Writing+Folio+top+pieces_writing+as+an+object

= Writing from the perspective of an object =

Students were asked to choose an inanimate object and explain what it would be like to live as that object for the day. The focus of the teaching was for students to develop a strong voice in their writing.

Top pieces 2012 Constant anxiety, that's all my life is, never know if he’ll take me next. Seeing my friends being taken one by one and never knowing who's next is torture to the mind both mentally and physically, I haven’t had a decent nights sleep in over a week it is utterly ridiculous. I’m not really sure how I feel about my murder considering it is going to a good cause and my consumption is my only real purpose in life but knowing that the hands of me and my brethren’s death is just looming over head ready to pluck us from the clutches of life is really rather horrible. I wonder sometimes whether or not the bringer of our death is even thinking of our lives or just thinking of his own selfish purposes. After the bringer of demise is finished with us he just flings us away.

We lay alone, convenient to him in our unjust prison until the day when he feels his throat begins to ache then the anxiety slowly begins to rise in the group flinging us into depression and panic attacks that leave us breathing for air. I myself am a very solitary individual not connecting with others knowing that they’ll only be ripped away leaving me hollow and alone. My fellows hear me in my sleep screaming and moaning, It’s always the same nightmare every night darkness and screams, screams of knowing their demise is drawing near. My dreams are about the people I knew before I realized my life would be an antisocial one secluded from any relationships knowing they’ll end in pain.

Just thinking about my dreams is making me anxious, but nowhere near as stressed as me and my siblings feel when he reaches for us with his clammy hands. After such occurrences like this our home is as muggy and moist as a swamp with my honey like perspiration adding to the mess. That’s my stressful life, the life of a Strepsil.

By Joshua Williams

Every time I woke, as day and night was indistinguishable being stuck in 24-hour darkness, I felt the softness of those beneath and above me, waiting for my time to fulfil my purpose. None of us actually knew what that was but we all had an instinct that told us it was of great importance. I had witnessed many packed snugly into boxes and carted away never to be seen again and it was to be my turn. Many rumours had spread about what we actually do when we’re released from the inescapable prison we were kept in, but no one really knew the truth. At that moment, I was packed in with many others of my kind, us all waiting for our unknown futures to become the present.

Time passed and I soon heard the ripping sound of cardboard. That’s when it registered with me that our box had been opened!!! I was suddenly filled with anticipation and time passed as if I’d jumped through several hours in a time machine. Soon my friend was lifted from above me and light flooded into my eyes and cool air rushed in. I had forgotten about this feeling, stuck in the stuffy, heat of our box. I realised I had missed it though; it felt so fresh! I had to squint as I had become so adjusted to the gloom having been in it for so long. I only just glimpsed the baby-like grin of my friend’s face as he was lifted up and out of sight by a giant, meaty hand. I hoped I wouldn’t have to be touched by that. A thick layer of grime coated it and under the fingernails was an unappealing brown substance that made me flinch. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what that would smell like.

I was relieved when a thin, slender hand that smelled of sweet lavender soap reached towards me and freed me from my place of waiting. The smell reminded me of some of my other older friends. They don’t make us how they used too, only the lucky ones are aloe vera. The lavender scent awoke an old memory from the dead, as my thoughts had not wondered to those friends for a long time. Anyway, the suspense slowly seeped between my layers. I had been waiting for this moment for so long and finally I would get to perform and discover my duty.

The hand lifted me up towards a young woman’s face, closer and closer until I was pressed against her thin nose. A second later a loud trumpeting noise startled me and a gust of air, along with a few little, gooey, slimy, stringy balls were hurtled at me. They were stuck to my delicate self! They were the ugliest most disgusting things I’d ever seen! Green, yellow, brown and red all at the same time. If I could, I would have vomited. This process repeated itself a few times until I was completely exhausted and thrown into a stinking plastic bag filled of rubbish. Me… rubbish… already?! I expected it to happen eventually but why so soon?It took me ages to get over my disappointment. When the guy who had been lying beneath me arrived at my side, I still hadn’t gotten over it. When I had been squashed by other gross, discarded items and the bag tied closed I was still going. It wasn’t until the bag was split open and I was hurled into a massive garbage pile that I settled with the fact that my duty was so miniscule and of barely any importance because I was reunited with my family and old friends and told stories of all their disgusting adventures.

My life isn’t and never was glamorous or special, but of course, it is the same for all of us tissues, or at least most of us. The best part is when we’ve retired and all been reunited.

Katherine Tikulin

My life is dangerous. Not many other objects are put in such a position as me. Pieces of shrapnel, flying past at the speed of sound, my friends being blown out of the sky with bombs. The man I am responsible for is trembling in his harness, making it hard for me to save him.

I know I will not get used again. I have one chance to help this man. We land, and I am left there, in the cold and dangerous unknown. I can smell the heated odour of fire. I can feel the grittiness of the smoke and ash. But the stench that is evident above all is death. Death for my friends. Death for the men who rely on us. Death for the enemy.

The grey blanket reaches for everyone, as I get trampled under the feet of both sides of the war. And all the credit is given to the man I spread my wings to save. We are left to decompose under the ever-increasing layer of ash, dust and dead bodies. We die slowly, but peacefully. A wartime parachute’s life is not a happy one, but it is satisfying, knowing you have succeeded in your mission.

Joel Booker

Top pieces 2013 (with an added layer of difficulty as they had to write from the perspective of an object in 'Alice in Wonderland')

Personification – Alice in Wonderland – Alice’s Mansion

By Jack O’Connor 8D2

Through unforgiving and ongoing cycles of dark and light, the story has always been the same, until that fateful and enlightening day that encroached upon me the knowledge that has burdened me ever since. I comforted and sheltered her on that day, the day after the first adventure, and in return learned of a place beyond normal understanding and comprehension.

It was a place of unimaginable beauty and splendour, but it was a realm that only a few had ever visited. It had scared her to find out what really lived below the earth she stood on and what wonders and perils were to be discovered there.

And today, that same young girl was about to come home for the first time since we were so unfairly torn apart. Excitement and anticipation swept through me as I waited anxiously for my now much-discussed guest. As one of only a few that still remembered her first voyage into the unknown, I had worried about what others might say when they learned of it. I had been forced beyond my will to suffer the indignity of a fitting to get dressed up for this occasion but it would all soon be worth it.

I greeted her warmly with open arms when she finally arrived, but received nothing in return. I stood by silently as she greeted my owners and wondered if this really was the child that I had cared for and looked after for more than half of her young and precious life. What had happened since they had moved away? I then caught a hushed whisper spoken by one of the other bystanders and immediately felt ashamed of myself. It was enough for the poor girl to be burdened with clothing as hideous as that, but to be eternally without her loving father, the only human that had known where Alice had been, that would be absolutely unimaginable.

It was then that I noticed a rustling of leaves to the side of my main entrance. Then suddenly, as if out of nowhere, the fine line between fantasy and real-life was shattered as I saw what was the cause of the disturbance. Alice had said that he wore a Waistcoat and had a golden pocket watch but seeing him in the flesh was truly astonishing. I found that I was suddenly becoming aware of the gravity of the situation, if word got out of the White Rabbit’s appearance in England, his magical world would never be the same again.

I realised that it was just possible that after almost 16 years of knowing about Wonderland’s existence, this was the closest that I was ever going to get to experiencing it for myself.

Not for the first time I found myself envious of Alice, that she was not only able to move freely but that she has the opportunity to travel to new places, while I am forever immobile, a large crumbling building overlooking the same view for all of my existence.

Wonderland object writing: Ryan Blasic I spend my days in constant fear; fearing for myself, fearing for my friends. As for this day, my capturers have seen fit to spare me but some of my fellow captives have not been so lucky. They are thrown around, like ragdolls, some hitting the ground so hard they simply explode, pieces of what used to be my friend covering me. Some don’t get thrown, but begin to crack and break under the strain of constant fear and anxiety. The prison they keep us in, an island that stands too tall to jump from is a mess, with food everywhere. The constant insane cackle of my capturers making sleep impossible, each bout of crazed laughter renewing the fear. The capturers sometimes select me and fill me up with boiling water till I almost burst. I scream for mercy, but they don’t listen. Then they simply pour it out again. It’s mindless torture for their own amusement.

Then one day, I heard a new voice, it belonged to a girl with long blond hair, but she was very short. She was accompanied by a big blue cat, which appeared to float. They spoke for a bit, then suddenly the crazy man shoved her into me. He just dropped her in. She cried to be let out, but he didn’t answer, he simply lifted me off the table and placed me in his lap. The small girl inside me caused the most unusual tickling sensation, making me squirm uncomfortably. I feared that i was about to be thrown, exploding into hundreds of pieces, but the man was gentle, being careful clearly a priority. By this time more people had arrived. There was an incredibly long limbed man dressed in red and black, who was addressing my crazy owners. I didn’t like the man, his odd proportions unnerving. With him was a group of what appeared to be playing cards, except far larger and holding spears. There was also a dog, black and brown in colour, which materialised beside me and started sniffing me. I tried to recoil from the big brutish creature, scared it may damage me, but the man held me firm. The mad man, on whose lap I sat, whispered something to the dog, causing it to run off, barking loudly, it’s deep bark making me jump in fear. The tall stranger, to my relief, along with his cards, charged off after it, leaving me with the three crazy people. The man placed me back on the table and took the girl out. Then he also left, taking the girl with him. I haven’t seen the girl or the man since, which I am extremely grateful, the crazy man was the worst my tormentors.

I still spend my days sitting in my prison, watching my fellow inmates crack or explode, a fate which will eventually befall me. I am resigned to continue being submitted to cruel tortures acts that do nothing to ease my fear of this place that I am destined to remain in until the end. (Teapot from the Mad hatters tea party)