lifted up. The syrup, slowly but surely, dripped off the butterfly and landed in the sink. After about ten minutes of watching syrup drip from the butterfly, I turned the water on to a light trickle. I placed her directly under the water and held her there until all the leftover syrup that didn’t drip off, rinsed off. I turned the water off and sat the wet butterfly on the paper towel. As she flapped around you could see the paper towel soaking up the water that continued to fall off the butterfly. When the butterfly had finished prancing around the paper towel, she began to flap her wings. Her wings would open wide to show the beautiful design on the back, then they would close tightly back together. She repeated this pattern at a faster speed with each flap until she had reached the window sill. When her little, black feet reached the cold, white window sill she quit flapping her wings. She stared out the window then turned back and to look at me. The butterfly gave me a smile. It was the smallest smile I’ve ever seen, but probably the largest smile she’d ever given. She turned around and fluttered out the window. From what I could tell, she never once looked back. I stood looking out the window until she had flown out of site. I shut the window so I wouldn’t get anymore unexpected visitors then I headed back to my seat where my waffles had been waiting for me. I wanted to dig into my waffles but before I could, I had to add another scoop of butter, one more waffle, and a few more drizzles of syrup. Now my waffles were once again perfect. Joy Clark Grade 8 Heritage Middle School 4005 Poplar Springs Road, Ringgold, GA 30736 Mrs. Carlock The Illness It was quick, strong, and compact. It traveled in a group; its companions were those in the air. They twirled and danced, laughing manically at our fear. We had to escape the illness. I walked briskly, carelessly letting my silky dress flood the ground, magically lifting away, then flooding again. I held on tight to my half-‐sister’s hand-‐ my father’s child. Her light brown curls bouncing with each step. A half skip-‐half run to match my hasty gait with her stubby legs. “Come Isabeal,” I mouthed to her. My family followed-‐ one sister, twin brothers, step-‐mother, father. I turned back-‐ my house. It was a steel red, equivalent to stale blood. It was my home. It was a sanctuary. The stone walls dripped with sadness and longing. The illness demolished everything. Not only you; your feelings, your mind, your love. It also infects abiotic themes. The house I lived in for all 17 years of my life suddenly crumbled. Everything gave way. I watched my father’s face. He had built the house. Every stone was placed by him. We had to keep on. Like a soldier’s march, I will not gaze at the past, but be set on the future. My family and I will go to Promised.
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