Year 9 writers share their favourite places
By OBHS | Posted: Tuesday August 5, 2025
Students in Mr M Hall’s Year 9 English class have been busy crafting descriptive writing pieces about their favourite places.
We’re pleased to share some fine examples of their work, showcasing their creativity.
On the Coast of Australia
The sun fades away over the horizon, leaving me with its last few shreds of light. The waves flow towards me in gentle bursts. Reflected in them are the jagged rocks, overlooking Bosom Beach.
On the rocks, species of coral glisten with water splashed from the shore. A soft blanket of algae covers parts of them, as if they have been tucked into bed by the Earth. I see sandfly zieria sprouting from the cracks, reaching its hand out to the sun. Sharp shells are spread wide across the surface, daring anyone to try and cross it. I remember when I was only five, clambering up the rocks and soon regretting it after cutting my feet a thousand times. It’s safe to say I never made that mistake again.
I watch the tannin-stained river cascade down the beach like a red carpet being unfurled. Next to it, my mum collects colourful shells that she will proudly parade back at the cabin. Near the shore, my little cousin is building an “elaborate” sandcastle. It has been accented with seaweed and, unbeknownst to my mum, some of her shells. Unfortunately, I don’t think its resemblance to the Leaning Tower of Pisa is intentional. The gum trees cast a shadow on the castle as they sway back and forth, shimmering in what little sunlight is left.
The beach is quiet, with the only sounds to be heard coming from nature itself. Daisy bushes and tea trees rustle like a maraca. The waves splash, a quiet snare coming from the collision. Rainbow lorikeets and magpies sing their melodies, adding a final touch to the orchestra of sound.
On the surface, this beach is nothing special, but I know better. To me, this place is a meeting point, a place to unwind, a canvas and a playground. It is a safe place, where joy and nostalgia have the freedom to run wild. Bosom Beach is many things, but the best part about it? It’s mine.
Jack Orlovich
Craigend Farm
In the rolling hills of Otago, lies Craigend Farm. The sun beats down on the back of my neck. “The January drought is here” I think to myself. I can see the dry rolling hills for miles with livestock spread across the paddocks. I notice a herd of lambs playing in the long dry grass. In the distance I see the windmills slowly spinning round and round, over and over again.
I hear the sound of my motorbike's engine grumbling and the sheep maaing loudly. The heading dogs herding the sheep while the excited hunterways bark their heads off. The sheep walk up the hill of tussock and long grass while I Zig-Zag behind them slowly to keep them trotting along. My dad is on the other side of the paddock in the 1995 Nissan Navara because his Ranger overheated from the shining sun.
As the Westerly Wind lightly blows across my face and the long dry grass rubs along my leg, I think about how many generations have farmed this land. Dating back to the 18th century when my great great great grandad found the farm. I have lived here all my life and I hope to never leave.
George Nichol
The Library, Gateway to my world
I walk into the library, saying a quick hello to the library ladies on my way in. I drop my bag on the cold, hard floor, walking to the adult section to get away from the mob of people that invade my quiet sanctuary after school. The afternoon sun streams through the floor to ceiling window, filling the room with warmth and light. I look around at the vast selection of books awaiting me. These range from the history of the Olympics to World War 1 stories, covering the walls like splatters of paint. I begin collecting books, each one looking more enticing than the last. Soon I have a mountain of novels.
Picking one book is a near impossible task. Every story jostles for attention. Some lavishly decorated with gold edged pages and extravagant fonts. Others boast hundreds of pages and fancy illustrations. Eventually I come to a decision and pull a book out from the enormous pile stacked next to me.
I collapse into my chair and am instantly enveloped in the story. There are bloodstained fields littered with the bodies of the dead and dying. Swords clash and symphonies of screams ring out. Men fall, empty eyes staring accusingly at their murderers. In the distance the vague outline of the colosseum casts shadows over the battlefield
Suddenly I am inside the colosseum. Gladiators, slick with blood, are egged on by the gigantic crowd. Lions pounce claws slicing through armour, teeth bared aiming to kill. Swords hack away at limbs and arrows fly. Lions are butchered with bloody spears. The mob of citizens urge for more blood. The emperor sits proudly on his throne, covered in a dark cloak.
I find myself inside an enormous castle surrounded by fighting wizards. Dark cloaks conceal faces as they fire spell after spell at each other. Stone gargoyles crush witches with every punch. Deformed bodies lie, some with no heads and others with baby legs. Body parts lie, abandoned by their owners in the heat of battle. People lie at death's door, bodies forgotten and no family to comfort them as they lose the will to live.
Suddenly I am back in the library and my sister has come and found me, smacking the book out of my hands and telling me it's time to go. Eventually, reluctantly I come back to the real world with a jolt, regaining my senses and am dragged out of my perfect world back into the real world.
Oliver McCall
