 Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid, by Johannes Vermeer (Netherlands) ca. 1670–72 The Sun Ray Painting "Okay, the last thing left is the painting,” the maid told Fiona. “I want it to stay in the house, it is in the perfect spot. The sunrise and sunset gleam, glow on it like a heavenly light selecting it for more,” she replied to the maid. Fiona had become violently ill and was deteriorating fast. In her final moments she and her maid, Jolie, were writing her will. They gave the animals and part of the gold to Fiona’s son, and the clothes and the other half of the gold went to her daughter. Jolie, however, did not know Fiona planned to give the property, including the painting, to her. They had grown up together as kids and knew each other inside out out. She always thought the sun rays on the painting were like Jolie, a ray of joy adding to the dull. Fiona wanted this to be her final farewell and thank you for all that Jolie did for her. She wrote it in her will when Jolie left the room and died shortly the next morning, while the sunrise was on the painting. Tessa Lawrence Tessa Lawrence is 15 and goes to high school in Ohio. She likes to read, write, and play basketball. ** The Missive and the Messenger She writes, perhaps, in the language of lovers- Her hurrying hand, hot with urgent grace, Pens her impatient passion that hovers In ribbony rivulets of ink traced Across the empty paper's sunlit space. The other woman waits, a messenger With listless boredom furrowing her face. Her eyes flit from floor to window, hands spurred To complete her lady's letter for her; But she refrains, and prepares herself to Deliver the missive to the monsieur Whose eager hands await the overdue Words that tease, scold, and seek flirtatious play- Utterances of feelings far away. Stefanie Kate M. Watchorna Stefanie Kate M. Watchorna is the author of the short story "Koivu," which was commended in the 2022 Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize. She is also the author of "An Encomium to the Victors," which was a finalist for the 2021 Giovanni Bertacchi VIII Premio Internazionale Di Letteratura, and "The Glory in Rome," which won third place in the 2022 Giovanni Bertacchi IX Premio Internazionale Di Letteratura. ** The Tug of Other Rooms There’s trouble on the cobbles, I can hear it. There is light and I’m a moth, and though my lady locks the day away, I’m straining at the bit; I hear the merchants’ calls to market, I could make it - if she hurried - with my basket, tuck the larkspur in in bunches, rearrange it on her table when, much later, she will heed her sleepy room. I hush the gloomy day away - it’s only rain again - and take up paper: paper boat, you go your way; canals are highways, and my thoughts can fly to Spain or to some other sunny clime: I have a rush of things to say. There’s love in looping cursive, in a tongue that isn’t mine that makes me bold, that lets me enter hallowed halls by stealth, a language of connection for my friends cannot speak Dutch, nor I the murmured mews of French. I sing a silent song of city streets; she’s sneaking envelopes to places she has never seen except in black and white: The white outside of clouds is ripe, my foot is tapping, oh, if only she would open this old window. The only way in which we two are like is in our dreaming, in how neither one of us is rooted here: this cosy room cannot contain us. The flowers are for me as much as her, reminder tiny of the fact that fields exist; and if it weren’t for those old paintings in the hall of cattle lowing, then the hazy fields I’m storing in my memory might have faded. Go, letter, sing your Latin, swift as Hermes, conjure Rome in homing syllables: I’ve found a patchwork school in correspondence. Let my missives not betray me - how I sometimes need to use my dictionary - let them sit in quiet magic, light the writing desks of other ladies sharing my unerring ache for less domestic praise: the ache is dulling; in its place this new cascade of ever kinder commendations for my mind will tide me over ‘til the next epistle wings its way to me. Caitlin Prouatt Caitlin is a Brisbane-born, Oxford-based Latin and Greek teacher. When not tutoring or looking after her toddler, Caitlin writes poetry, with a particular interest in how rhythm can contribute to an image. Much of her poetry centres on her experiences of being a parent, but she also often returns to Classical themes. She enjoys having a go at the Ekphrastic Challenge to hone her craft. ** pigmentum that first summer, the sky was always azurite. it was the year of riotous blossoming; hydrangeas spilled in clouds and waves across the arboretum and along the stone lanes in shades of weldand smalt and madder lake, the palette my mother wanted for your bouquet – wanted in vain, because we married in April and spring arrived too late. but you folded your hennaed hand over hers and twenty minutes before the bells tolled you walked into the forest when no one was looking. I was halfway to the trees when you emerged laden with wildflowers in lead-tin yellow and carmine and indigo, entrusting an armful to my mother as you passed, and married me with the hem of your verdigris dress dyed ivory black in mud and yellow ochre with pollen and all night long I watched you, spinning like a galaxy in the arms of your sisters, laughing up at me with a face of smudged charcoal and fading vermillion, and there has never been anyone more ethereal than you, not in all the years of your god’s green earth. after decades spent tethered, you wanted to roam, and so we climbed until there was not much further left to go, and there we nested, in that cabin of red ochre flagstones and lead white windows and facing the valley, the bedroom whose ceiling you painted ultramarine with a smattering of stars. that July, when the days were longest and you spent them outside, I’d hear you singing from a mile away, well before you were within sight. surfacing from the vivianite haze of conifers and ancient oak, your hair was a silver blaze; by the time you’d crossed the pasture, you shone like a comet, fool’s gold and lazuli and russet smelting down from the sky to frame your face. whenever you kissed me that season, your eyes were never the same colour twice, tinged every time with an incandescence I am still struggling to name. Lalini Shanela Ranaraja Lalini Shanela Ranaraja makes art in a wilderness of places, most recently Katugastota (Sri Lanka), Rock Island (Illinois) and the California Bay Area. She has written about defiant women, red-tailed hawks, best beloveds, mothertongues and luminous worlds for Wildness, Hunger Mountain, Strange Horizons, Ekstasis and others. Discover more of her work at www.shanelaranaraja.com. ** Out of Focus Placid, pellucid, private? Look again. That pearly woman is in fact my aunt, Writing another list. You like the pane I’m sure – the way the light comes in aslant, So clean. And I must be her modest maid, Lost in my maiden dreams, cool as a plant, Clothed to the neck and wrists. But maids get paid! Look at her scribbling: Lemons, herrings, cheese. The tiles are hard. Notice that carpet, laid Over the table: Turkish, if you please, Thick as a pelt. Oh, Anneke, don’t mope! One morning I’ll jump up there, bare my knees And dance my hoops off. We must make more soap (I must, that is). Now squint behind her head: I know it off by heart. He stretched his scope There, Meister Jan: no more pale drapes; instead Two half-dressed girls, a baby, and – quite plain – Two bodies bare as Adam! And more bread. Or maybe Eve. I’d ask him to explain, But I’m a girl. Yes, Aunt. And I’ve a brain. Passionless, prudish, patient? Look again. Ruth Baker ** Longing How lucky you are: the light shines on the words I whisper as I gaze slant through the window half-hidden from light I was told to avoid. You consulted the book then discarded it, and I, I divulged the words of love, those you are too refined to form even in the movement of your lips. You can write, but not feel. Your lace cap and pearls, they engage but do not pierce. You have me stand in brown, in shadow, when I might have sat in blue velvet fronting you as teacher, giving you the sentiment I whisper now, heart splitting. Only my gaze frees me, frees me to dream of elsewhere, somewhere I may learn to write. Carol Coven Grannick Carol Coven Grannick is a poet and children's author whose verse for the growing and the grown appears in a variety of print and online journals, including Loch Raven Review, Synkroniciti, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Babybug, Ladybug, The Dirigible Balloon, and elsewhere. Her novel in verse, REENI'S TURN, debuted in 2020 (Regal House Publishing), and her series of ekphrastic poems appears in After Light Darkness Rose, Another Day, an independently published Artist Book. Her new blog celebrates and shares the presence and meaning of poetry in everyday life: https://www.bitsoftheworldinverse.com. ** After the Pearl Earring Went Missing It’s a bit tiresome to stand frozen in one place for so long, but maids have little choice. I have a hard time remembering which hand is crossed on top. Both my feet and half-smile ache. Still, looking out at the sunshine, watching the children play and birds fly about the canal beats scrubbing floors. I’m lucky to be the prettier maid in the house – now that earring girl is gone. Poor Cook must handle the kitchen alone. Mistress, of course, is not actually writing a letter. She must stay perfectly still like me, though she may be composing an apology in her head. Let’s face it, we all miss THAT girl. Mistress just never expected to. Master valued the girl’s mastery for mixing paints and stretching canvas. Now he must do it all himself if we’re to keep a roof over head and food on the table. Mistress shows her patience by offering for us to pose. How foolish to pitch the girl out without proof of the theft! Imagine my surprise to find a pearl under the girl’s bed last week. I decided it best to drop it in the canal, not stir up more trouble. I’m keeping a secret for Master, too. While we pose at the window like ladies of leisure, the children left a penny, a crayon, and a wad of paper on the floor beside the table. It’s not visible from where we pose, but Mistress will be mortified that he captured the mess on canvas. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille graduated from the first coed class at the University of Virginia, where she picked up her B.A. in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. Retired now, Alarie delights in having more time to read, write poetry, and hang out at The Ekphrastic Review. Her latest poetry collection, Three A.M. at the Museum, has joined her earlier books on The Ekphrastic Bookshelf. Please visit her at alariepoet.com. ** Vermeer on Main Street America I’m stuck in my boss’s office while she finishes writing a letter. “Almost done,” she says, “then you can run it to the post office.” Her pen scratches at the stationery while I stand staring out the ground-floor window at Main Street. That’s when I hear a low rhythmic rumble and a distant blare of brass. Soon a marching band parades into view to the quick cadence of a familiar tune. “Hey, look,” I say, pointing. “Shh,” my boss says, “almost done.” As the drum major leads the way, I open the window, lean out, and shout: “What’s the occasion?” “It’s Johannes Vermeer’s birthday,” he says, turning to show me a painting in his hands. “Cool,” I say, “but then why are you playing a Sousa march?” But the drum major has already passed by, trailed by twirlers who send their batons spinning skyward like tiny silver satellites. Flutes and piccolos trill high, saxophones and trumpets resound, and the sousaphones’ flared forward-facing bells swing side to side in unison. The percussion section brings up the rear, and each boom of the bass drum rattles the windowpanes. Then the rows of plumed hats recede down Main Street, and the music fades. “Done,” my boss says, handing me a sealed beige envelope. When I step outside, I glance left toward the post office, but turn right instead, in pursuit of the waning melody. DK Snyder DK Snyder’s work appears in Unbroken Journal, Cease, Cows Magazine, Shotgun Honey, and elsewhere. She is a writer, a lawyer, and lives in Virginia. ** Lady Writing a Letter With Her Maid So I sez to him I sez that’s lovely fish, I bet rain is on its way tonight, did you see those clouds unless Hille just forgot to clean the glass again, the butcher’s boy came around twice No one forgets a fletch of bacon unless they’re in love, did Maritje pass your other note to her mistress, lovely turban, earring just a bit much but the heart, I know, the heart wants What it wants, miss, if you will pardon my saying so, true if you hurry and finish I’m sure as eggs is eggs I can cross the straat before dark and your father returns to call you for dinner, it’s fish tonight, miss, it’s Them I was saying, if you remember, what looked alive and swimming, a basket’s as good as the sea to a blind herring and, are you even listening, no don’t write herring, sorry miss, it’s just that She is at her window across the straat, the lace curtain pulled back, yes, by her pale hand, miss, no don’t start over, I promise she’s waiting just like the butcher’s boy at the kitchen door, hurry, fold it kiss it only I will know Angela Kirby Angela Kirby earned a BA in Creative Writing from Duke University. She is a 2024 Atlanta Journal International Poetry Merit Awardee, 2022 Second Prize Winner of the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry, and two-time winner of the Anne Flexner Memorial Prize. Publications include Nimrod International Journal, Roanoke Review, The Light Ekphrastic, and Humber Literary Review. ** The Letter (The Dutch tulip bulb market bubble was one of the most famous market bubbles and crashes of all time. Also known as tulipmania, it occurred in Holland during the early to mid-1600s when speculation drove the value of tulip bulbs to extremes. The rarest tulip bulbs traded for as much as six times the average person’s annual salary at the market's peak.) Anouk stands by, her arms folded, the Delft morning sun stroking both her face and that of her Mistress. It will be some time before the Master is back from his business trip. He took the carriage and two horses. Something big is going on in Amsterdam, and the Master had that worried look on his face. Very worried. Today her Mistress has made a decision. That swashbuckling low-life (that’s what Anouk silently calls him) is only after one thing. No, not that. Money. And her Mistress has a lot of it. The Master has made a fortune with tulip bulbs. He took over her Mistress’ business when they married. It’s hers, really, and ‘low-life’ – Anouk was sure – knew exactly what he was doing, what with his fine words and pretend admiration, his constant attention with small gifts when the Master was out. Anouk had heard rumours from other maids in the market. Her Mistress had always been kind, and Anouk loved her dearly. So, one day she took her courage into both hands (she’d been with her Mistress since she was 13 years old) and the two women had talked. And now her Mistress was writing the letter. It would be a diplomatic masterpiece, not an admission of guilt, but a firm rejection of the money-hunting Mijnheer’s advances, and Anouk would soon leave the house, letter in her apron pocket, and a smile on her face. Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was three times nominated for a ‘Pushcart’ and once for ‘Best of Net’. Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books, July 2022), Whistling In The Dark (Cyberwit, July 2022), and Saudade (December 2022) are available on Amazon. Also available on Amazon is a new collection, Life Stuff, published by Kelsay Books, November 2023. A new MS is brewing. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** Common Bond Here’s go-between, heart-write insight, strict discipline within the room, indiscipline unfolding soon, an intimate geometry. Floor tiles and lines in vertical - is scripted text sans serif too, as centrigugal test is weighed? Made middle cast, a vocal point, whose lips can tell a tale or two, while middleclass, in brighter light, writes featherlight of daring, do? Maid’s glance anticipatory of stories laid beyond the glass - her fantasies of mistress’ ways mingled with prospects of her own, that smile revealing mind at play. How long her longing arms self-grasp before enfolding supple parts? Desire in mouth and finger tips, does one imagine, one suggest? There’s commonwealth before our eyes; no pandering required it seems. This common canvas bolt with Lute (just as twice thieves bolted, this loot, two versions of Ireland’s free state, which ground was never black and white), uncommon in its derring-do? For what withal can word ‘with’ mean; the servant present, so with her, but not co-author, writing with. Had they conspired, shared confidence, the message, messenger and her? Would both enjoy their wicked days? Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** Dancing on their Shoulders, Watchin’ All The Words Go By “Little darlin’, it seems it’s been more than a year since the cold, lonely winter kept sunshine from view, so please, do-do-do draw the curtains wide, dear-- it’s alright. You see, here comes the sun. Let’s renew! See how soft it breaks through without breaking the glass, It’s brilliance unstrain’d, pouring in as if rained from the heavens above upon each of us, lass, twice bless’d by the brightness and warmth it has deigned. Now I’ll take up a pen with more power than a sword-- though I’ll write with a wife’s due compliance to voice love’s refrains, yet with modest accord, while I dance on the shoulders of giants. Sweet ’Melia, don’t wander the streets once it’s gone but stay home, suff’ring megrims the way we girls do, for the feathers and gowns you prefer to put on for a strut through town once nearly ruined me, too. Ken Gosse Author's note on text sources: “Standing on the Corner” is a popular song written by Frank Loesser and published in 1956. The Beatles song “Here Comes the Sun” written by George Harrison, released in 1969. Shakespeare’s poetry from Romeo and Juliet and from The Merchant of Venice. “The pen is mightier than the sword" was coined in these words by Edward Bulwer-Lytton in 1839 (also known for “It was a dark, stormy night …) “The shoulders of giants.” Originally from William of Conches in 1123, perhaps best known from Isaac Newton’s 1675 letter. Thomas Hardy’s 1866 poem, “The Ruined Maid.” Ken Gosse prefers to write rhymed, humorous verse using traditional forms. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then he has been in The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot. ** Reading Between the Lines Eva is used to waiting. Her whole life is subordinated to her mistress's requirements. She glances at the window to pass the time and sees Pieter the messenger outside. He's waiting for the response to his master's latest love letter. Eva notes how the sun gleams off his gaudy blue satin jerkin and that the feather on his cap is outrageously long, how it flicks up and down with his lively head movements as he jokes with the other serving boys in the yard. She notes his shapely calves in the snowy, showy white hose. At least this time she won't have to chase him away from the kitchen door and the gaggle of giggling scullery maids. That was the time she'd had to search for him to give him her mistress's reply, and she'd found him holding court with a simpering, appreciative audience. Even the old cook, Griselda, had had a girlish red blush high on her cheeks and an unfamiliar rictus that could possibly have been a grin. Eva knows Pieter has a way with the ladies, much like his master. She worries that her mistress has fallen for a rogue, a known womaniser. Her mistress refuses to listen to her father's warnings about Franz de Rooij, twice widowed and looking for a new wealthy bride. Her mistress is on a second draft, wanting to reply with some of the wit and playfulness of the letter Pieter brought her. The first draft is lying crumpled on the floor. Eva's expert eye notes that the tiles need a sweep and a wash. It's something practical to keep those flirty, flighty scullery maids busy. Eva tries not to think too much about the future. She expects she will go with her mistress when, inevitably, she marries Franz de Rooij. Her mistress is almost twenty four and there hasn't been a clamour of other suitors so far. Jan van der Valk, the childhood sweetheart, had been killed at sea and her mistress had been inconsolable until the handsome and urbane Franz came along. Eva knows her mistress, as the only child of a successful merchant, will command a generous dowry. She knows her mistress has already started making an inventory of items for her trousseau. What's the point of worrying when it's out of your control, Eva thinks. Her role is to keep her own counsel. Adept at reading over her mistress's shoulder she knows that de Rooij intends to travel around Europe's finest cities once the marriage contract is finalised. That might be some consolation for leaving behind the security and status of the current household. Another thought insinuates itself as movement outside once again catches her eye. The annoying but somewhat diverting Pieter would be there also. Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer from the UK Midlands. She particularly enjoys ekphrastic writing and has had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review Challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print. ** Daydreaming I wonder what species of bird chirps outside the window, wooing its mate with a nuanced melody? If I had confidence to warble my feelings, perhaps Henry would notice me, I could bring him a kneeler out there in the garden to keep the sandy loam from soiling his trousers and perhaps... Yes m'am, I'm paying attention. Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Haiku Universe, Sparks of Calliope, Gyroscope Review, Quartet Journal, The Raven’s Perch, and Panoplyzine. She hosts the Duxbury Poetry Circle, was featured on a poetry podcast at Onyx Publications. Her first collection of poetry, called Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit is in production at Kelsay Books. ** A Cold Morning with a Warm Story It was a cold winter morning with the maid looking out the window at the fresh snow that had fallen on the ground. Her master was writing a letter to her husband who had left to fight in a war for England and she was concerned for him. The maid was looking at the snow until her master said to her, “If you want Violet, you can leave for the day. I have nothing else to ask you to do.” Violet tilted her head at her master “Are you sure?” Her master chuckled, “I can always call you if something comes up.” Violet looked back out of the window. “I know but since your husband left to fight in the war I like to stay and help you out with little and big things.” Her master stopped writing the letter and looked at Violet, smiling. “Are you saying that I am too old to do normal house chores by myself?” Violet shook her head “No, I just want to make sure you are all good.” Her master laughed at this and pointed at the painting behind them “Do you know the story behind which that painting was made?” Violet looked at the painting for a little bit before replying, “I am afraid not.” Her master got up and walked to the painting saying, “It’s a family painting from my ancestors and that a man had to go to war but the man's wife was pregnant with a child and the man wanted to stay with her, but the woman told her husband that she would be fine and so her husband left for the war, still scared for his love. After the war the woman came to greet them and to show them his new son and he said to his wife that she was right and from there on he never again doubted his wife.” Violet was beside her master as she told the story and after the story Violet smiled and said, “Do you need anything master?” Her master shook her head and so Violet walked to the door and grabbed her coat and left her master’s house. Samuel Verhoff ** Inside/Outside Axis "Not to have love was to accept a kind of death before you began." Anne Perry, A Darker Reality Is her future in the painting on the wall behind her? Like mirrors of the present figures wear Golden Age dress, but in the fore-front, mythically added naked bodies suggest a biblical context, like a new world from the past, a place where a man and a woman could be Adam and Eve in a Genesis without figs, their leaves a coverup Queen Victoria would say was un- necessary. Beneath the painting in the background a young woman sits at a desk where she could be writing a love letter; while her maid, standing to her right, hides her impatience to be walking -- out- side -- through the garden at the exact moment when the land- scape gardener rises from a flower bed where he's planted tulips, red blooms that will bleed their colorful passion onto the petals of white companions -- & he adds purple, a dream of sunset that offers 2-lip gold. Is colour an afterthought in 17th century Dutch Painting? A wish? Words in a letter she, a messenger, is eager to deliver? A world, it seems that is just beginning when love is the heart's notepad. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. Twice nominated for Best Of the Net, she has been honoured multiple times by The Ekphrastic Challenge. ** The Letter The sheer, cream white curtain hung lazily over half the windowsill, parting just enough to reveal the intricate stained glass behind it and the blend of gold and cerulean at the focal point Her housemaid’s low-heeled buckle shoes clicked on the cool tile floor as she shifted her weight from foot to foot Her neck ached from the strain of being hunched over her desk for the entirety of the day Each knot woven into the textured cloth draped over the table tugged on skin of her forearms, As if it had its own opinion of what she should write that it desperately wanted to convey Letting out a frustrated breath, she threw a pointed glance at the useless crumpled letter-writing manual she had cast to the floor in a short-lived moment of melodrama Reasonable explanation as to why the words she intended to write died out on the tip of her pen escaped her, and every drop of ink that happened to make it onto the paper was merely a boiled down rendition of what was in her heart She gently traced her weary fingertips over the dried calligraphy ink his name was coated in at the very top of the letter This was the only component of substance she had come up with that elicited a smile from her pursed lips, but just this once, she was determined to be the instigator of his joy Brilliant rays of light infiltrated the room and demanded her attention, seemingly mocking her struggle with their god-given ability to captivate with ease She carried a sharp tongue rather than a witty one, so she always harboured a deep envy of his ability to conjure a laugh or light conversation out of thin air Suddenly, her pen slid off the thin manilla paper and onto the bothersome table dressing, ripping her out of the daydream that had sieged her mind Looking down defeatedly at her lack of progress, she laid eyes on an entire page covered from top to bottom with the appreciation, confession, and devotion she had been wanting to share with him since the day of their first clandestine meeting Anticipation shook her hands excitedly as she attempted to carefully fold and seal the letter in a crisp, plain envelope sealed with vermillion wax and warm adoration. Anna Hepler Anna Hepler lives in a small suburb of Virginia with fickle weather and beautiful fall foliage. She has a passion for writing poetry and hopes to pursue a career in literature in the future. ** The Letter “Quite a kerfuffle outside,” the maid murmured as she gazed out the window. The other woman, who was sitting down at a table, hummed in response. She was paying utterlty no attention to the chaos outside, completely within her own world while writing a letter. “...Ma’am?” The maid tapped the latter’s shoulder. “Oh! Um, yes, Agatha?” the latter jolted. “I think you should take a gander outside, Miss Adeline.” Adeline lifted herself from her work - literally and mentally - and glanced outside. Upon looking, her eyes locked onto the large fleet marching through the streets. “Blimey,” Adeline murmured. “How on earth did I not hear their cries?” “You’ve been within your own world, Ma’am,” Agatha alluded. “Is this the revolt the men spoke of during supper yesterday?” Adeline pondered, tilting her head with a slight worried expression. “It’s probable.” Both of them watched as the foreign troops continued their march towards the castle. Almost a minute later, they watched their king, James II, flee upon a horse. “...That was quite anticlimatic,” Agatha said with a raise of a brow. “Indeed, Aggie, indeed,” Adeline sighed. “Shall you return to your letter now, Madam Adeline?” Ava Chapin Ava Chapin is a freshman who is a self-proclaimed "writer in progress." ** The Letter I tap my pen on the edge of my hand, waiting for Elizabeth to speak. “But I must decline your offer,” she says. I write the line, wondering if the offers to buy her late father’s estate will ever cease. Nobody believes she can run the estate, and I wonder if she herself has any confidence. The silence stretches out and I turn around. Elizabeth is lost in space, her gaze resting out the window, in some faraway place. I put down the pen. “Start a new letter,” she says. “Accept the offer. We need a fresh start. Things will change.” Anna Svatora
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