Week 4 Writing Homework
Writing Prompt: Write a story using sunflower motif to symbolise the character’s transformation- subversion and inversion (400 words)
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- Due Date : August 19, 2025
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57 thoughts on “Week 4 Writing Homework”
The Fall
Ellie stood at the edge of the forest, the path ahead shrouded in the soft embrace of twilight. Her dress fluttered gently in the evening breeze, the fabric whispering secrets like the wind. The air was cool, yet a heavy weight pressed on her shoulders like a burden, guilt.
The decisions of her past weighed down on her like I was convincing her to apologise but she couldn’t, it was too much to forgive.
Ellie and Mrs. Thompson had been neighbours for over a decade. They were once just friends but over the year this bond had turned into a deep relationship. Ellie, a nurse, often visited Mrs. Thompson, assisting with shopping and sharing stories at tea. Their connection was deep and to Mrs Thompson, Ellie was like family.
One distinctive feature of Mrs. Thompson was her constant companion, vibrant sunflower whether it was withered or bright, Whether it was a fresh bloom from her garden or a carefully preserved one from a past season, the sunflower was always by her side. It was Mrs. Thompson’s token, her symbol of resilience.
Then came the fall.
One afternoon, as Ellie helped Mrs. Thompson into her favourite chair on the porch, the older woman refused her walker. “Just this once,” she had said with a smile. Ellie hesitated, but soon let her. As she turned to steady the chair, a shift in her step made her fall, it seemed the world had just turned into slow motion.
Despite immediate medical care, Mrs. Thompson passed away to her injuries days later. Ellie was devastated. The guilt of having allowed the accident gnawed at her heart, overshadowing years of love and loyalty. Every night, she’d toss and turn, haunted by that final moment, that one fatal choice.
The forest path tonight wasn’t just a walk to process pain. It was a search for something, relief, redemption, maybe a reason to keep going.
As she approached the old oak where she and Mrs. Thompson had once met by chance during a morning walk, the memories returned, laughter, promises, long talks in the shade. And then, that day. The betrayal. Not to Mrs. Thompson, but to herself, for choosing heart over protocol.
“I’m sorry,” Ellie whispered, the words catching in her throat. “I never meant what I did. I only wanted you to feel free, like you used to.”
The air was still. And then, in the corner of her eye, she saw it, a sunflower, proud and bright, blooming at the base of the tree where none had grown before.
She knelt beside it, brushing her fingers over its golden petals. A tear rolled down her cheek, but this one felt different. Not sorrow, not regret, something like quiet hope.
And one morning, on her desk, she found a small potted sunflower, no note attached.
Healing, she realized, wasn’t instant. It wasn’t easy. But it was possible. Like that sunflower growing wild in the woods, it started in the most unlikely of places.
That evening, Ellie stood once more at the forest’s edge. The breeze kissed her cheeks, and this time, the air felt lighter. She still carried her guilt, but now, she carried forgiveness too.
WEEK 4 FEEDBACK
3 -sonya613@hotmail.com
here is my homework
The Truth Hurts
Amelia pushed her way through the throng of people at the crossing, wincing at the thought of Jessica’s reaction.
Amelia and Jessica were best friends, and recently, Amelia had noticed her limping around. One afternoon, unable to bear the charade any longer, Amelia cornered Jessica by the barre. “What’s going on, Jess?” she asked, her voice low. Jessica brushed it off, a casual shrug about a minor ache. But Amelia remained unconvinced, her gaze flickering towards a plant in the corner, its leaves dry, hunched towards the ground.
Finally, the dam broke. Jessica confessed, tears welling in her eyes, that the relentless training had twisted her ankle. The academy’s demanding schedule, combined with her fear of losing her coveted lead role, had pushed her to ignore the injury, to cover it up, day after day.
Amelia’s mind raced, torn between her loyalty to Jessica and the horrifying implications of her friend’s self-destructive drive. Telling their coach would devastate Jessica, forcing her off the stage she so adored. But ignoring it could lead to irreversible damage, shattering Jessica’s career entirely. The decision was agonising, a brutal struggle between friendship and responsibility. Finally, with a deep, shaky breath, Amelia chose the latter. It was a truth that would sting, but it was also the only path to healing.
The following day, the academy buzzed with hushed whispers. Jessica had been taken to the hospital. Her ‘small twist’ had, under the strain of her strenuous training, become a severe fracture. When Amelia visited her in the sterile quiet of the hospital room, Jessica’s eyes, usually so warm, were sharp with accusation.
“You just want my role, don’t you?” Jessica spat, her voice laced with pain and betrayal.
Amelia flinched, but held her gaze. “No, of course not. I did it for your good, not mine. By ignoring it, the injury could’ve become far worse, and resulted horribly.” The words felt hollow in the cold room, even though she knew they were true. Jessica turned away, silent.
Amelia left the hospital, the sting of Jessica’s words echoing in her ears. She returned an hour later. She sat beside Jessica’s bed, opening the device to show her videos of the intricate new dances they had learned that week. She talked about the challenges, the breakthroughs, the sheer joy of the movement. Still, Jessica remained silent.
Weeks later, when Jessica finally returned to practice, limping slightly but with a newfound clarity in her eyes, she walked directly to Amelia.
“I shouldn’t have thrown unjust accusations at you,” Jessica said, her voice soft. “I understand now. You were doing it for me.”
The two friends embraced, a shared relief washing over them. Later that day, Jessica approached their coach. “Excuse me,” she began, “I have a proposal. There shouldn’t be just one lead dancer. Amelia and I… we’re stronger together. I believe there should be two.” Jessica glanced at Amelia, a knowing smile passing between them. In the corner of the room, the plant’s leaves were slowly unfurled, standing up straighter.
WEEK 4 FEEDBACK
3 -Sophia Zhang
Heliotrope and Selene
The axis of her world was a small, golden locket he had given her. Its etched, sun-facing petals seemed to govern the tilt of her life, dictating the angle of her easel and the turn of each heavy, angelical head on her balcony. Her canvases were variations on a single devotional theme: a blaze of gold, an unblinking gaze, a study in scorching yellows and ochres. Her entire world, it seemed, was arranged to face a singular, brilliant source just beyond the frame. Life was a study in adoration.
He came in once while he was painting, the air growing warmer and brighter with his presence. He stood behind her, his gaze on the canvas-an intense close-up of a spiralling, seeded heart. “You know,” he said, a low murmur against her ear, “it’s the way they follow the light. Unconditionally. That’s their best quality.” He wasn’t praising her art, he was praising its subject, and by extension, himself. That adoration had always mistaken his heat for warmth, his intensity for intimacy. She never questioned the deep, cool shadows cast by him, vast and empty spaces where nothing of her own could grow. The turning point was not a thunderclap, but a quiet act of desecration: him, on her balcony, later that week, casually flicking cigarette ash into the soil of the most vibrant stalk. “Such a thirsty flower,” he’d murmured, and the meaning landed with a chill. In the quiet after he left, in the blue pre-dawn hours, she found herself craving shade, a respite from the glare.
On the balcony, a slow catastrophe unfolded. Deprived of her care, the stalks grew brittle. The great heads-once radiant- sagged on their desiccated necks until they faced the floorboards in a posture of final, collective defeat. The sight of this silent surrender, a mirror held up to her own spirit, finally spurred her into action. One evening, with the cool deliberation of a surgeon, she took up her shears and methodically severed each withered stem. As she bundled the dry remains, something fell from a shriveled head: a single, dark, and perfect seed which she caught in her waiting palm.
Gone was the locket from her throat, its absence a pale, untouched circle of skin. In its place grew a new aesthetic, an art of the abyss. Her palette, now rich with ultramarine, obsidian, and the spectral gleam of silver gave birth to impossible things that flourished without a sun, to life that made its own strange light.
Months later, she brought two relics to her workbench: his locket and her seed. Under the focused blue flame of her torch, the gold surrendered its familiar shape, collapsing into a glowing, anonymous tear before she began to hammer it into a new form. It was not a sun she forged, but the keen light of a waning moon. Into the centre of this silvered crescent, she carefully set the dark seed, enclosing it like a secret.
The new pendant settled against her skin, cool and definite. It rested in the same hollow, yet it spoke a different language. Standing on her now-clear balcony, she felt the moonlight on her face, its clean, quiet light finding a home in the locket at her throat. It was a testament not to a light she had once followed, but to the profound and generative darkness from which she had finally learned to bloom.
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4 -Ethan
In the corner of a narrow garden, hemmed in by brick and shadow, a single sunflower sprouted in early spring. It was not planted with care, nor expected to thrive. Yet it rose—awkwardly at first, its stem crooked like a question mark—toward the pale morning light.
Steve watched it from his bedroom window. His parents called it a weed, but to Steve, it was a mystery. Each day, the sunflower twisted its head eastward, following the sun’s golden arc like a loyal servant. It was, at first, a symbol of what Steve believed he should be: bright, obedient, reaching toward approval.
He tried to mirror it. At school, he smiled when spoken to, nodded when corrected, and coloured inside the lines. His teachers praised his neatness. His parents admired his silence. But inside, Steve felt like a shadow stitched to someone else’s feet—present, but never quite belonging.
By midsummer, the sunflower had grown tall. Its petals flared like flames, its centre dark and heavy with promise. But something had changed. One morning, Steve noticed it had stopped turning. While others in nearby gardens bowed to the sun, this one remained still—its golden face tilted west, toward the fading light.
Was it broken? Or had it simply chosen?
Steve began to sit beside it. He traced its rough stem with his fingers, felt the warmth trapped in its leaves, smelled the earthy sweetness of its pollen. It did not speak, but it did not need to. Its stillness was a kind of defiance—a quiet refusal to follow the path laid out.
He started painting. Not the sun, but the shadows. Not perfect flowers, but twisted stems and wilting petals. His art was messy, bold, and strange. His parents frowned. “Why paint something so sad?” they asked.
Steve didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
As summer waned, the sunflower’s head drooped, heavy with seeds. Its petals browned at the edges, curling like burnt paper. Yet even in decay, it held its posture—facing west, as if watching the sun leave rather than arrive.
Steve understood. The sunflower had inverted its purpose. It no longer chased light—it challenged it. It had become a symbol not of growth through obedience, but of strength through resistance.
On the final day of summer, Steve stood in the garden as dusk fell. The air was thick with the scent of dry grass and fading blooms. He reached out and touched the sunflower’s brittle leaves. They crumbled in his hand, but the stem remained upright.
He turned west, just as it had. The sky was streaked with orange and violet, colours that didn’t ask to be understood. And in that moment, Steve felt something shift—not loudly, but deeply.
He was no longer the boy who followed. He was the boy who watched the sun go, and stayed standing.
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4 -Varoon
Through summer’s shimmering, golden rays, the wilting sunflower gradually turned its mahogany brown head towards the bright yellow orb slowly arcing across the sky. Although it was surrounded by rock, the glimpses of the sparkling sphere were enough. By the time the clouds were cackling in front of the sun, the sunflower already had hope for the cold months. However, it shied away from the fissure in the cave, frigid air howling around it. Clatter! The sunflower quivered. A hailstone shattered on the patch of grass beneath it. Shivering, the sunflower sighed. This was not going to be an easy winter.
“Timothy!” jeered Lucy. “Is your mate sitting alone, again? Aww, why don’t you go see him?”
“Lay off, Lucy,” growled Tim. His ears burned red hot, but he ignored it. Why couldn’t Lucy just tease someone else? She didn’t need to humiliate him by pointing out
his friends finding new friends. His fists clenched, and his brows were dangerously low. Hissing deep in his throat, he pushed down the lump in his throat, stubborn and firm. He bit his lip, running his fingers along his dark blue shirt, letting them go in circles around the bear. The lines seemed crooked and awkward, like they were stitched by someone closing their eyes. He whimpered, sitting down on a seat, perfectly smooth and clean. The brown wood creaked softly under his weight. This was not going to be an easy summer.
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4 -Aria Cui
The Sleepover
“Izuku have you packed your bag?” asked politely with a soft voice.
“Yes mum” replied Izuku for the millionth time.
Izuku got his bag with hesitation and awkwardly said goodbye. The state of the sunflower he packed squished inside the bag. Then he walked off to his friend Bakugo’s house for a sleepover. As he was walking he was clutching and lurking about the decisions he had made. He thought “Would it be better if I didn’t agree to this?” but on the side of his brain he thought “I shouldn’t be scared!”. when he arrived at the door he completely froze while sweating but a spike of confidence supported him. Soon, he pressed the doorbell and in a blink of an eye Bakugo opened the door and greeted him with an explosive greeting. Bakugo welcomed him to dinner since it was already time for that. For dinner, they had soft, hot Takoyaki with dessert being ice cream and waffles. After dinner, they went to sleep. Anonymously, Izuku couldn’t sleep at all. That’s why he got the sunflower from his bag, cautiously so that Bakugo didn’t know. When he got it out he was out of the chains of fear. The sunflower bloomed with liberty as it was out of the bag. It was not squished anymore but free in the fresh air.
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4 -JASH
is mine good
please see my writing in pdf.
Scholarly Zoom Writing Week 4
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4 -Thomas
Healing From Hurt
The seed was cradled by wet hands, wet from hours of crying, shaking from nights of alcohol to numb the pain that always came back.
Always.
“I’ll always love you, no matter what.”
A hand cradling her head as she stared at her bank statement.
Red-rimmed eyes and sleepless nights, punctured by warm hugs, warm drinks, and borrowed happiness.
She shook her head to clear the memories. She had to be strong. Stronger than him who couldn’t even…
She firmly picked herself up. There was no use dwelling in the past. She did her breathing exercises, recommended by her therapist. She knew they were like the drinks, the pain would only come back even stronger.
The seed seemed to sense her pain, reaching out. A tiny sapling, barely more than a speck, had risen out of her tears. The sadness turned to anger.
How dare it sprout from my tears? How dare it grow while I wither?
She felt an almost overpowering urge to crush it. But with a sigh, she dropped the spade, and headed back to her house.
Days passed. The fan slowly rotated, adding bit upon bit to her ever-increasing debt. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to turn it off. It was the only alive thing in the room. She was barely more than a husk waiting for her finances to break. Shattered bottles were strewn around her like battle wreckage, not letting her leave without injuries.
They were destroying her, physically and mentally. But to her, those few hours of not caring, those few hours of that wonderful numbness, was her salvation.
Friends were turned away at the door, and that was putting it lightly. At the very least, demented screams would show them away. At most… well she could always go further, the more she sank into insanity.
Yet none could bring themselves to report her. They knew trapping her in a straitjacket in a white room would only make it worse. And the seed stayed where it was, the cheery sun doing nothing to help it.
She was drowning. In waves of her own tears, drinks, memories lost to time. Waves of sorrow and regret crashed over, drowning her. The seed was washed away into a lone gutter, driven by the crying sky, crying like the broken woman inside the house.
Dances under the moonlight.
Love letters.
A funny first date.
The line of time moved, but she was stuck in the past, reliving painful memories, happy, but long gone. It was nostalgic, but it was like rubbing salt into an old, ugly wound.
Fractured. Her sanity, her emotion, her life. It was crumbling.
And she stared at a ring of blood on one half of a bottle, jagged edges coated in fresh crimson like a sunset. She pushed it over, making it twirl hypnotically, before shattering into a million pieces as it collided with the floor. Just another bottle. Painful, yes, but forgettable.
She raised a shard to her throat. Who cared for her in life? Her friends had abandoned her. Or she had driven them away. She’d had one thing to live for. Not a thing.. but a person.
And the memories bring her to her knees. She tumbled down, feeling like she was drowning. She had to reach the door… fresh air…
And she collapsed. A fever dream overcame her, and she succumbed to the welcoming darkness.
Him. Blue eyes, sunny skies. A smile on his face careless lips. Wrapped in silk.
She knew what would happen. A beautiful ring, soft words, happy smiles. But it was a face. A face in the ring, the face was her…her… the person she could not face. The same words came out of his mouth, the same, but twisted somehow.
“I know it’s not as pretty as you.”
She’s prettier than you.
“I know, it didn’t cost much money.”
She’s wealthier than you.
“And, I’ll always still love you.”
She’s more loveable than you.
And the door smashed open, and the rain poured in, and she was crying.
And crying is good, because it heals, and it seemed to break her delusions. She was still hurt, but she had a chance to heal.
And the seed spouted out of the gutter, the gutter being flooded with rain. A sprout had grown, small, but there. And the earth shifted to cover it.
And the sun shone again.
Can you mark this one, instead? I just added something.
Healing From Hurt
The seed was cradled by wet hands, wet from hours of crying, shaking from nights of alcohol to numb the pain that always came back.
Always.
“I’ll always love you, no matter what.”
A hand cradling her head as she stared at her bank statement.
Red-rimmed eyes and sleepless nights, punctured by warm hugs, warm drinks, and borrowed happiness.
She shook her head to clear the memories. She had to be strong. Stronger than him who couldn’t even…
She firmly picked herself up. There was no use dwelling in the past. She did her breathing exercises, recommended by her therapist. She knew they were like the drinks, the pain would only come back even stronger.
The seed seemed to sense her pain, reaching out. A tiny sapling, barely more than a speck, had risen out of her tears. The sadness turned to anger.
How dare it sprout from my tears? How dare it grow while I wither?
She felt an almost overpowering urge to crush it. But with a sigh, she dropped the spade, and headed back to her house.
Days passed. The fan slowly rotated, adding bit upon bit to her ever-increasing debt. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to turn it off. It was the only alive thing in the room. She was barely more than a husk waiting for her finances to break. Shattered bottles were strewn around her like battle wreckage, not letting her leave without injuries.
They were destroying her, physically and mentally. But to her, those few hours of not caring, those few hours of that wonderful numbness, was her salvation.
Friends were turned away at the door, and that was putting it lightly. At the very least, demented screams would show them away. At most… well she could always go further, the more she sank into insanity.
Yet none could bring themselves to report her. They knew trapping her in a straitjacket in a white room would only make it worse. And the seed stayed where it was, the cheery sun doing nothing to help it.
She was drowning. In waves of her own tears, drinks, memories lost to time. Waves of sorrow and regret crashed over, drowning her. The seed was washed away into a lone gutter, driven by the crying sky, crying like the broken woman inside the house.
Dances under the moonlight.
Love letters.
A funny first date.
The line of time moved, but she was stuck in the past, reliving painful memories, happy, but long gone. It was nostalgic, but it was like rubbing salt into an old, ugly wound.
Fractured. Her sanity, her emotion, her life. It was crumbling.
And she stared at a ring of blood on one half of a bottle, jagged edges coated in fresh crimson like a sunset. She pushed it over, making it twirl hypnotically, before shattering into a million pieces as it collided with the floor. Just another bottle. Painful, yes, but forgettable.
She raised a shard to her throat. Who cared for her in life? Her friends had abandoned her. Or she had driven them away. She’d had one thing to live for. Not a thing.. but a person.
And the memories bring her to her knees. She tumbled down, feeling like she was drowning. She had to reach the door… fresh air…
And she collapsed. A fever dream overcame her, and she succumbed to the welcoming darkness.
Him. Blue eyes, sunny skies. A smile on his face careless lips. Wrapped in silk.
She knew what would happen. A beautiful ring, soft words, happy smiles. But it was a face. A face in the ring, the face was her…her… the person she could not face. The same words came out of his mouth, the same, but twisted somehow.
“I know it’s not as pretty as you.”
She’s prettier than you.
“I know, it didn’t cost much money.”
She’s wealthier than you.
“And, I’ll always still love you.”
She’s more loveable than you.
And the door smashed open, and the rain poured in, and she was crying.
And crying is good, because it heals, and it seemed to break her delusions. She was still hurt, but she had a chance to heal.
And the seed spouted out of the gutter, the gutter being flooded with rain. A sprout had grown, small, but there. And the earth shifted to cover it. A shimmer of yellow, ready to push through to the surface, to see the sun it so desired to follow. It would take time, work, but it would push through.
And the sun shone again.
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4-Anurekha
here’s my homework
Scholarly W4
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4-Tricia Yi
Sunflower
The sunflower stood proud against the rising wind, its golden crown unfurling like a banner of defiance. The daystar cast a warm glance, brushing its face with light—bright, almost too cheerful. In reply, the flower swayed, its stem bowing and bending, a slow dance growing frantic. The wind thickened, no longer playful, carrying the low growl of something gathering beyond the horizon.
Beyond the field, the shadows began to stir—long, deliberate, as if something had just remembered its name. I walked across the empty fields, every step like a breaking point. The tile burned cold in my pocket, pulsing faintly—like it knew the storm was coming before I did. I wasn’t supposed to take it. The old man had warned me: “One tile awakens the path. Two summon the gate.” But I hadn’t believed him, not until the wind changed and the birds stopped singing. Now the tile hummed with a rhythm I couldn’t ignore, and the ground beneath me felt thinner than it should.
The lamplights flickered as I walked my way home. I couldn’t help but think about the tile. It seemed odd, the timing, the place, and the object itself in particular. I traced the outline of the white dragon back at home, wondering what to do with it. I couldn’t let it go, it was just too peculiar.
The tile burned cold in my pocket the rest of the day, like a thought you’re not ready to think. That night, my dreams shifted.
I was standing in a version of the city that glowed in sepia tones, its skyline crowded with impossible architecture—pagodas threaded with glass elevators, rickshaws that floated a breath above the ground. The air buzzed with static, and every signpost bore a different dialect: ancient, forgotten, made-up.
In the margins of my notebook, I’ve begun sketching my dreams from memory. The more I draw it, the more I notice it doesn’t spiral outward—it folds inward, like a fingerprint pressed into eternity. And sometimes, when I’m not paying attention, the white dragon shifts its expression. Just slightly.
The more the dreams appeared, the more true north seemed to move away.
The sunflower had bowed since morning, its golden crown dulled to a sickly ochre. Petals clung like wet paper, heavy with something more than rain. The wind no longer danced—it whispered, low and deliberate, curling around the stem like a warning. Where it once reached for the sun, it now leaned toward the earth, as if listening for something buried beneath. Something that hadn’t spoken in years.
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4-Summer
The last smile
Sam sat on his creaky wooden chair listening intently to his father’s war stories.
“Napoleon’s army was strong but we were even stronger! We fought courageously and annihilated them!” cried Jacob, Sam’s father with a triumphant smile.
Sam’s eyes sparkled as he imagined his father fighting like a god. He beamed as his father got sent to war again as he knew his father would save the day again. Sam even gave his father a sunflower with canary yellow petals and a coffee centre. While Jacob was at war, Sam stayed with the old lady next door, Miss Smith. Jacob was waiting for a milk delivery on the doorstep when he spotted a poster asking for new recruits for the army. Without second thought, he joined.
Jacob returned from the brutal war with Sam’s sunflower and a mind full of stories. He spotted his elderly neighbour sobbing her heart out on her doorstep. He dashed over and asked her if she was alright and where Sam was. Miss Smith stopped crying and looked up with red puffy eyes.
“They didn’t tell you?”
Jacob stared. Tell him what? Miss Smith told him to follow her and she led him to the church. There was a photo on a coffin. A photo of Sam. Sam’s fellow soldiers were saluting to the photo and marching out. Jacob’s world crumbled. He looked down at Sam’s sunflower and saw the flower bow down to the photo and its petals withered and died.
Later on they informed Jacob what happened. Sam was fighting until their army had to escape but someone had to open the locked gates. So Sam grabbed a bomb and exploded the gate. He died during the process and if he hadn’t done that, no one would’ve gone home that day. Sam died but he died a hero.
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4-Qiaoqiao
done
Felix SUN Week 4 Schoarship Writing
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4-zhuyingdorahotmail-com
As Eric stepped into the lush green patch of grass, he spotted a tiny bud popping out of the ground like popcorn. Soon, the bud unenveloped, and a bright sunlit yellow began to sprout. Out came an amazing sunflower, and the moment it showed its face to the world, Eric’s face and mind flooded deeply with happiness. Soon, buds began to sprout on the sides, causing more eruption of joy in the patch of grass, and the newfound sunflower patch. The yellow turned the faces of school bullies to happy students who loved math. It transformed someone who just got fired from a high paying job into a brand new person with flashes of hope in their hearts. This sunflower helped many people to brighten their attitude, brightening the community in response. As the years went on, and the decades grew longer, the communities worst nightmare came true. As Eric walked into the patch of green grass at 6 a.m. on a Saturday, a new usual routine to make sure his next week went good, he spotted something – a dark patch of wilted black filled with weeds, horrendous enough to cause a storm. A storm of anger and negative feelings in the community. The fired people form jobs looked glum again, and the dash of hope here and there flickered and disappeared. The community lost it – it felt as if ghosts were about to scare you around every corner. Same feeling when the flower was there – just hopeful. But that’s gone now. The engagement in activities, voting for sustainable practices, everything. Gone. Just like that. Like the wind was some devil created to take away hope. Life went out like a wisp. It was hell. Hell. Time passed, just like earlier, but a hundred times more painful. The once joyful faces were mixed with sorrow and devastation. Devastation. Time slowed down as it continued. Soon, it was barely moving. But the black spots started to disappear. and guess what? Decades of life and faith, all influenced by one brave sunflower.
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4-AryanR
writing 🙂
week 4 scholarship writing
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4-Tracy-lau
here is my hw 🙂
Scholarship Writing Wk 4
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4-melodyc
The Mysterious Sunflower
The sunflower was not one ordinary sunflower it was the most mysterious sunflower in the park, leaning on it’s right side drooping down. With only one bright yellow petal the flower remained crooked as still as a statue. Sophie and Sara walked slowly in the park , they were walking as slow as a snail looking at the beautiful group of Roses, Tulips and sunflowers until they saw the mysterious sunflower . Sara thought it was ugly but Sophie thought it was a wonderful piece of art. Sophie remembered the rule of the park. Take one flower that you love home! Right when Sophie remembered that she was twirling and knew which flower she wants to bring home. Sophie got a tub and put the sunflower in cautiously into the tub. While Sara was walking back to her house Sophie was galloping then twirling back. They saw the Lorikeets singing and saw bees collecting sweet pollen.
“Bye Sara!” Sophie yelled .
Sophie then quickly ran back to her house , putting her unique sunflower into her favourite vase which was in her room.
She zoomed as quickly as a cheetah past her parents without saying a word. Her favourite vase was blue with pictures of Lillies ,Sunflowers which she thought would be perfect for her new pet sunflower.
” I’m going to name you Sunny the Sunflower,” she said as she was speaking to herself.
She went online, rapidly looking for information about looking after a Sunflower. It said to feed it water twice a day to make it look like the most perfect sunflower ever! Sophie didn’t want Sunny The sunflower to look perfect so she fed it once a day. Sophie walked outside while the cold winter breeze kissed the cheeks. Sophie went to her garage to look for something that se could decorate Sunny with, maybe a bow. At night Sophie Put on Sunny’s small beanie that Sophie made for her by knitting. Sophie felt the Mysterious sunflowers crunchy leaves gave Sophie a Soft high five.
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4-Ariana Huang
Here is my Week 4 Homework.
A Sunflower Journey
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4-Ce
The City that was like a Village.
Jones stood on the soft golden sand, small waves crashing against her feet. He took a deep breath of sea air. It was fresh as there was no pollution in her village. Even though Jones ‘village’ is technically a city he regarded it as village, a beehive where every bee helped each other out. They all take care of the queen bee- nature. This is what Jones loves about her ‘village.’ Life isn’t busy and everyone and everything works together- even nature.
Jones skipped home joyfully on the long-winded path. She stopped at Mrs Peterson’s cottage as usual to see her lovely flowers.
“What’s happened to your flowers, Mrs Peterson? There all droopy and withered” I asked concerned.
“Don’t know Jones, they’ve been funny all day. Now, run along so you don’t miss your dinner.” she replied.
Jones walked back slowly to her home greeted by the odour of spaghetti bolognese. She licked her lips, eagerly. The delicious taste of the spaghetti bolognese exploded in her mouth like fireworks. She told her parents about Mrs Peterson’s flowers and their condition. Just like Mrs Peterson her parents told they would be fine soon. After finishing her pasta Jones headed to bed assured-her parents were never wrong.
DRRRRRR! Jones awoke next morning to the sound of a drill. Jones poked her head out to see some short men in black suits carrying briefcases. These men were instructing builders to knock Mrs Peterson’s Cottage down. Jones bolted like a cheetah over to the men and builders.
“What are you doing?” Jones yelled.
“Fixing your city,” a man replied.
“You can’t do that,” Jones cried.
“Watch me.”
With that those two builders lifted Jones up by the ears threw her 12 metres. Tears steamed down Jones face as she ran home.
Jones watched in terror as multiple cottages got knocked down. Soon the ‘village’ looked like a stampede of bulls ran through it. Jones cried the whole afternoon. Out the window Jones saw a donkey walk by. It looked lost and scared exactly how Jones felt.
Months passed as the ‘village’ and Jones noticed more butterflies fly by than usual. Slowly, Jones got used to the constant honks and the screeching sounds of trains. But she knew just because you get used to something doesn’t mean it’s good. Jones noticed change in the citizens in her ‘village.’ They ‘village’ was no longer a beehive, but every person was their own wasp- solitary and aggressive. Whenever, Jones went to Mrs Peterson’s house to inspect the flowers she would find them droopy, withered and dead. Sometimes she didn’t even have time to inspect the flowers before Mrs Peterson yelled ate her for being on her property.
Jones knew this had to stop. But what can I do. I do. I’m only a child. Thinking, hard for several days Jones finally devised a plan. She was never good at art, but this had to work. It just had to.
“Look mum,” a young boy said to her mum while her mum was on the phone.
“What?” grumbled the mum.
“There’s a poster that says join the rebellion!” We want our village back! Think of the good times!” And it’s made from a girl called Jones.”
Mum put the phone down, quickly, lost in thought. “What’s her address?”
Soon, by 6:00PM Jones had about three quarters of the village attending the meeting. Jones took a deep breath and told everyone what she had to say. The group left by 7:00 all of them chanting Jones motto, we are bees! Jone went to sleep happily, knowing the bees will soon strike!
Jones’s army soon got their plan into action. Throw rocks in the businessman houses at night. Put up more posters. Criticise everything they say. Jones plan seemed to work as within a week the businessmen fled.
“Stupid city!” One businessman grumbled. “We’ll make our money somewhere else.” One said.
Cheerfully, Jones skipped all the way to home. As usual, she stopped at Mrs Peterson’s house. Finally, after months Mrs Peterson’s flowers were tall and blooming again.
The City that was like a Village.
Jones stood on the soft golden sand, small waves crashing against her feet. He took a deep breath of sea air. It was fresh as there was no pollution in her village. Even though Jones ‘village’ is technically a city he regarded it as village, a beehive where every bee helped each other out. They all take care of the queen bee- nature. This is what Jones loves about her ‘village.’ Life isn’t busy and everyone and everything works together- even nature.
Jones skipped home joyfully on the long-winded path. She stopped at Mrs Peterson’s cottage as usual to see her lovely flowers.
“What’s happened to your flowers, Mrs Peterson? There all droopy and withered” I asked concerned.
“Don’t know Jones, they’ve been funny all day. Now, run along so you don’t miss your dinner.” she replied.
Jones walked back slowly to her home greeted by the odour of spaghetti bolognese. She licked her lips, eagerly. The delicious taste of the spaghetti bolognese exploded in her mouth like fireworks. She told her parents about Mrs Peterson’s flowers and their condition. Just like Mrs Peterson her parents told they would be fine soon. After finishing her pasta Jones headed to bed assured-her parents were never wrong.
DRRRRRR! Jones awoke next morning to the sound of a drill. Jones poked her head out to see some short men in black suits carrying briefcases. These men were instructing builders to knock Mrs Peterson’s Cottage down. Jones bolted like a cheetah over to the men and builders.
“What are you doing?” Jones yelled.
“Fixing your city,” a man replied.
“You can’t do that,” Jones cried.
“Watch me.”
With that those two builders lifted Jones up by the ears threw her 12 metres. Tears steamed down Jones face as she ran home.
Jones watched in terror as multiple cottages got knocked down. Soon the ‘village’ looked like a stampede of bulls ran through it. Jones cried the whole afternoon. Out the window Jones saw a donkey walk by. It looked lost and scared exactly how Jones felt.
Months passed as the ‘village’ and Jones noticed more butterflies fly by than usual. Slowly, Jones got used to the constant honks and the screeching sounds of trains. But she knew just because you get used to something doesn’t mean it’s good. Jones noticed change in the citizens in her ‘village.’ They ‘village’ was no longer a beehive, but every person was their own wasp- solitary and aggressive. Whenever, Jones went to Mrs Peterson’s house to inspect the flowers she would find them droopy, withered and dead. Sometimes she didn’t even have time to inspect the flowers before Mrs Peterson yelled ate her for being on her property.
Jones knew this had to stop. But what can I do. I do. I’m only a child. Thinking, hard for several days Jones finally devised a plan. She was never good at art, but this had to work. It just had to.
“Look mum,” a young boy said to her mum while her mum was on the phone.
“What?” grumbled the mum.
“There’s a poster that says join the rebellion!” We want our village back! Think of the good times!” And it’s made from a girl called Jones.”
Mum put the phone down, quickly, lost in thought. “What’s her address?”
Soon, by 6:00PM Jones had about three quarters of the village attending the meeting. Jones took a deep breath and told everyone what she had to say. The group left by 7:00 all of them chanting Jones motto, we are bees! Jone went to sleep happily, knowing the bees will soon strike!
Jones’s army soon got their plan into action. Throw rocks in the businessman houses at night. Put up more posters. Criticise everything they say. Jones plan seemed to work as within a week the businessmen fled.
“Stupid city!” One businessman grumbled. “We’ll make our money somewhere else.” One said.
Cheerfully, Jones skipped all the way to home. As usual, she stopped at Mrs Peterson’s house. Finally, after months Mrs Peterson’s flowers were tall and blooming again.
The City that was like a Village.
Jones stood on the soft golden sand, small waves crashing against her feet. He took a deep breath of sea air. It was fresh as there was no pollution in her village. Even though Jones ‘village’ is technically a city he regarded it as village, a beehive where every bee helped each other out. They all take care of the queen bee- nature. This is what Jones loves about her ‘village.’ Life isn’t busy and everyone and everything works together- even nature.
Jones skipped home joyfully on the long-winded path. She stopped at Mrs Peterson’s cottage as usual to see her lovely flowers.
“What’s happened to your flowers, Mrs Peterson? There all droopy and withered” I asked concerned.
“Don’t know Jones, they’ve been funny all day. Now, run along so you don’t miss your dinner.” she replied.
Jones walked back slowly to her home greeted by the odour of spaghetti bolognese. She licked her lips, eagerly. The delicious taste of the spaghetti bolognese exploded in her mouth like fireworks. She told her parents about Mrs Peterson’s flowers and their condition. Just like Mrs Peterson her parents told they would be fine soon. After finishing her pasta Jones headed to bed assured-her parents were never wrong.
DRRRRRR! Jones awoke next morning to the sound of a drill. Jones poked her head out to see some short men in black suits carrying briefcases. These men were instructing builders to knock Mrs Peterson’s Cottage down. Jones bolted like a cheetah over to the men and builders.
“What are you doing?” Jones yelled.
“Fixing your city,” a man replied.
“You can’t do that,” Jones cried.
“Watch me.”
With that those two builders lifted Jones up by the ears threw her 12 metres. Tears steamed down Jones face as she ran home.
Jones watched in terror as multiple cottages got knocked down. Soon the ‘village’ looked like a stampede of bulls ran through it. Jones cried the whole afternoon. Out the window Jones saw a donkey walk by. It looked lost and scared exactly how Jones felt.
Months passed as the ‘village’ and Jones noticed more butterflies fly by than usual. Slowly, Jones got used to the constant honks and the screeching sounds of trains. But she knew just because you get used to something doesn’t mean it’s good. Jones noticed change in the citizens in her ‘village.’ They ‘village’ was no longer a beehive, but every person was their own wasp- solitary and aggressive. Whenever, Jones went to Mrs Peterson’s house to inspect the flowers she would find them droopy, withered and dead. Sometimes she didn’t even have time to inspect the flowers before Mrs Peterson yelled ate her for being on her property.
Jones knew this had to stop. But what can I do. I do. I’m only a child. Thinking, hard for several days Jones finally devised a plan. She was never good at art, but this had to work. It just had to.
“Look mum,” a young boy said to her mum while her mum was on the phone.
“What?” grumbled the mum.
“There’s a poster that says join the rebellion!” We want our village back! Think of the good times!” And it’s made from a girl called Jones.”
Mum put the phone down, quickly, lost in thought. “What’s her address?”
Soon, by 6:00PM Jones had about three quarters of the village attending the meeting. Jones took a deep breath and told everyone what she had to say. The group left by 7:00 all of them chanting Jones motto, we are bees! Jone went to sleep happily, knowing the bees will soon strike!
Jones’s army soon got their plan into action. Throw rocks in the businessman houses at night. Put up more posters. Criticise everything they say. Jones plan seemed to work as within a week the businessmen fled.
“Stupid city!” One businessman grumbled. “We’ll make our money somewhere else.” One said.
Cheerfully, Jones skipped all the way to home. As usual, she stopped at Mrs Peterson’s house. Finally, after months Mrs Peterson’s flowers were tall and blooming again.
The City that was like a Village.
Jones stood on the soft golden sand, small waves crashing against her feet. He took a deep breath of sea air. It was fresh as there was no pollution in her village. Even though Jones ‘village’ is technically a city he regarded it as village, a beehive where every bee helped each other out. They all take care of the queen bee- nature. This is what Jones loves about her ‘village.’ Life isn’t busy and everyone and everything works together- even nature.
Jones skipped home joyfully on the long-winded path. She stopped at Mrs Peterson’s cottage as usual to see her lovely flowers.
“What’s happened to your flowers, Mrs Peterson? There all droopy and withered” I asked concerned.
“Don’t know Jones, they’ve been funny all day. Now, run along so you don’t miss your dinner.” she replied.
Jones walked back slowly to her home greeted by the odour of spaghetti bolognese. She licked her lips, eagerly. The delicious taste of the spaghetti bolognese exploded in her mouth like fireworks. She told her parents about Mrs Peterson’s flowers and their condition. Just like Mrs Peterson her parents told they would be fine soon. After finishing her pasta Jones headed to bed assured-her parents were never wrong.
DRRRRRR! Jones awoke next morning to the sound of a drill. Jones poked her head out to see some short men in black suits carrying briefcases. These men were instructing builders to knock Mrs Peterson’s Cottage down. Jones bolted like a cheetah over to the men and builders.
“What are you doing?” Jones yelled.
“Fixing your city,” a man replied.
“You can’t do that,” Jones cried.
“Watch me.”
With that those two builders lifted Jones up by the ears threw her 12 metres. Tears steamed down Jones face as she ran home.
Jones watched in terror as multiple cottages got knocked down. Soon the ‘village’ looked like a stampede of bulls ran through it. Jones cried the whole afternoon. Out the window Jones saw a donkey walk by. It looked lost and scared exactly how Jones felt.
Months passed as the ‘village’ and Jones noticed more butterflies fly by than usual. Slowly, Jones got used to the constant honks and the screeching sounds of trains. But she knew just because you get used to something doesn’t mean it’s good. Jones noticed change in the citizens in her ‘village.’ They ‘village’ was no longer a beehive, but every person was their own wasp- solitary and aggressive. Whenever, Jones went to Mrs Peterson’s house to inspect the flowers she would find them droopy, withered and dead. Sometimes she didn’t even have time to inspect the flowers before Mrs Peterson yelled ate her for being on her property.
Jones knew this had to stop. But what can I do. I do. I’m only a child. Thinking, hard for several days Jones finally devised a plan. She was never good at art, but this had to work. It just had to.
“Look mum,” a young boy said to her mum while her mum was on the phone.
“What?” grumbled the mum.
“There’s a poster that says join the rebellion!” We want our village back! Think of the good times!” And it’s made from a girl called Jones.”
Mum put the phone down, quickly, lost in thought. “What’s her address?”
Soon, by 6:00PM Jones had about three quarters of the village attending the meeting. Jones took a deep breath and told everyone what she had to say. The group left by 7:00 all of them chanting Jones motto, we are bees! Jone went to sleep happily, knowing the bees will soon strike!
Jones’s army soon got their plan into action. Throw rocks in the businessman houses at night. Put up more posters. Criticise everything they say. Jones plan seemed to work as within a week the businessmen fled.
“Stupid city!” One businessman grumbled. “We’ll make our money somewhere else.” One said.
Cheerfully, Jones skipped all the way to home. As usual, she stopped at Mrs Peterson’s house. Finally, after months Mrs Peterson’s flowers were tall and blooming again.
Please see the attached PDF for the feedback.
4-Aarav
The City that was like a Village.
Jones stood on the soft golden sand, small waves crashing against her feet. He took a deep breath of sea air. It was fresh as there was no pollution in her village. Even though Jones ‘village’ is technically a city he regarded it as village, a beehive where every bee helped each other out. They all take care of the queen bee- nature. This is what Jones loves about her ‘village.’ Life isn’t busy and everyone and everything works together- even nature.
I accidently posted my story twice in one comment
On a mountain that raced higher than the clouds, was Abbie, forcefully dragging her legs and hands upwards. Sweat ran down her head as the breeze flew past her shoulders. Her legs trembled each time she almost lost her balance. The Sun’s arms reached down onto the very peak of the mountain where a solitary flower stood. Even with the ice shattered across the ground, the flower bloomed vibrant flowers which contrasted from the snow.
Its petals stretched out as if the sky was granting it. The emerald leaves danced its head softly. The flower’s wafting scent spread its warm hug onto Abbie. Soon, the prickly ice melted until it unleashed its thick grass but it didn’t last for long. Grey haunting clouds over took the pitch black sky. The Sun’s welcoming smile faded into an unnatural grin as if it was to lead the gates of poison evilness.
The harsh blow of the wind hit Abbie’s skin like it was absorbing inside of her. Her nose twitched as the rosy fragrant of the flower turned to the scent of a chemical. The trampled grass disappeared under the unbeatable momentum of the ice. The snow flooded over Abbie’s legs until she was as still as a statue. The petals that were once reaching the sky, shrunk until it was no larger than an ant.
The jagged roots dug out of the soil like a sword. The rain gave out a cold wink as it passed through the leaves creating dents and holes. The breath of the wind swirled into Abbie’s ear whispering, “You might be like the vibrant flower but it will never last forever.” The flower seemed like it was about to fall onto the ground with no life in it. Abbie peered at the flower which was now slowly getting magnetic downwards. The flower slouched its back the same way Abbie did.
The petal’s old and wrinkly palm covered its face as the rain resembled a valley of tears. The steam turned into an overcooked burnt shade while the ice grew across it. The flower stopped growing as the ice fully covered the flower. Abbie shivered as the ice slowly started to ascend up from her legs to her arms. The flower was no longer able to resist the curse and fell onto the snow like it was always meant to like the rest of its family.
Please see the attached PDF for the feedback.
4-Lihini
Pls read the document below.
Document 5
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4-Kyle Hui
I breathed in the soft vanilla scent of the leaves of my sunflower. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves I had placed into a neat pile on the side of the school greenhouse ready to be put in the bin. The crisp leaves reminded me of an autumn day two years ago at home with my family. Mum and I had been tidying up the yard, with the smell of pork wafting from the barbecue, as Dad cooked. There were no delicious barbecue smells here. My first months at Virtue Valley College weren’t great. I had no friends. My parents sent me to a boarding school so they could work. They work as flight attendants, so they don’t have much time to look after me. My name is Adria. My best friends Haili and Gracie are twins. We all played together at recess and lunch last year. This year everything changed. Haili was introduced to a new friend group. She doesn’t play with Gracie and I anymore. I was really annoyed at Haili at first but then I learnt that people change. Not everyone stays the same and that doesn’t mean they don’t like you, it just means that they have other people that they want to play with more.
Around the time when Haili stopped playing with us, I planted a sunflower seed. It took my mind off my friendship worries. I have been watering my sunflower continuously. As little buds started to grow on the stem, I began to get used to not having Haili play with us. Just like my sunflower, I was growing and learning.
Recently, it feels like Gracie wants to play with others now too. She’s always looking over at Haili and her friends and sometimes, Haili looks at her too.
One day, at recess, I asked Gracie if she wanted to play but she said she felt unwell and needed to go the office.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I said.
She shook her head and hurried off towards the office. When I got back into class Gracie was there.
“How’s your headache?” I asked.
“What do you mean headache?” She looked at me with a clueless expression.
“Didn’t you go to the office at recess?”
“Oh, my headache, it’s all better now. Mrs. Laurier told me to check back in with her at lunch though.”
“Oh OK,” I said, slightly confused.
At lunch, Gracie headed to the office. Weirdly, I thought that I saw her talking to Haili on the library steps a few minutes later. I ran over but by the time I got there, she had completely disappeared. It was Friday so we got to go to our dormitory rooms early. I share a dorm with Tricia, Zoë and Akira. Later, I told them how Gracie had a headache during recess and went back to the office at lunch. They told me that Gracie hadn’t actually been at the office. She had been playing with Haili and her friends.
I laid in bed wide awake that night, still thinking about how Gracie had changed her friend group. I hadn’t done anything wrong had I? The next morning I thought about confronting Gracie but my nerves held me back. When I went to water my plant the leaves were all droopy and dry. My plant was feeling sad and alone, like me.
At recess, it was harder than ever. I really wanted to confront her but something held me back. I sat on the library steps alone.
The next morning, when I went to water my plant, I was surprised to see that it had bloomed. The petals were a bright, buttery yellow and every single part of the plant looked stronger than ever. I decided that since my sunflower was stronger, I would be too. At lunchtime, I saw Grace walking towards her friends. I decided this would be the best time to talk to her, before she got to Haili and their friends.
“Why did you just drop me? Did I do something wrong?”
Gracie looked at me, paused and replied. “No you didn’t do anything wrong, I just, Haili threatened to throw a tantrum, but I realised I shouldn’t have just left you like that.”
“You could have just told me and we could have worked something out.”
“Sorry I was too scared to tell you,” Gracie said.
“That’s OK, we all make mistakes.” I responded. To make up to me Gracie promised to play with me for three weeks in a row. That wasn’t important though, what was important is learning to stand up to others. Back in the dorms my sunflower looked stronger than ever. Was this a sign?
Rebounding
The lone sunflower stood straight like a soldier, loyally attending the sun like a servant. The field of grass surrounded it, a massive army surrounding a minuscule fortress, destroying any hopes of supplies.
I could remember when we had moved here, alone in our community of new faces. The unfamiliar scent of smoke replaced the earthy aroma of soil. The rain made different sounds against the dull concrete, and loud sections of drums instead of the single timpani that pattered peacefully. The first time I went into the back yard, the sunflower, a seed in my hand. I had dug a hole and softly inserted it into the small pit, coaxing the soil into the hole afterwards.
In eight days, a confident stem had risen from the soft, gritty but smooth soil bed, its pale green stem wrestling with the grass, two sumo wrestlers struggling against each other to push each other out of the ring. Then, I was a shadow, always there but mute, unable to speak out. Slowly, I stretched out a fragile stem that could break with the weakest touch. I recalled my first time reaching out, remembering the words hitting me like a wrecking ball in the face. What Tom said reverberated in my ears, a tidal wave of insults washing over me.
Recollecting my memories, I recalled the sunflower in my backyard, squashed and defeated by a turkey, evident by the faint tracks in the soil. The sunflower withered, but still came back, rebounding from the setback. In no time, it was standing tall and proud, a tall skyscraper enduring the fierce winds and weight of its inhabitants.
Today, at school, I reached out again, trying again to become tall, just like the sunflower. A twister of worries and doubts swirled inside me, leaving a blazing trail of destruction. How do I know I will succeed? What if I face the same situation as last time? I don’t want to be targeted as the ‘weakling’ if I get rejected! While the civil war between the two sides of my brain raged on, I unconsciously sat on the bench.
“Hi, what’s your name? My name is Freddie”
I froze. My internal war stopped. Did someone just ask for my name? Does he want to be my friend, or is it just a prank?
I pushed my ominous thoughts into the back of my head and replied. Soon, our conversation was a runaway freight train, and not even the heavy resistance of the school bell could stop us. As I got home, I noticed the sunflower had its head drooped in shame, dispersing its seeds of rebirth. Like a phoenix, the sunflower would soon rise back to life, just like me. A friend, and happy school days.
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4-Zac Cui
My body trembled as the wind groaned past my ears. How could I have let this happen? How could I let her do that? Why…why?
I still recall. It was the perfect day, the Summer Solstice. The sun was shining, its bright rays hitting my back with a burst of warmth. The grass was greener than I had ever seen before, dancing in the gentle breeze. Daniela – my best friend – and I had been trading jokes and laughter while we played in the woods as I chased her with a stick. She was running backwards – a decision that affected my life, forever. I only had seconds to realise the approaching cliff. My eyes widened. My heartbeat froze.
“Daniela-” I cried. It was too late. I watched as her foot slip. I watched as her mouth opened to scream. I watched. It was all my fault. All my fault.
Those three words had haunted me since the incident. I walked in my town with a constant feeling of misery and guilt – I was the cause of her death. The feeling gnawed at my toes every day, every week, every year. So why did I go back to that haunting place? I needed to feel a sense of forgiveness – not a forced one out of sympathy, a small genuine one. I didn’t deserve it – but the burden was overweighing my shoulders.
I stepped into the icy path. It had been so familiar over the past years – I knew the woods like the back of my hand. As I reached the steep cliff, I recalled her last giggles. “You’re my bestest friend ever!” If only, oh, if only she would know how much I loved her. If only I could at least tell her. She was gone too soon. I felt water streaming out of my eyes, barely reaching the ground before freezing solid.
“I’m so sorry, Dani,” I whispered, gazing off at the cliff. “It was all my fault.” I started sobbing.
Then everything in the forest went silent – so silent only my quiet cries were all I could hear. I saw a sunflower bloom at the corner of my eye. The snow covered path that only weeds would grow – there was a sunflower growing. I knelt beside it, gently admiring its proud petals. A smiled tugged at my mouth. The flower had grew in the iciest month. So unlikely, yet not impossible. Was this a sign from her? Was it, somehow, a willing symbol of forgiveness?
Please see the attached PDF for the feedback.
4-Jo Gao
Could you please mark this one instead of the one posted earlier today❓
I breathed in the soft vanilla scent of the leaves of my sunflower. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves I had placed into a neat pile on the side of the school greenhouse ready to be put in the bin. The crisp leaves reminded me of an autumn day two years ago at home with my family. Mum and I had been tidying up the yard, with the smell of pork wafting from the barbecue, as Dad cooked. There were no delicious barbecue smells here. My first months at Virtue Valley College weren’t great. I had no friends. My parents sent me to a boarding school so they could work. They work as flight attendants, so they don’t have much time to look after me. My name is Adria. My best friends Haili and Gracie are twins. We all played together at recess and lunch last year. This year everything changed. Haili was introduced to a new friend group. She doesn’t play with Gracie and I anymore. I was really annoyed at Haili at first but then I learnt that people change. Not everyone stays the same and that doesn’t mean they don’t like you, it just means that they have other people that they want to play with more.
Around the time when Haili stopped playing with us, I planted a sunflower seed. It took my mind off my friendship worries. I have been watering my sunflower continuously. As little buds started to grow on the stem, I began to get used to not having Haili play with us. Just like my sunflower, I was growing and learning.
Recently, it feels like Gracie wants to play with others now too. She’s always looking over at Haili and her friends and sometimes, Haili looks at her too.
One day, at recess, I asked Gracie if she wanted to play but she said she felt unwell and needed to go the office.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I said.
She shook her head and hurried off towards the office. When I got back into class Gracie was there.
“How’s your headache?” I asked.
“What do you mean headache?” She looked at me with a clueless expression.
“Didn’t you go to the office at recess?”
“Oh, my headache, it’s all better now. Mrs. Laurier told me to check back in with her at lunch though.”
“Oh OK,” I said, slightly confused.
At lunch, Gracie headed to the office. Weirdly, I thought that I saw her talking to Haili on the library steps a few minutes later. I ran over but by the time I got there, she had completely disappeared. It was Friday so we got to go to our dormitory rooms early. I share a dorm with Tricia, Zoë and Akira. Later, I told them how Gracie had a headache during recess and went back to the office at lunch. They told me that Gracie hadn’t actually been at the office. She had been playing with Haili and her friends.
I laid in bed wide awake that night, still thinking about how Gracie had changed her friend group. I hadn’t done anything wrong had I? The next morning I thought about confronting Gracie but my nerves held me back. When I went to water my plant the leaves were all droopy and dry. My plant was feeling sad and alone, like me.
At recess, it was harder than ever. I really wanted to confront her but something held me back. I sat on the library steps alone.
The next morning, when I went to water my plant, I was surprised to see that it had bloomed. The petals were a bright, buttery yellow and every single part of the plant looked stronger than ever. I decided that since my sunflower was stronger, I would be too. At lunchtime, I saw Grace walking towards her friends. I decided this would be the best time to talk to her, before she got to Haili and their friends.
“Why did you just drop me? Did I do something wrong?”
Gracie looked at me, paused and replied. “No you didn’t do anything wrong, I just, Haili threatened to throw a tantrum, but I realised I shouldn’t have just left you like that.”
“You could have just told me and we could have worked something out.”
“I was too scared to tell you. Haili threatened to tell our parents that we weren’t getting along. They are already thinking about removing us from boarding school to be closer to our family.” Gracie cried.
“Should we tell a well-being officer about Haili? She can’t control who you want to play with and can’t keep threatening you to get what she wants.” I responded.
We both told Mrs Glare about the incident and she told us she would have a chat with Haili about threatening other people. What was most important was that I learned how to stand up to others. Back in the dorms my sunflower looked stronger than ever. Was this a sign?
Please see the attached PDF for the feedback.
4-Stefanie
Lily cared deeply about flowers. She believed they were not just pretty but an important part of the world. Her favourite were sunflowers, tall and golden, always lifting their faces to the sun. Lily wished she could be like them, brave and bright, but most of the time she felt small and quiet.
At school, the boys in her class didn’t care about the environment at all. They crushed flowers under their shoes and pulled petals apart for fun. Every time Lily saw them do it, her chest filled with rage, but the words got stuck in her throat. She was too shy to argue, too afraid to stand tall like a sunflower.
The boys kept going, destroying flower after flower, and soon the playground looked empty and lifeless. Lily felt guilty, as if she had failed the flowers she loved. The boys noticed her sadness and teased her even more. That guilt and sadness grew heavy inside her, but slowly, it began to change into something else. She could not stay quiet forever.
This time, Lily decided she would be different. She would not bow her head like a broken sunflower. She told her friends, and together they came up with a plan. They bought fake spiders from the shop because they knew the boys hated them.
One evening, Lily heard the boys were going to the forest to trample even more flowers. She and her friends hid behind trees, waiting. The sky was turning gold, the same colour as sunflower petals, when the boys arrived. Just as they raised their boots to stamp on a flower, Lily and her friends dropped the spiders.
The boys screamed and stumbled backwards. Their faces twisted in fear as they scrambled away, too shocked to laugh. From behind the trees, Lily finally smiled. For once, she felt tall like a sunflower reaching for the sun, no longer afraid.
The next day at school, Lily stood up in class. Her voice was clear as she told the boys and everyone else that flowers mattered, that they should be cared for, not crushed. To her surprise, the boys listened. Over time, they even helped her plant new seedlings.
When the first sunflowers bloomed, their golden heads shining, Lily saw herself in them. She was no longer the quiet girl who stayed in the shadows. She had grown strong, just like the flowers she loved.
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4-E L
It sprouted one spring between the cracked pavement and the rusted chain-link fence outside Mira’s window—bold, bright, and impossible to ignore. She hated it.
Each morning, it twisted its thick stalk toward the sun like it was worshipping something. Mira pulled her curtains tighter. Nothing grew in this part of town. Not here, where sirens outnumbered birdsong and dreams stayed stuck to the soles of your shoes. But still, it grew.
Mira used to believe in growing things. Her mother once filled their apartment with houseplants and old records, saying both made air easier to breathe. Then came the silence, the eviction, the shoebox-sized studio. Her mother stopped singing. The plants shriveled, one by one.
But the sunflower thrived.
By summer, it was taller than the fence. Neighbors smiled at it. Children pointed. Mira glared. It looked like defiance in yellow petals. Like hope she hadn’t asked for. Every time she looked at it, she felt something clawing inside her chest—something dangerous. She bought scissors.
That night, after the heat faded and the streets went quiet, Mira stepped outside. She knelt by the stalk, fingers brushing the coarse leaves. It felt alive in a way she didn’t remember being. She raised the scissors.
It took more strength than she expected. The stem was thick, unyielding. But she sawed and twisted, and finally, it fell—heavy, sunless, decapitated in her hand.
She left it on the pavement.
Days passed. She expected relief, maybe victory. Instead, her room looked darker. The air was heavier. But then, something strange—small green shoots pushing up around the base of the severed stem. One, then three, then more.
By late August, a cluster of sunflowers had bloomed in its place, bending not just toward the sun—but toward her window.
She didn’t close the curtains this time.
By autumn, Mira had a pot on her sill. She’d found a discarded packet of seeds and planted them herself. They were scraggly, slow. But they were hers.
She still didn’t trust sunflowers. Not fully. Too eager. Too bright.
But when one crooked stalk finally stretched tall and turned toward her instead of the sun, she didn’t cut it down.
This is my redo – can you please mark it? Thank you so much.
A Sunflower’s Journey – Redo
Quickly, I sprinted up the court, towards my opponent. I saw the ball, just above me, soaring like an eagle. My eyes darted to the scoreboard. 89:89. I couldn’t just give this game away. I jumped up, hands reaching out for the ball, and swiped for it.
Thump.
The court felt soft and cozy, like a bed. Was I going crazy? I tried blinking open my eyes. It didn’t work, but my ears did.
‘What happened?’
‘Yo, can’t believe we’re all here.’
‘Is he okay, though?’
‘Well, basketball games are tough.’
Then, a giant splash of white covered my eyes, as I slowly opened them. I looked around. My arm was plastered, and I was lying in an awkward position in a hospital bed. On the table counter next to me, was a tiny sunflower. One of its petals had been ripped off, but it just stood there, hopefully pointing to the sun. I looked back at my hand.
The next week, when I had to return to school, something was different. Everyone was staring at me, like they had just witnessed a robbery. I quickly went to Josh, my best friend.
‘What happened?’ I whispered to him.
‘You’re not on the team anymore.’ He immediately replied. ‘Coach had an argument with the nurse, who said it’s impossible to fix your hand.’
‘But I can play left-handed!’ I argued.
‘Just leave it already, you know how he is.’ He just said.
So for the next 7 months, I trained left-handed. I practised layups, shots, and dribbling left-handed, until I was ready. I went up to the coach.
‘Can I rejoin the basketball team?’ I asked, my heart full of butterflies.
‘Show me your skills first. And I can’t expect you to play well with that broken hand of yours.’ He angrily replied.
So I showed him. I showed him the result of 7 months of training, and made it in.
And when I went back to the hospital for a check-up of my hand, I saw the same sunflower, only now, it had regrown its petals, and almost covered the entire area of the left half of the bed. I looked at it, then stared at my hand. Maybe one day, my hand was going to recover, too.