Narrative / Creative Writing

Example response (about 420 words — for study, not to memorise)

Every Thursday after training, Maya wiped her boots on the back mat and dumped her gear in the shed. The shed smelled of cut grass and old rubber. Dad had built the pegboard himself; each hook held something with a story — torn goalie gloves, a broken whistle, a photo of her first team pinned above the workbench.

That Thursday the photo was turned face down.

Maya told herself Dad must have knocked it while looking for secateurs. She hung her boots, then noticed the bench. A biscuit tin sat in the centre — green, with a clasp, the kind Nanna used for buttons. Maya had never seen it there before.

She did not open it straight away. She listened. The house was quiet except for the dishwasher. Her little brother would still be at chess club. She lifted the clasp.

Inside, on a folded tea towel, lay a medal she did not recognise: bronze, ribbon faded to pink, engraved Regional Champion — Goalkeeper — 1998. Under it was a letter in Dad's handwriting, addressed to her, never sent.

"You dive like I used to," it began. "I stopped after I let in the goal that mattered. I don't want you to stop because I did."

Maya read it twice. The shed suddenly felt smaller, as if the walls had leaned in to listen. All those Thursdays of silent tidying — he had been leaving space for her, not hiding from her.

She put the medal back, closed the tin, and turned the photo upright. The girl in the picture wore gloves too big for her wrists. Maya smiled at her, then texted Dad one line: "Want to kick in the yard before dinner?"

When he replied with a thumbs-up, she rolled the door open. The evening air smelled like grass and possibility.

Example response (about 390 words)

Amir had checked the weather app three times before the hike. Sun, light wind, home by six. His cousin Priya marched ahead on the track, boots confident on the granite, radio crackling with bushfire updates from the valley.

By two o'clock the air tasted like metal. The forest went quiet in the way animals go quiet when they know something you do not. Priya stopped and shaded her eyes.

"The sky looked wrong," she said.

Amir looked up. The blue had thickened to a dull copper sheet. Not sunset — the sun was still high. Ash drifted down like grey snow, too soft to be rain.

"We turn back," Priya said. "Now."

They had water for four hours, not for a night. Amir wanted to argue — the ridge was only twenty minutes on — but the radio spat static, then a voice: leave now, track closed. He nodded.

The walk down felt longer than the walk up. His throat burned. Behind them, a low roar rolled through the trees, not thunder, not a train — something hungry. Priya grabbed his sleeve once, hard, when he lagged.

At the car park, rangers waved them through. Amir's hands shook on the seatbelt. Priya did not lecture him. She turned the heater off and cracked the window so they could smell clean air from the coast.

That night Amir lay awake listening to the news. The fire had turned before it reached the ridge. He texted Priya: "Thanks for looking up." She sent back a photo of her kitchen — rain on the window, normal dark sky.

He saved the picture. Next hike, he would pack an extra bottle and trust the moment the sky stopped matching the app.