It showed on the clock it had already been 99 years and today was the hundredth day I dreading and wondering how strong my parents might be if they do not have any sickness at all? Which of course I was happy about! But just one thing was bugging me lots of people can’t even get up to their 80s so how did my parents get up to their hundreds?
Then something hit me, not meaning hitting people but meaning I looked up at the clock again and it flashed it is time repeatedly again until my parents looked up for the time. I was so confused what did it mean it was time? Why did it say it was time? How did the clock know it was time? I have so many questions, but you clearly can’t ask a clock anything can you. But at that very moment my mum and dad at the very exact time fainted with me in the middle of the hallway running to get the phone to call the ambulance immediately but, unfortunately, I was too late if only I was quicker. When all the sorrow comes to mind, I think of the clock is this what it meant? Did it mean time up for my parents, how could this happen how could a clock in the middle of the hallway do such a thing to people and how could a clock be so powerful being able to destroy two whole lives in just one go I was miserable. So, I ran home quickly grabbed the clock and…