Week 5 Writing Homework
Write a narrative exploring the theme of ‘courage is not the absence of fear.’
Use an extended metaphor (such as crossing a bridge, climbing a mountain, or entering a dark place) that runs throughout your story. Your ending should include a final image that symbolises your character’s growth and illuminates the theme without stating it directly.)
include all techniques from weeks 1 to 5
Slides: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1I4h1A0b1Y7eiFxULrb-HTp0xpyrrleen?usp=sharing
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- Due Date : November 18, 2025
- Feedback will be shared in 3-5 days
57 thoughts on “Week 5 Writing Homework”
19th February 2025:
The river widened beneath her, black and restless, its surface broken by scattered reeds. Lena’s hands gripped the wooden railing, rough and splintered, every fiber vibrating under her fingers. The planks swayed slightly with the wind, but she pressed forward, desperate for the end. Each step felt like wading through water she could never touch, the boards groaning under her weight like whispered warnings. Somewhere beneath, currents tugged at the shadows of fallen branches, twisting them into shapes that reminded her of faces she had long stopped calling by name.
She paused at a thumb-width depression in the wood, worn smooth. Fingers traced it slowly. Nearby, a small stone balanced on the edge, its surface polished by the river. She turned it over in her hand, feeling the faint ridges, then set it back.
23rd January 2023:
Her father walked beside her across the bridge, coat collar turned up, cigarette glowing between his fingers. The boards shifted beneath them.
“Look at this,” he said, bending to pick up a smooth stone. “Every crease tells a story.”
Lena crouched, tracing its veins. Cracks ran along the bridge; moss clung stubbornly. “It’s amazing,” she said.
He smiled. “Even the smallest things matter. You’ll notice them when you need them most.”
They stepped carefully over mossy cracks. He tossed a pebble into the river. Its ripple caught the sunlight.
They stopped mid-bridge. He crouched again, pointing at a patch of moss. “See how it clings?” he said. “Even in rough places, it survives.”
Lena looked closely. Tiny insects skimmed puddles. Sunlight caught each splinter differently. The bridge hummed beneath them.
Her father laughed, warm and untethered. Lena’s own laughter followed instinctively, though she didn’t know why.
19th February 2025:
The boards swayed beneath her boots. Lena pressed her palms flat. Grain, knot, moss; every detail against her skin.
She stopped at the thumb-width depression, fingers lingering. The small stone rested nearby, still polished by the river’s flow. She picked it up, turning it over slowly. A reed bent in the current but did not break.
The wind tugged at her hair. Lena listened to the boards creak beneath her weight, to the water rushing below, and stepped forward, leaving the stone in place, letting the current shape the rest.
Tom jerked his head up to find himself face to face with another massive wave that tilted his boat so far that the ocean could see the tears in his eyes and his windswept hair. Then suddenly it would shove it back like a rich kid’s approach to a poorer classmate. Selfish. Brutal. Keeping in a brutal reminder of what would happen if the ocean got bored. And now the ocean had toyed with him for more than an hour already. Keeping sure that he would never forget that it was there. Despite the waves Tom still went solo sailing across the Atlantic to claim a bet, not for the pleasure of claiming it but to help his poor fishing family.
After 29 days on open sea Tom had already grown to around the size of the thickest pole you would find bearing a 50kmph and had also used up half the food reserves. So as being this buff he would have immense difficulty balancing while at the wheel. From rainwater damage to huge catastrophic storms like now Tom had been through it. So except the money the only thing that kept him going is the phrase ‘Courage is not without the absence of fear’. His school teacher taught him that even the bravest always have some weakness they fear. Tom had always been confused as he thought that super heroes adventured without fear. Now he knew why. He ducked under another wave and looked in horror at the next wave that was approaching.
A thing of a beast, sent right from the bloody depth of hell. A few days later, Tom could only just recall how it hit his boat. How severe the damage was was never to be found. The wave hit the boat like a soccer ball hitting a water bottle. It turned turtle flinging Tom off the boat and into the grasps of the ocean. He did a full somersault and kicked up to the surface with a huge gasp for air. The ship was only a metre away but swimming in this weather made climbing the smooth surface look like cake. Another wave crashed into Tom and surged him forwards effectively propelling him into the boat but also as efficiently knocking him out.
10 hours later…
“Urh, where am I?” Tom groggily stared at the night sky. Then he remembered that he was out on the Atlantic with no food, water and shelter. He jolted awake and sat up like someone put an electric eel in his shirt. Being on the back of the boat he knew that he would run out of food and he wasted no time observing the water for fish. The dark waters revealed nothing at first. But then he saw a small silver streak darting about in the water. He tensed. His mind went back to retrieve all those memories on how to fish with hands. Now he was ready.
1 hour later.
Now Tom was ready to commit suicide. The fish are just too fast and he was just too far from the surface. Every time he dived in, the fish would see his shadow and dart away. Then he had to climb back onto the boat. With all that wasted energy and his thirst growing steady he knew he should just give up now. No food. No water. But always, thirst. Tom lay back onto the boat with his hands in the water and his stomach growling. But at that moment he remembered the quote ‘courage is not without fear’. It brought his hope back. He didn’t have to cross the ocean to not fear it but with courage and that is what drove him forwards through the perilous journey. He stood up. He couldn’t give up now. He had already completed 30 days on sea! God will help those who help themselves and God certainly helped Tom as now a part of land was in sight. Tom wept in joy as now he knew that once he got back to Europe his family wouldn’t starve any more.
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“The Bridge at Dusk”
October 3, 2024:
Elias stepped onto the old suspension bridge, the boards creaking beneath his boots. The air smelled faintly of pine and wet earth. Moss clung stubbornly to the ropes and wooden beams, green against grey, thriving in shadow and damp. He crouched for a closer look, brushing a finger along the soft growth, inhaling the faint scent of decay and rain.
A tendril of smoke drifted from a nearby fire pit where he had stopped to light a candle, curling lazily in the wind. It reminded him of an old, sweet-smoky smell, the kind that made the throat scratch but lingered in memory. He closed his eyes, letting the wind carry the scent across the river, where currents churned quietly below.
May 14, 2012:
Elias perched on the bridge’s edge, knees pulled up, watching his father as he leaned against the rope railing. The man held a small tin of tobacco, a cigarette burning in his mouth, slowly. Smoke twisted into the air and caught in the ropes, curling around thick patches of moss.
“See that?” his father said, tapping a damp tuft. “Moss doesn’t ask for sun. Doesn’t rush. It survives where nothing else will.” He exhaled, letting the smoke drift over the boy’s face. “It’s not flashy, but it keeps going. Same with… everything else worth keeping.”
Elias squinted at the moss, tracing the tiny tendrils crawling over rough wood. His father pulled a small green ribbon from his pocket and tied it to a knot in the rope. “Some things you can’t carry forever. Some things you leave to hold themselves.” He gestured at the river, the boards, the faint shadows beneath. The boy nodded, though he didn’t fully understand, watching the smoke spiral into the sky and the moss curl stubbornly toward the gaps in the boards.
October 3, 2024:
Elias ran a finger along the knot where the ribbon had once been. Moss had claimed it now, thick and resilient. The smoke from the candle lingered in the air, curling over the boards and tangling in the ropes like a memory that had finally settled.
The river below moved steady and unhurried. A single wildflower had rooted between two planks, petals trembling in the evening light, green vivid against the grey decay. Elias crouched to brush dirt from its stem, then straightened, stepping back.
He lingered a moment, letting the wind tug at his jacket, the moss clinging to the wood, the smoke twisting upward. Then he turned, leaving the bridge to its quiet work.
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In the newfound modern world of 2025, humanity has many people, but these people are split into two groups of personality – humble and arrogant. Some people understand the true depths of courage and honesty, while others think one courageous act make them fearless for life, and I’m pretty sure it’s obvious which is which. Some bridges are easy to cross and should be done whenever possible. Some should be crossed when you arrive. But some… some should be left untouched, without a step on. When you crawl into the dark room believing monsters will appear but you will be safe, when you climb the heights of the mountains with the thought of failure but you hang on. It doesn’t make you fearless. But it does make you courageous.
Here are some quotes proving that courage isn’t absence of fear –
“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear.” — Mark Twain “I think fearless is having fears but jumping anyway.” — Taylor Swift “Becoming fearless isn’t the point. That’s impossible. It’s learning how to control your fear, and how to be free from it.” — Veronica Roth
People shouldn’t avoid fear – they should move through it. It’s life. It’s the ways of survival. But most of all, it’s courage.
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My homework is the file below. Thank you!
The Weaver and the Void
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Present
I pulled myself up a ledge, scraping my knee on a rock on the way. The pain seared through my leg, but I knew I had to go on. I looked at the view, an entire city at my feet and I kept on walking. Then, crack. I fell into a crevasse, and I felt my leg crumple. grasped around my bag hoping to find the first aid kit but as I pulled it out, I dropped it and it rolled down the cliff. This was it, I thought. I would die here on this mountain trying to retrieve my family’s hidden fortune to save my family. I ate my last bit of food and blacked out.
20 Years ago
“A little further” coaxed my father as we pulled ourselves up another crevasse. When we were near one of the last few ledges to the summit, we found out that it had collapsed. I had wanted to go back but dad told me to hold on. “Every problem has a solution” he had claimed and he picked up some stones and wood to make a makeshift ladder. As he did this, I watched in awe. His finger worked quickly and soon, we were at the top of the mountain. Dad buried the chest in a deep hole and we went down again.
Present was where I stood twenty years ago.
The cracks in the ground beckoned to me wanting to consume my hope but I knew I couldn’t give up. As my father said, every problem has a solution. I picked up a piece of wood and then I tied it around my leg. Then I stacked the stones up in one pile and climbed up. The pain was excruciating but I kept on going until I had climbed out of the hole. Then I realised that I was on the same ledge I had stood twenty years ago. I dug until I had found the chest. I then collapsed onto the floor sobbing in joy. I had done it. I had endured pain and suffering but I had done it.
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14th October 2023
Ethan’s hands clasped onto the wooden railings, each bristle trembling under her fingers. He panted. He quivered. He looked down. The planks wobbled loosely under his feet, its splintered surface piercing him with every step he took. A fierce current swirled on the rocks, as if waiting for his drop. A tempest of wind sliced through the trees, releasing twigs that shot through the gales like arrows. Rivers of tears flowed down Ethan’s sweaty face. He froze. His eyes widened. His legs jerked. The deteriorating planks groaned once again. He glanced back, trepidation in his eyes. Ethan stared fearfully back at the cherished playground.
“I shouldn’t have crossed… Not if I have to cross on creaky property… I’m not reaching the other side… Not worth it… I’m going back… This is way too dangerous… ” muttered Ethan, his voice barely audible in the wind.
As he turned back to return, a memory flashed through his mind…
12th January 2021
“Ethan, you need to embrace your fears. You need to be brave. Courageous.” said Ethan’s dad, his voice echoing throughout the park. “You don’t have to get rid of them, but just overcome them and learn to control it. You shouldn’t avoid fear, you must push through it.”
“I’ll try,” whispered Ethan. His eyes scanned the metal chains holding a swing and tugged at it before cautiously moving onto it.
14th October 2023
This was it. This was why Ethan felt so lured to the broken structure today. He had always avoided it. Until now. He looked back up. He was much closer to the end than he had previously thought. Ethan stood upright. And continued.
‘Go, walk forward.
Don’t look back.
Stay calm.
Breathe.
It is safe.
You won’t drop.
Don’t turn around.
Yes.
Almost there…’
Ethan stepped onto the other side, his face filled with happiness. Not just because he got to explore the other side, but because he learnt a lesson. Ethan embraced the challenge. He overcame his fear. He realised he didn’t need to have no fears to conquer a challenge, but need to have the right mindset. Ethan now knew, it is crucial to push through fears.
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August, 1984
Aaron was twelve when he found the clock—dusty brass sleeping beneath old blankets, a forgotten heartbeat in his grandfather’s attic. Its glass wore a crack like a wound, hands frozen at a quarter past seven, trembling, uncertain, as if time itself stuttered. But when he wound it—oh, when he wound it—everything tilted. The hands spasmed, spun wild, and the attic folded into nothingness.
Suddenly: sunlight, but thinner, a pale syrup poured from somewhere false. Air thrummed with the drone of machines he’d never known. The world around him was an echo—houses stretched tall and thin, trees shrunken, people drifting, tethered to glass that glowed in their palms, faces erased by blue light. The colors bled into gray. Stillness pressed against his skin.
And there—himself.
Older, maybe twenty, slouched on a hospital bench. The same copper hair, the same constellation of freckles across knuckles. His older self wept, but quietly—no tears, just the raw silence of a wound too deep for sound. His gaze fixed on a door: Room 307. The numbers pincered Aaron’s heart, though he didn’t know why. He stepped through.
Grandfather. Pale, waning, adrift in a sea of humming machines. His chest rose and fell, shallow, the body already halfway to shadow. A nurse murmured, voice lost under the steady, mechanical beeping.
And then—the beeping ceased.
Aaron screamed.
He screamed until the world unraveled—then he was back in the attic, clutching the clock, smoke rising in thin ghostly ribbons. Afterward, laughter fled him. Words, too. He couldn’t meet his grandfather’s eyes without trembling, each smile, each story, each slow shuffle of feet tolling the seconds toward something he could not halt. He tried—school, friends, games—but the memory settled inside him, a stone at the bottom of his stomach. Nights brought dreams of spinning hands, the number 307 scrawled everywhere, time no longer progressing—only pulling him, inexorable, toward that door.
Now
His grandfather died just as he’d seen. Aaron stayed away from the hospital. His parents called him cold, unfeeling, but they didn’t know—he’d already grieved, already carried the loss, already scarred. After the funeral, he took the clock and buried it beneath the old oak, roots curling around secrets. He was finished with the future. But time, unfeeling, swept forward. The wound never closed, a seam that split in the quiet. Some nights, when wind rattled the oak’s leaves, Aaron heard the ticking—slow, sly, time’s soft laughter, reminding him: bury the clock, but time is not fooled.
Courage, he learned, was never the absence of fear.
It was standing by the oak, anyway.
It was hearing the ticking and choosing to remain. It was pressing his palm to the cold bark, heart battering his ribs, Room 307 blazing behind closed eyes. One breath. Then another. And another. Not fearless—never—but present. When the wind rose, the leaves quivered, and a glint of brass peeked from the dirt—a whisper of the clock, just beneath the surface. Not a threat. Not a punishment.
Only a memory.
A boy, shaking, hand on the oak above the buried clock—afraid, but staying. Choosing not to run.
This is courage.
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Scholarly Wk 5
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I was cornered. Nowhere to run. Brick wall behind me. Four people are ganging up. Blacking out.
30 Mins before
It was early in the morning. I plodded up my town’s forgotten park, I couldn’t see anything the mist was covering it. I didn’t know why I came here, but I kept on advancing quickly towards the park. When the fog cleared it was clean no graffiti no sticks or leaves. it was clean, almost too clean to be normal. I was walking through walking to the park then realized that one stick, one singular stick in the middle of the park with a plastic bag right next to it, white substance inside. I wanted to investigate but wasn’t sure it seemed almost just maybe out of place. I heard some breathing behind me. Was I imagining it? Was it real? Four shadows fell over me I knew I was not imagining it, I spun around. Nothing just two more sticks. At that point my heart was racing, I could feel sweat pouring down my face. At that point I wanted to run but I knew I had come so far that I cannot go back now. I heard a crunch of leaves. Once again instincts took over and I spun around – no one. I kept on going I am trembling now. Each step felt like I was holding up the world, hesitation hit me with each step. Run. They’re here. Have to escape. No choice. Closing in. No blacking out. Stop. Breath.
‘What are you doing in our park?’ He shouted at my face so loud, I swear I felt the ground tremble.
‘N n n nothing’ I stammered.
At this point my tummy is in millions of knots. I prayed. Though I knew I was probably done for and does pretty much nothing else I could do.
‘I’m new here I thought this was the town park.’ I choked out
They said nothing. Two of them left I knew this was my chance I had to run but how it was just not physically possible. Two big men cornering me the other two not far away. I was simply domed. Talking my way out of it was impossible – One of them grabbed me and shouted angrily at my face and said your not new my colleague has seen you here every day in town since last year.
‘So you guys are stalkers, wow amazing people’ I said sarcastically.
That didn’t help my situation at all, in fact the started punching. Then everything went black nothing silence I was losing conciseness
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Scholarly Writing Week 5
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done bro it took 99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999 years finally completed it
Week 5 Schoarship Writing
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Scholarship Writing Week 5
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Across the Bridge
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The mountain was not a path; it was a trial. Its jagged spine cut the horizon, a silent challenge to anyone who dared to climb. The villagers called it The Crown of Ash, for its peak was always shrouded in smoke-like mist, as though the mountain itself burned from within.
And now, Mara’s sister, Lira, was somewhere near the top.
Mara stood at the base, her breath shallow. The air was sharp with pine and stone, and the slope above her seemed endless, a wall of grey rising into the clouds. She was not a climber. She was a gardener, her hands used to coaxing life from soil, not clinging to rock. Every tale of broken bodies, every warning of storms, every rational thought told her to stay on the ground. Her legs trembled, her chest tightened. The fear was absolute.
But from high above, carried faintly on the wind, she had heard her sister’s cry.
Her fear was a cliff-face, but Lira’s name was a rope, pulling, pulling, pulling. Mara tightened her boots, adjusted the small pack on her shoulders, and placed her hand on the first stone. The rock was cold, biting into her palm. She lifted herself, crossing the threshold from the safety of the valley into the mountain’s dominion.
The climb was not a conquest; it was a surrender. The air thinned, and silence pressed in, broken only by the scrape of her boots and the pounding of her heart. The mountain was not empty. It was full of her own doubt.
Her strength was a fragile shield. Each step showed her only the next ledge, the next jagged grip. The mist curled around her, hiding the way forward, whispering that to climb higher was to vanish. Several times, loose stones skittered beneath her feet, and she froze, her breath caught. She wanted to descend. She wanted to cling to the earth and wait for someone braver. The fear was a living thing, coiling in her chest, whispering that the mountain would never let her go.
But with every tremor she whispered, “Lira.”
Through a narrow cleft she found her sister, pale and trembling. Mara’s scraped hand locked around hers, and together they began the descent. The mountain had not changed. The mist was just as thick, the stones just as treacherous. Mara was still afraid. Her grip on the rock trembled. But her other hand, the one holding her sister’s, was locked tight.
The fear was still with her. It climbed beside her every step, a cold shadow clinging to her back. It hadn’t vanished. It hadn’t been conquered. It was just… no longer in charge.
They stumbled onto the valley floor, collapsing onto the grass as the late sun poured gold across the earth. Mara gasped, her lungs aching, her body shaking with the aftershocks of terror.
She looked at Lira, who was staring at the mountain as if seeing it for the first time. Then, Mara looked at her own hands, scraped and bloodied, but steady.
Slowly, she turned back to the Crown of Ash. It was just as it had always been: vast, jagged, shrouded in mist. It looked no smaller, no less daunting, than it had an hour ago.
She watched the mist curl upward, dissolving into the bright air before vanishing. Then, without a word, she turned her back on the mountain and, pulling Lira to her feet, began the walk home.
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19th February 2025:
The river widened beneath her, black and restless, its surface broken by scattered reeds. Lena’s hands gripped the wooden railing, rough and splintered, every fiber vibrating under her fingers. The planks swayed slightly with the wind, but she pressed forward, desperate for the end. Each step felt like wading through water she could never touch, the boards groaning under her weight like whispered warnings. Somewhere beneath, currents tugged at the shadows of fallen branches, twisting them into shapes that reminded her of faces she had long stopped calling by name.
She paused at a thumb-width depression in the wood, worn smooth. Fingers traced it slowly. Nearby, a small stone balanced on the edge, its surface polished by the river. She turned it over in her hand, feeling the faint ridges, then set it back.
23rd January 2023:
Her father walked beside her across the bridge, coat collar turned up, cigarette glowing between his fingers. The boards shifted beneath them.
“Look at this,” he said, bending to pick up a smooth stone. “Every crease tells a story.”
Lena crouched, tracing its veins. Cracks ran along the bridge; moss clung stubbornly. “It’s amazing,” she said.
He smiled. “Even the smallest things matter. You’ll notice them when you need them most.”
They stepped carefully over mossy cracks. He tossed a pebble into the river. Its ripple caught the sunlight.
They stopped mid-bridge. He crouched again, pointing at a patch of moss. “See how it clings?” he said. “Even in rough places, it survives.”
Lena looked closely. Tiny insects skimmed puddles. Sunlight caught each splinter differently. The bridge hummed beneath them.
Her father laughed, warm and untethered. Lena’s own laughter followed instinctively, though she didn’t know why.
19th February 2025:
The boards swayed beneath her boots. Lena pressed her palms flat. Grain, knot, moss; every detail against her skin.
She stopped at the thumb-width depression, fingers lingering. The small stone rested nearby, still polished by the river’s flow. She picked it up, turning it over slowly. A reed bent in the current but did not break.
The wind tugged at her hair. Lena listened to the boards creak beneath her weight, to the water rushing below, and stepped forward, leaving the stone in place, letting the current shape the rest.
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They said the bridge was cursed.
Not in the way of ghosts or monsters, but in the way that stories become warnings. It stretched across the chasm that split the valley from the forest beyond — a place few had entered, and fewer returned from. The bridge itself was old, its wood silvered with age, its ropes frayed like forgotten memories. No one crossed it unless they had to. And no one had to — except Mara.
She stood at its edge, the fog curling around her boots, the wind tugging at her coat. In her satchel was a letter. Not hers, but her brother’s. The last one he’d sent before vanishing into the forest five years ago. It was brief, cryptic: “I had to know. I’m not afraid anymore.”
But Mara was afraid. She had always been. Of heights. Of loss. Of the silence that followed unanswered questions. She had spent years pretending the bridge didn’t exist, that her brother had simply chosen another life. But the letter had resurfaced, tucked inside a book she hadn’t opened in years. And now, here she was.
She stepped onto the first plank. It groaned beneath her weight. The fog thickened, swallowing the far end of the bridge. Each step was a memory: the time she and her brother had dared each other to walk halfway across; the way he’d laughed when she froze, unable to go on; the way he’d promised to always wait for her.
Halfway across, the wind picked up. The ropes swayed. Her breath caught. She gripped the side, heart pounding. She could turn back. No one would blame her. But she thought of the letter. Of the forest. Of the truth she’d buried beneath years of fear.
She kept walking.
Near the end, the fog lifted slightly. She saw the forest’s edge — dark, quiet, waiting. The final plank was cracked. She hesitated. Her legs trembled. But she stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, and crossed.
On the other side, she found a clearing. And in it, a small cairn of stones. At its base, a carving: “I waited.”
She knelt, touched the stones, and placed the letter atop them. Then, from her satchel, she took a single nail and a strip of cloth. She returned to the bridge, hammered the nail into the first plank, and tied the cloth to it — a marker, not of warning, but of passage.
Then she turned toward the forest, and walked on.
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here is mine
Narrative describing that courage is not the absence of fear.
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Week 5 Writing
The Adventure
The careful footsteps of Amy made the soil mould in an round shoe shape with the soil carefully surrounding footstep. Beside her was Jess skipping happily.
These friends planned a hike on the mountain. Amy heard the quiet whispers of the calm morning breeze, while Jess did not blink a single time. Amy stared at the frosty bits while climbing up counting 35. The larger the frosty bits there was she got more and more nervous.
Closer.
Closer.
15 minutes later
The total count of frost now was 103. Jess saw Amy fidget with a crispy, frosty leave from the floor.
“I know you do not enjoy, but i know we will have a great time.”
Amy looked at jess still fidgeting but not knowing how to react.
20 minutes later
Both of them still stared curiously not sure what to do.
Tell.
Relax.
Keep quiet.
They kept on wondering around. They came across and saw a baby squirrel which gave motivation to keep on hiking.
Soon they found an squishy spot to quickly have lunch. Jess noticed that Amy was a little less worried. Soon Amy started talking happily not in her gloomy voice, she quickly munched on a really cold sandwich.
Does Amy actually enjoy hiking now? Jess thought quietly in her head
10 minutes later
They finished their sandwich and started hiking again.
Amy was resting her hand on a rail and something stuck on her hand.
Cold and tiny.
She looked at the little blob of ice and got encouraged to keep on hiking.
It made her feel like she could do it.
“Do you want to go back now?” Jess asked
“Maybe after we finish.” Amy answered
Now Amy knew that the most importantly he had to have the courage to push through his fears.
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The Midnight Bridge
I can go, but I won’t.
It’s not that I don’t want to, but I can’t. I can’t cross the bridge. I can’t get to the other side. My medical condition is making it hard for me to make any progress on that bridge.
My walking has stopped, like a forced anchor hammered to my foot. I’m stuck in the middle. After walking for so long, I just stopped, just a few metres away from the end.
Why? Why had I stopped? Is there any meaning to this?
I stay there, watching each detail of wrinkles in the water disappear in a flash. They all waved goodbye to me as I stood there, planted to the ground. Birds chirped, not harmonious or happy, but solemn and depressing.
-The next year-
Wait- what is happening. I’m moving. My legs are regaining movement.
I’m walking. I’m walking to the other side of the bridge. I will cross it.
Hope fills me to the brim as I walk slowly but steadily, falling over at some gaps.
As I walked over the bridge, I was oblivious of what it meant.
-I wake up into the real world-
“Oh my gosh! Samantha! You’re back!”
It’s my mother, she’s running towards me, as if I was gone for a long time. I’m lying in a hospital bed.
The adventure on the bridge was a wonderful experience. I can feel the joy and triumph in completing the bridge.
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Present
The fire behemoth ambled across the plains. Tears cascaded down my cheeks, snowballing in size as it merged with my sweat. It was like climbing Mount Everest without base camps and helpers. Time was ticking, and though I wasn’t quivering or frozen in time; this had happened a couple of times before, I still lacked the nerve to brave it.
“You have courage?”
“Yes”
Then brave it
“I can’t” I exclaimed over the crackling crimson tongues “I also can’t leave!”
“But you have to!”
Half an hour ago
I shook myself out of bed; the air was crispy and polluted. I knew what this meant.
I mentioned the smell, but my words dissolved into silence. I cast a furtive glance out the window. There was definitely smoke in the ‘foggy’ air. Definitely crimson flames in the horizon. Definitely was a fire advancing. It was like looking up at the towering mountain before you begin your climb., wondering if you would be lucky enough to make it back down without losing a limb
It was definitely a fire.
After urging, my parents finally realised the peril.
Our bags were soon packed. A fire had come once, the house survived. Maybe it would survive this one too. I touched the door, my hand unable to let go. I stood there for several minutes, tears streaking down my cheeks. The fire slowly crept towards our wooden shack, waiting to pounce on its prey. I tried to remember the house’s every corridor and room, but the chaos in my mind wouldn’t produce a map.
Fifteen minutes ago
It was closing in. It would demolish our house. We had to go. I quickly grabbed my important possessions, stuffed them clumsily in a bag, ready to go. I was first out the front door, but my body protested as we left the house behind to be the fire’s desert. There had been a fire before when we had just bought the house, I didn’t even think about our house burning down. But now, why couldn’t I let go?
Present
I took a deep breath, brushed my hands over the smooth texture of the door and ran. As the house disappeared down the horizon, I could still se one solitary piece of wood. Surviving. Resisting. Maybe I could resist too. My mind was full of fear and worry, but a courageous smile cracked post to post.
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Done
Courage is not the absence of fear
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Week 5 writing
Westley W_K 5
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The Bridge That Held
April 14 2017
Mist clung to the iron bridge as Mara stepped onto the first plank, the brass compass in her pocket clicking like nervous teeth.
Leo balanced on the rail, grinning. “You overthinking again?”
She didn’t answer. The river below thrashed, dark and wide.
Her compass needle spun.
A quiet warning.
Halfway across, an engine roared around the bend.
“Move!” Leo shoved her ahead. Too hard. Too final.
Brakes shrieked.
Metal buckled.
Her hand lost the compass.
Her eyes lost Leo.
The wind carried the last sound.
Now- September 12 2025
Years later, the same bridge rose before her, older, ribs showing through rust. She opened the compass; its hinge trembled like something waking.
One step.
Then another.
The river’s roar tried to pull her backward. She kept going.
She stopped at the place where Leo had vanished. The iron was cold under her palm. The compass needle—this time—held steady, pointing forward across the span.
A breath left her, slow and cracking apart.
“I’m crossing,” she whispered.
And she did—until she reached the far side, turning back only once.
The bridge stretched behind her—bent, imperfect, still standing—while the compass glimmered in her hand like a small sun finally finding north.
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here also might no be good cuz i finished this kinda late and also might be kinda long so don’t judge 🙂
finished at 11pm -_-
feedbackkkkkk pls
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A boat in time saves 7
January 8th
Waves tumbled down against the dilapidated tug boat causing it to wobble uncontrollably. I sighed, looking out into the sea, stretching beyond the horizon. One day, just one day, I will make it back to shore.
February 27th
Bang! I hit something big. Water was leaking, and I knew it. It had been more than a month of sailing through the open sea, and now, the boat was slowly filling with water. I patched it with some leftover masking tape, but it hasn’t been a day and it’s tearing through.
February 28th
I grimace, I am so cooked. The water in the tug boat sloshed to my ankles, and I knew it was time to prepare for evacuation. I have no compass, nothing, just a tugboat sailing mindlessly in the heart of the sea. I knew all the dangers surrounding me, sharks, killerwhales, everything.
March 16th
Water has reached my waists, it I’m bailing out. I grab my lifejacket, a few containers of food and water, and get into the lifeboat. Seems everything is going to get worse.
April 2nd
It’s about persistence and staying strong. It’s been months, and land shouldn’t be far away. My hands are shaky and stiff from eating raw fish all day and relying on water filtration from a machine to survive. I’ve gotta make it out alive.
May 6th
Stay vigilant! Cilantro! I can feel it, I can feel the land ahead!
May 7th
Land. Land… I am crying, land is right in front of me. There is a flag! I’m in the USA. The lifeboat is my hope, the support of my journey. I stayed strong, and now, I am still alive.
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Amelia had stood by the bridge of Hollow Hill many times, always stopping short at the first moth eaten plank. The creaky wooden span stretched over a ravine that wasn’t especially deep but the shadows that danced around it made it feel bottomless. The bridge groaned whenever the wind touched it, swaying like something alive and uneasy. Locals crossed it daily without a second thought, but to Amelia it felt like a test she had never managed to pass.
Today, she would try again.
She clutched the frayed strap of her satchel, feeling her pulse throb against her fingertips. “It’s just a bridge,” she whispered to herself, though the words trembled as much as the boards under her boots. A week from now, she would be leaving town for a new school in the city—a place bursting with noise and strangers. Everyone kept telling her she was brave for taking the opportunity, but she didn’t feel brave. She didn’t feel determined. She felt exactly like she did now: perched at the edge of the bridge, fighting the urge to turn back.
A gust of the summer breeze swam past her, rattling the rough thread of rope. She closed her eyes and shakily placed a foot of the first plank.
It dipped sharply under her weight.
Her breath caught in her throat, fear entering her body. She gripped the ropes so tightly that her knuckles turned white and could feel the sharp un-cut edges digging into her fingers. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, to retreat into the familiar safety of solid ground. But she forced herself to stay this time, her boots planted, her heartbeat quickening with every second she stayed longer.
She took another step. Then another.
The bridge swayed, complaining with creaks and shivers, but it held. Amelia’s legs trembled so hard she thought she might collapse, yet she kept moving, breath by breath, plank by plank. Fear walked with her, his presence a constant shadow, but it didn’t stop her feet. Halfway across, she made the mistake of looking down.
The ravine yawned beneath her—dark, empty, endless. Her stomach swooped, and for a moment she froze again, trapped between everything behind her and everything ahead. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“I’m still here,” she murmured. “I’m still moving.”
When she opened her eyes, she focused not on the drop below but on the other side of the bridge: a sliver of path lit with late afternoon sun. She imagined herself reaching it. She imagined her first day in the city, scared but standing anyway. She imagined the things she wanted—new friends, new places, new chances to be someone braver than she felt.
Step by trembling step, she crossed the final planks.
When her boots touched solid ground, the tension in her body uncoiled all at once. She let out a breath that felt like it had been locked in her chest for years. Behind her, the bridge swayed gently as though waving, or perhaps reminding her it would always be there to cross again.
Mara turned toward the path ahead. A single autumn leaf drifted down from an overhanging branch, catching on her sleeve. Its edges were jagged, its colours mottled with orange and gold—weathered, imperfect, but still clinging on.
She brushed it lightly with her thumb, then continued walking, the leaf fluttering beside her with each step as if urging her forward.
(i wrote mara because i was writing a story with the name Mara before this one my bad)
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When you picture yourself sitting on your desk on the weekend, can you see yourself doing homework? Although doing work on the weekends can improve your general academic performance, it may not always come for free. Stress, anxiety, and that voice in your mind to complete it even when your brain is overworking can lead to panic attacks. In different perspectives from teachers, students and parents can affect your overall opinion. So, is homework really that good to do on our ‘supposed’ relaxing days?
On the positive side, weekend homework can give students an opportunity to review what they learned during the week. Some subjects, like mathematics or languages, require regular practice. Having a bit of homework on the weekend can help students keep their skills and mind fresh and prevent them from forgetting important information. For older students who have heavier workloads, weekends may offer the quiet time needed to complete longer tasks such as research projects, essays, or revision. In this sense, weekend homework can support academic progress and help students manage their responsibilities more effectively.
However, many educators and child development experts believe that students should have consistent time to rest. Classroom teachers observe that students’ academic learning and attention span can become sharper after a genuine break. When respected professionals in education warn about rising stress levels among young people, their experience and credibility remind us that constant work does not automatically lead to better learning. Their guidance encourages us to approach weekend homework with caution.
Another consideration is fairness. Not all students have the same environment at home. Some may have quiet study spaces and supportive adults, while others may have responsibilities like helping with siblings, working part-time jobs, or living in crowded homes. Weekend homework can increase the gap between students who have the resources to complete tasks comfortably and those who do not.
Put yourself in the student’s shoes. Imagine a child who has spent five full days in school, completing worksheets, tests, and activities. The weekend finally arrives, and instead of enjoying family outings, sports, or simple relaxation, the child must sit at a desk again. Students describe feeling overwhelmed, anxious, or guilty if they cannot finish assignments. For some, weekends are the only time they can connect with siblings, celebrate cultural events, or participate in hobbies that make them feel happy and confident. Overloading these days with homework can take away the joy and balance that children need for healthy development.
In conclusion, homework can be helpful, but it should be balanced. A small amount of optional or light weekend work—such as reading or reviewing—may support learning without overwhelming students. However, heavy or compulsory weekend assignments can cause unnecessary stress and reduce important rest time. The best approach is one that considers students’ wellbeing as much as their academic growth. Therefore, while some weekend homework can be useful, it should be limited and thoughtfully assigned.