Creativeness is triggered by intelligencity
Which can only be achieved by total correctitude in all honestness
Which is, basically, perfectence.
But of course one can use coquetryness with life
To find one's own creativeness
But one will return to one's senses after finding comprehensioness
Which is, basically, flawlessnicity.

Comprehensioness is found by tapping into one's own elegancy
Which will be found, if one starts out with proper diligencity
Which is, basically, supremance.
But of course one can use cautionicity with life
To find one's own creativeness
But one will return to one's senses after finding familiarance
Which is, basically, consummanance.

Sonya G.
seventh grade

    A lake stood still and resembled molasses as the reflection of the sun tinted it brown.  It sparkled like a perfect crystal or a star on a perfectly clear night.  In the middle was a picturesque bright green lily pad.  On top of the lily pad was a very small purple and blue flower, just beginning to bloom.  Everything was still, with an occasional chirp from the crickets.
    To the side was a small beach.  Towards the edge of the beach was a row of silver-bells which, too, glistened in the sun.  Then one small sound grew into many.  One fish that jumped in and out of the water quickly became two, three, ten.  The birds started chirping rapidly and simultaneously.  Two frogs jumped from the beach into the water, croaking uncontainably.  Some kids shouted at each other from across the lake, bringing the area alive with sound and motion.  And as the lake slowly woke up, the small, humble, shy, purple and blue flower bloomed into its complete state of beauty.

Ilana S.
eighth grade

   "This is so unbelievably bad.  I can't believe that two of my best slaves have escaped.  You must find them both by tomorrow or the news will escape and I will get a bad reputation!  Is this clear?"
    "Yes, Sir Williams.  Consider it done. We will start the search immediately," the bounty hunter said with a sneer.
    Sir Williams sat down in his leather chair and lit a cigar.
    "I'm sorry to interrupt, Sir Williams, but if you do find those slaves what will you d-d-d-do with them?" stuttered one of the house slaves.
    "Ah.  Depends how long 'till we find 'em.  If by tonight, ten whips, tomorrow, twenty, the next day thirty, and so on and so forth.  But this is none of your concern!  Get back to work.  I hear Lady Millick calling.  Go.  Shoo!"
    The worried slaves dashed out of the room, not wanting to bother the grumpy Sir Williams anymore.

    Under the shade of a large rock, the two slaves that had escaped lay sleeping in the gold grass.  The lady, wearing a long, torn purple dress, was leaning against a strong man who was wearing a shirt that was halfway open and pants that were much too short for such a tall man.
    "Kwane, Kwane, wake up!  The sun?it's already high in the sky.  They'll be a lookin' for us if we don't get up and start again!" whispered Joan.
    Joan got up and brushed the sand off her dress and reached down and picked up her small sack of food.
    "I hear ya, I hear ya!"
    But when Kwane opened his eyes and saw the sun, he jumped up and grabbed Joan's hand and started to run in the direction of the trees.
    "How many miles away from the plantation are we?" Joan asked while panting heavily.
    "I'm not sure.   We've only been gone for a day and a night."
    As soon as they came into the trees, they realized that a river ran through them.
    "Quick!  Get into the water.  We must try to lose our scent so the dogs can't track us," Kwane yelled while hopping into the water.
    "But I can't swim!  And you know that," Joan said in a dry voice.
    "It's not very deep here.  We'll be able to stand.  But quick, we can't afford to stall."
    Joan jumped in with the food bag around her neck.  She started to paddle.   All of a sudden they heard men's voices and dogs in the distance.
    "They're comin' for us.  What are we gonna do?"
    Kwane took his shirt off and started rubbing it on the ground in a path. Then he came back and splashed water over his footsteps.
    "What are ya doing?" Joan asked, shocked.
    "Making it seem that we went in the opposite direction, by rubbing the scent in that direction."
    "We'll hide in the rotten logs over there," Kwane said in a whisper.

    Nearby: "Where are they?" said a bounty hunter.
    "I'm sure that they're near; the dogs led us all the way out here.÷
    "Ya, to where?  All there is here is a river and a few rotten logs...I think I see a piece of cloth sticking out of one of those holes in the log."
    Then the piece of cloth disappeared inside the log.
    "Did you see that?  It went back in."
    "If you're so sure that they're in there, why don't you go out and swim across the river and check."
    "Look, the dogs are pulling us in this direction.  They've found the scent," another hunter said.
    This was the direction that Kwane had faked.
    "I'm still looking in the logs over here."
    The bounty hunter swam across. But just then the two slaves jumped out and started running.
    "The slaves, they're running!  Over here, over here!" cried the bounty hunter in the water.  There was some shouting, but then all the men started to run back to the river.
    When Kwane heard the splashes, he knew they would be caught, so he stopped dead in his tracks.
    "What are you doing? We have to keep running.  They're right behind us!" Joan said almost in tears.
    "They're going to catch us anyway, and the more we fight, the more they'll hurt us."
    "Good idea," said the bounty hunter with a sneer while putting handcuffs on both of them.  The bounty hunters dragged and pushed the two slaves through the water and out of the trees to their covered wagon.
    "Get in!" one of them said while pushing them in.  The two slaves just sat there with their heads hanging low.
 The covered wagon pulled jerkily up to the main house of the plantation.  The bounty hunter got out and knocked on the door.  A maid opened the door, and within seconds Sir Williams was at the front door.
    "This is it, we're going...to die," Joan said whimpering.
    "Listen, I love you, Joan, but you have to keep your spirits up, and whips don't kill people," Kwane mumbled.  His voice had changed from his low proud voice, to a higher, more desperate one.
    "Whips could kill an old lady like me," Joan cried slowly.
    "You are not old, may I remind you. You're young and beautiful, like you've always been."
    "That's enough chit chat for today, slaves," one of the floggers said. 
    They tied Kwane up first.  A large man with a whip in his hand came over. His hand came back over his shoulder and came down hard on Kwane's back.  It seemed as if it was all in slow motion.  But just as the whip drew back, a slave jumped up from the field and shouted, "Look! Look! The South, they're retreating.  They've lost the war.  We're free!  Oh God, bless you!"
    Many other slaves started to cry or started to run away.  The flogger slowly untied Kwane.  Kwane grabbed Joan's hand and started to run; the two did not know or care what direction they were going in.  It didn't matter.  They were free.

Lena N.
fifth grade

    The wolf sat on a stump. The wolf took a walk. The wolf met a bear. The wolf had grey hair. The wolf got bored. The wolf got a sword. The wolf killed a bird. The bird made a turd. The wolf got mad because the sentence structure changed. The wolf ate the bird. The wolf was absurd. The wolf was sick of rhyming so he stopped.

A Sister's Eulogy

    My dearly beloved sister died just yesterday. She was a great wife, mother, and friend to many. When we were tots, and I could not yet leave the nest, I fell out and Robin risked her own life to save me. She was just learning to use her wings herself. Now we are grown, and she just got nicer and braver. But a horrible wolf took her life. She was just sitting on a branch with me. We were singing. Then a stupid wolf was sitting on a little leftover stump. He got up and started walking towards the tree with an evil look in his eyes. He dodged a bear on his way over to us. Now, this was an ugly wolf with grey hair, a long snout, and big sharp teeth. Robin went to the bathroom and the wolf killed her with a sword he had found. Then he did an evil little dance and ate Robin whole. There was nothing I could do. Robin was a great bird.

Stephanie R.
seventh grade

    "Clara, do be a darling and pass the lemonade."
    A myriad of colored light was flung across the garden as Lady Agatha's aristocratic hands wandered lazily about the air. She paused, with a strange expression of pleasure on her face, as she noticed the positive effect the ruby on her left pinkie had on the violets. Clara carefully passed the jug of yellow liquid and returned quickly to her seat.
    "Thank you, sweetie. My, but the wind is strong. Tends to be at this time of year. It does remind me of my days in the Duke of Chambray's chateau in the Alps. Dreadfully windy, that place was, as a rule. Yet the Duke was positively lovely, if you know what I mean."
    As she languidly sipped her lemonade, the light breeze nudged the apple blossoms, spraying their sweet scent on the world, and sent a paltry few of them in a delightful trip toward the ground. Any wind, it seemed, was too windy for the good Lady. As she was used to warm climates, she found wind of any kind an intrusion upon the heat she found so comforting.
    "Of course, when one has leisure like a chateau in the Alps, one pays attention to any little thing that gives one discomfort. That is a main disadvantage to being filthily wealthy; one has the time to brood over every insignificant bug that happens to saunter into one's view." An adventurous ant crept stealthily onto Lady Agatha's table to enjoy the sun and its freedom, but its poor, naive little life was cut short by a stick rudely wielded by Lady Agatha herself. She continued on, "That is also precisely why it is only those who are absolutely, positively, and completely wealthy that always take up such strange hobbies. Stamp collecting, for example; whoever heard of such a pointless way to spend time, unless one is in the particular habit of writing voluminous amounts of letters. Or charity functions, the extremely wealthy always go to really absurd charity functions like, oh, the National Sheep Foundation, the Committee for the Finding of Lost Buttons, or sometimes they even try to feed the world's hungry. Yes, it is a bother to those unfortunate people, what to do with their time, and it only goes to prove that the only real wealth worth having is a kind that is incomplete. For then, we are not tempted to waste our time, but may spend it in more meaningful ways." Once more she stopped, enthralled with the eloquence of her words, to observe the patterns of light the sapphires and emeralds made on the ever dancing dahlias in the corner.
    "But Lady Agatha," queried the young Clara, almost completely overwhelmed by the Lady's words and expression, "you can't be condemning wealth. Wealth always makes life more comfortable, how could it do otherwise? And furthermore, you must admit that you yourself are wealthy." She was inexperienced, a tulip just opening to the wonders of the world, and like all youth being newly exposed to ideas of great profound worth, she clung fiercely to her own assumptions, though she may yet have been lulled by the brazen words.
    "Ah, you misunderstand me. Wealth is not a curse, far from it, as you're right, I may very well tell you. I do not intend that a world of filth, cold, and work is in any way superior to that state we call luxury, it merely presents another problem. Having gallons of time is not always a bad thing, if one puts it to some meaningful purpose. Then, we may always justify it. It is only that I find that most often the time of the wealthy is spent on thoroughly frivolous, meaningless things, and that is their main burden. Oh yes, you will see, in your time." She reached for her lace fan on the glass table and began to stir a considerable wind that could be felt in the next garden. Clara almost stared in wonderment at this creature before her. She had thought it most amazing before when she realized she was sitting down to tea with the Lady Agatha Donavale; now she realized that, even as the name had impressed her, the true personage far outweighed any previous judgment. She was a marvel, a true bird of rare design, and her words seemed to flow like the breeze ruffling their dresses. Not that she was anything to look at; her ample proportions and elongated chin suggested affluence, nothing more. But her wordsóso absurd, yet so appealingóso different from anything her parents or friends dared to speak, and so elegantly but simply put. She felt she must hear more. "Lady Agatha, you speak of meaningful actions. What exactly do you mean by that?"
    The good Lady turned her head, took a brief moment to think, then spoke. "Why anything that enriches the mind and body, I would suppose. Not, you realize, that I am authorized to write a definition of the matter, but I tend to think that one should spend whatever time one can exercising one's brain tissues in the marvelous ways that are possible."
    "You mean mind puzzles? My uncle often immerses himself in volumes of the things."
    "Yes, but you would be surprised as to how many puzzles life itself presents to us. People are really the most useful and entertaining subjects for study. They challenge one to think in different ways. Observation and deductionóthose are the true keys to life's unnerving locks." She took one last lazy sip, and as the now pale orange sunlight filtered through the reaching branches of the dogwood tree, a servant appeared.
    "Miss Clara, your sister has arrived to take you home." Her sisteróshe had almost forgotten about her. Wrapped in a lovely world of fantasy and intelligence, her mind had seemed to soar to heights it had never been asked to take. She hated to interrupt it, just when it seemed as if there were so many more doors to be opened, and she had just found the key. Their conversation had not been much, but she had felt a presence in this woman she had not felt in anyone beforeósomething of an explorer, and perhaps even a bit of that divine urge called insatiable curiosity.
    "Lady Agatha, this has been most pleasant. I do hope I shall have the opportunity to meet with you again."
    "Likewise, my dear, likewise. I could use a good apprentice like you. Do stop by another day. In fact, why don't we try Tuesday?"
    " Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you."
    Tuesday. So it would be Tuesday. She could hardly wait.

Melissa G.
eighth grade