Two Women The simplicity of line how it carries itself how you can carry it in an instant, a pocket Two women waiting on a bench as at a hairdresser waiting to begin We walk through the white borders of their possible lives Open spaces puzzle no more than their identities: they are all of us reduced to basic line We will meet them tomorrow amid shopping bags and odd hats shoes that barely fit, stockings gone awry And suddenly we will be their pursuers their purse-bearers their pall carriers It was always working in darkness, even on the brightest days at Nathan Philip Square where light glistened on the new skin of sunbathers, it was always working in the darkness of ink. Where does one find light if not in the space behind the page? These lines were shaped for the homeless, traced the shapes of homelessness, felt the pulse of loneliness, which is hardly any pulse at all. A cigarette, an empty purse, a hat misplaced in time. I was riding a train of thought where there were no words but only a hunger and a need to fill it with ink, to flood the bright spaces of the day with dark, innocent, half-formed line. I was the beginning of all those people. Apple Still Life Comes a certain point when it’s hard to care for anything anymore, when lines are just lines, people just empty shapes. How often did Jack reach this point? How often did just looking fail to move? Maybe that’s when he added colour, making the bowl a deep liquid blue, the apple green a tarnished rust after rain. Could he ever tire of looking at apples in a bowl? of making a roundness of their roundness, a space for them to breathe? As long as there are apples and nothing else no empty house surrounding them no footsteps leaving or about to leave for good he must have been ok, he must have been able to turn shapes into colours and colours into shapes and to leave everything else alone My job was to follow the lines of sorrow behind the eighty-year-old face, the face of a young girl. They can see beyond the veil the ink is only another veil broken by spots of light Tom Jones When I was a sailor things weren’t done this way there was somewhere to turn to . . . Dark tones give weight to the feet tell us where they may have gone ask us where we may be going And the open collar, a skin of possibilities: his, just being formed ours, the seemingly foreclosed, newly opened He tells us not to be afraid for all our potential self the smudge is not a warning but a star Mark Silverberg These poems previously appeared in the author's book Believing the Line: The Jack Siegel Poems (Breton Books, 2013).
Mark Silverberg is the author of the Eric Hoffer award-winning ekphrastic poetry collection, Believing the Line: The Jack Siegel Poems (Breton Books, 2013). He lives and teaches at Cape Breton University in the ancestral and unceded territory of the Mi'kmaq People.
0 Comments
Girl Reading at a Window after Girl Reading at Window I was no beauty as a child. I was always cold. I wore handknitted woollen jumpers, their sleeves lumpy with sodden handkerchiefs, over scratchy pleated skirts. Long grey socks pulled up over my knees did little to warm my feet and legs. A window seat hidden by red curtains — cold lick of glass against my cheek. The bitter smell of old ashes in an empty grate and mildew from the foxed pages of a seldom opened book. Condensation obscured a view of the garden and my father’s rhododendrons. When I tired of my book, I drew on the windows with my finger, transforming frosted lawns and dark foliage into dripping vignettes of frozen wastelands. There was no possibility of taking a walk in this or any other shrubbery. ** Loving Bewick after Loving Bewick I would read whatever I pulled from the bookcase, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. Two books came to my hand again and again. My mother’s childhood fairy tale book — its dark woodcuts, lost children, terrifying beasts. Cruelty, burnings. My father’s souvenir of the Tower of London. Gold and jewels, hangings, beheadings, torture chambers. The pulsing mystery of a world behind red curtains. The pelican was believed to nurture its young with its own blood. With Bewick’s History of British Birds on my knee, I was then happy: happy in my way. Its weight like a great bird paddling its feet, cat-like, on my knees. My hand on its back. Feathers, warmth. Mouth. ** La Ligue des Rats after La Ligue des Rats You could hear rustling in the roof sometimes. Scurrying footfalls. In the evening, the cat perched on the back of the couch staring up at the ceiling as if it were observing, telepathically, a rambunctious meeting of rat delegates. When I was outside the house, I sometimes saw a brown body and tail disappear into the tradescantia and ginger plant that had overwhelmed the boggy lower garden. My nights were disturbed by dreams of rats on the windowsill watching me sleep and an enormous cat with a rat in its mouth. One morning, a tiny, clawed foot and a piece of tail on the front door mat. I had learned to recite La Fontaine’s “La Ligue des Rats” when I was ten years old. I wore my best dress and declaimed with gestures. No one watching me that day was impressed, despite the soft light of candles in the room. Although I knew what it meant, my accent was wrong. The cat’s unblinking stare unnerved me. ** Up the Tree after Up the Tree I am often not very tranquil in my mind as if I were a stone upon which a hand was continuously drawing then erasing, drawing then erasing. Colours wash over borders and seep through my clothes. Nothing sticks for long and even then, images coalesce and blur. A gravel road winds through scrubby trees and gorse interspersed with blackberry on damp corners—drops of purple and black. The farmer’s gate—crosshatched posts and bars. A splash of green for long damp grass leading to the macrocarpa that I see from my bedroom window. Sheep have worn a bare patch around its trunk, their droppings mixed with shards of brown glass, cigarette butts, and what I once thought were shreds of pearl-coloured balloons. All the girls tuck their skirts into their knickers to hang upside down from the jungle gym. Burning metal rails on a hot day, our shadows flying across the concrete underneath. Up the tree, my skirts billowing around my knees, I can see the red tile roof of the house, the glint of my bedroom window and a flash of scarlet from my father’s rhododendrons. Smoke wakes me every night. When I open the curtains, the dark bulk of the hill I once climbed is fringed with flickers of red and orange. All the lovely colours. Figures stand in the street shouting while the foliage of the macrocarpa streams like hair against the flames. Each morning, its black fingered skeleton is etched behind my eyes. Margaret Moores Note: Some ideas, lines and phrases in these poems are derived from Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë and Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys. Margaret Moores is a prose poet and flash fiction writer from Aotearoa New Zealand whose work has been anthologised in print and in online journals. She has a PhD in Creative Writing in which she investigated how the invention of photography has contributed to modern ekphrasis. She has been a bookseller for many years, and with her husband owns Poppies Books, a small independent bookshop in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland. The Red Vineyard Near Arles like the bend in the river they lean into the gold red warmth of grain the day is cooling under a gold wafer of sun Sister Lou Ella Hickman Sister Lou Ella’s poems have appeared in America, US Catholic, Commonweal, The Christian Century, Prism, and several anthologies. She was a Pushcart nominee in 2017 and 2020. Press 53 published her first book of poetry entitled she: robed and wordless in 2015. Five of the poems were set to music and performed at 92Y in New York City on May 11, 2021, and a second concert was held in Cleveland, Ohio on March 28, 2023. Dreadful Splendor: Paintings and Poems for a New Planet- Eileen P. Kennedy and Irene Christensen1/11/2024 The Goddess Speaks The goddess lives inside these mountains. You continue to rise to the summit to climb to the top looking up seeing nothing but mottled heavens. Into the hole you plunge but there is no single collective mind. The goddess questions you about losing her blue sky. She sees the bareness of her trees almighty guardians ones that used to give shade to birds and creatures of the woods. Her thoughts spread threads on wheel-centered spokes. What if the birches don’t blossom, shaking out their brown-leaved hearts? What if the thrushes are banished from song, voices split from their throats? Give my trees the grant of green again, she cries, Let the birds sing toward heaven. The Day Wavers Between Going and Staying The day does not know where to go birds migrate from ocean to land heads hover without permanence water pushes into dense plants sunset skirmishes with colour the day does not know where to go sky exudes purple red warning wind surprises the woman’s hair land vanishes from waterlog cloud beasts survey for safe landing the day does not know where to go birds flutter seeking to escape earth cries to the overhead for help fowls look for a place to put down water courses flooding the land the day does not know where to go Between Shell and Troll Moon dwelling artist’s divination. Heaven-wheel keeps turning through all the constellations. High-spire shell the illustrator of the new world passes with open-ended canal to the fjord the monster guards. The painter predicts the demise of the forest. Fires of orange destroy tree garlands. Through the conch hunt resonating vision echoes through hulks. She clears troll and grey sky and come out the other end. Lotus Goddess The green ochre of your face against the pomegranate earth makes this portrait you. This head covering hijab highlights the pain of your eyes, one of your many arms lost over to peregrine falcon claws, the tendrils of octopus lost in the gems of the sea. Your scarlet lap on a blooming lotus a plum, a berry-vine. How strong you are. Parvati, the woman of truth growing the morning calm and Kali, the dancer who crushes all living things sits in your same body holding the future in your many hands. The past behind you, the gods heap lashing winds and flashing floods. In the oldest stone temple, priests twirl water on rocks. Who pleases the deities now? Will humans and animals survive? Will the icebergs continue to melt? Will the goddesses remain in balance? Will Mother Parvati prevail with peaceful energy? Will Kali pierce the air with her battle cry, crushing the world with her frenzied, greedy feet? Ino and the Goddesses The golden goddess sits on a rock watching. The winged deity stands in praise. Ino raises her hands in supplication to the ancient ones for her water kingdom. She prays for the aquatic animals to heal the fish to flow and the waters to purify. Blood runs on the ground from the mountain. A boat filled with people flees the polluted water. The goddesses remain grounded in their hope knowing that their wishes may come true that the seas see everything and that nothing will come to pass without the blessing of the ancestors without a vision of the future. Eileen P. Kennedy This selection is from a collaboration about women and climate change, between poet and artist, Dreadful Splendor: Paintings and Poems for a New Planet. Eileen P. Kennedy is the author of two collections of poetry: Banshees (Flutter Press, 2015), which was nominated for a Pushcart Prize and won Second Prize in Poetry from the Wordwrite Book Awards, and Touch My Head Softly (Finishing Line Press, 2021) which Literary Titan has described as “emotionally-charged poetry that explores life with observant poems that will appeal to anyone who loves inspired poetry.” It was a finalist for the International Book Awards in General Poetry. She lives in Amherst, MA with the ghost of Emily Dickinson. More at EileenPKennedy.com. Irene Christensen divides her time between New York City and Oslo, Norway producing her work in her studios. She has exhibited in Europe, Asia and the United States. Her art has been shown in museums, art centers and galleries in the U.S., Costa Rica, Norway, Germany, Belgium, Brazil, Israel and Argentina. She showed an installation of nine accordion books at Palazzo Mora during the Venice Biennale. Irene Christensen has received many honorariums and awards both in Europe and the U.S. and is represented in many museums and personal collections. John Zeaman, art critic and writer, says: “Irene Christensen’s art is about painting as a magical act.” The Currency of His Light by Roy Beckemeyer Turning Plow Press, 2023 9781735576299 122 pages, paperback Having written many ekphrastic poems and having published a collection of ekphrasis, I found reading Beckemeyer’s The Currency of His Light a deep pleasure. The author’s unifying theme of light brings a fine cohesion to the work. Enjoyable, too, were the epigraphs he chose for each of his seven sections, passing from Milton to da Vinci, and on to Edith Wharton. The publisher, Turning Plow Press, succeeded, as well, in including fine reproductions of various artworks to which Beckemeyer’s poems refer, along with an exceptionally fine reproduction of one of Beckemeyer’s own photos for the cover. The artwork reproductions are presented in colour, which brings added delight to the reader. Beckemeyer approaches the theme of light from countless angles. His approaches help us to consider the natural elements he uses as basic to the poems, presenting them as his personal witness to nature in all its seasons, light or dark, yet rendering them as fundamentally accessible. He studies as closely the sheen of a woman’s seamed nylons as he does the dust-flung wings of moths or the “sparkling mirror shine” of cooking pots hung on a wall waiting to have their “hunger” filled. In a sun-burst of satisfying rhythm, the author delivers a villanelle that ends with the striking lines “the father who lives longer than his son / whose novel ends before the tale’s begun.” (p. 66) Within the rhyming, we watch “the blackest sky at noon” approach the “midnight sun.” The darkness of Beckemeyer’s word choices speaks deeply of the finality of the father’s loss. “Palette,” (p.26) is a kind of ars poetica that presents an essay of hues that move from mauve through “…all the tints / and despairs of blue.” And the poem “Don’t” (p.88) lets us rise with Jupiter into “the soaring September sky.” These poetic leaps contrast with such down-to-earth elements as the humble onion, seen bubbling and rolling in a “synchronized swim” and floating in a Pinot Grigio sea. (“Vidalia,” p. 74) With vintages of Van Gogh-like colour choices, the author asks to be …a tree-woven hedgerow, windbreak of Osage orange and red cedar-- my kiting branches broadside to the prairie storm, straining roots anchoring against everything the world pushes my way. (p.97) And for a brighter image of light, I choose Beckemeyer’s “Venus,” (p. 96) where Venus “owns the morning sky, / blatant, blaringly bright…” and “Moon stares, waning-crescent- / grin, agog at the sight.” Agog, as I am agog at the reading of The Currency of His Light, appreciating the way the author’s personal light and perception(s) pass through his lines with equanimity. Finest of the ekphrastic poems is Beckemeyer’s “Chiaroscurro,” (p.64) as if he, like Caravaggio, is determined to draw light from the breath-taking and merciful withdrawal of Abraham’s knife-filled hand on Isaac’s sacrificial head. Perhaps with this poem, we can fully comprehend the author’s use of “currency” in his title. Carole Mertz Author of Color and Line (Kelsay Books) and Toward a Peeping Sunrise (Prolific Press), Carole Mertz is Book Review Editor at Dreamers Creative Writing and Poetry Editorat The Ocotillo Review (at Kallisto Gaia Press.) Roy Beckemeyer holds degrees from St. Louis U. and Wichita State U., and a PhD in engineering from the U. of Kansas. A poet since his youth, his work appears frequently in such venues as The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Poetry Magazine, River City Poetry, and elsewhere. He has published four previous poetry collections. The Ekphrastic Review is pleased as punch to present ekphrastic work from Arrowhead Union High School. Teachers Elizabeth Jorgensen and Terri Carnell love to engage their writing students with ekphrastic lessons and exercises, and we have the very difficult task of choosing a few selections and publishing them. There were five artworks. Today is part five of five parts, with selections corresponding to each painting. To all of the students who participated: we applaud your creativity and your courage. You wrote your hearts out! You all took risks, contemplating and interpreting a famous work of art, being brave enough to interpret it in your own way. You let the art inspire your imagination in new ways. It was an extremely difficult task choosing a few from many for each of the artworks. Congratulations to each and every one of you on your words. We hope this taste of ekphrasis opens for a you a lifetime in relationship to visual art and literature. Trying In the last seconds of my slumber before I awake, I remember: The fishing I did for my father, when the freezing rain was too cold for him. The yellow-roofed restaurant I passed that sells fresh-caught seafood. The old pennies I tossed into the fountain with the enormous blood-red sockeye salmon in it. The starry night I used to observe, with the white crescent moon staring back at me. The ocean wind blowing the dark smoke stacks away from the pattern-like crowded town with zero tourists. I watch the vibrant sunset colors smashing into a cross-stitch pattern. The colors of memories fainted with the overlap of growing up. Vague pieces of escaping reality would compel dreams about my childhood. Every moment connected with happiness and security. Scenes of abstract memories come together and shape my childhood. Dream-like golden yellow sunrise, reflecting on the bright marble blue waves, erasing thoughts of fear, with the absence of worry, missing and reminiscing about the free, careless world of my childhood. For the last time ever, I remembered. Ayden Knuth ** Painted Town Dim, cloudy haze covered the town as sounds of shuffling echoed through the rusty boat dock. 5:00 a.m. was never too early for Violetia, even when her dad forced her out for the morning casts, but she still longed for her Abuelas’ warm quilt on her bed back home. Her little, scrawny legs swing from the edge of the dock as she sits staring into the abyss, her petite fingers etching the decaying wood beside her. Big, brawny workers sighed and huffed, carrying loads of fish from the night before. The sounds were unfamiliar to the little girl—she often found comfort in the bustling sounds and fishy smells. “Vamanos, mi hija,” her dad calls from the other end of the dock, beckoning her to come onto the boat as the crew was almost about to leave. Her eyes fixed on the hazy abyss, her dad's call was only just a murmur. Out of the gray, murky waters, she glimpses something bright. Bright? She pondered. This small town in the mountains has been somber for decades—longer than Violetia has been alive. Gray buildings and houses, dirty roads, gloomy people, and foggy weather consumed the town and neighboring terrain. All day and night, the town was in a shadowy cloak. Nothing was bright here. Ever. Bright? Her confusion was painted on her face: a blank expression written between her furrowed eyebrows and parted lips. She has never felt this new emotion—confusion mixed with awe. The Bright parts the soft waves, creating a multitude of ripples through the murky waters. It swims through the abyss up towards the star-struck Violetia. She looks down at this newfound phenomenon circling the waters beneath her flip-flops. A fish. It was a bright fish. It was a fish like the ones in her dad's net. But it was bright. It was colored from fin to fin, painted with vibrant colours. Red, blue, and yellow are mixed into a pattern along its scales. The fish pulsed its colours through its body, creating a wave of mesmerizing glow. She flipped onto her stomach and stretched her hands out to the fish. The colourful fish broke through the surface reaching back to her, breaking through the foggy air. Violetia´s fingers brushed the scales, and a new wave of vibrance rushed over her. Blazing, brilliant light shone from the fish, consuming the waves, the dock, and the sky above. The aurora swirled around her, painting her gloomy surroundings in a thick coat of color. The sky was consumed with red, blue, and yellow, twisting and turning between the fog and the clouds. The dock turned a shade of dark, intense blue and the skyline surrounding her became filled with glow. From dark red to flashing yellow, the town became a new paint pallet—consumed with Bright. “Ay, dios mío,” Violetia murmurs. She sat up in wonder, witnessing the unusual world around her. She has never experienced these wonders before. What is going on? She thinks as her heart beats faster. She spots her dad beckoning her over to the boat. All the crew around the dock bustle like usual, no one seems to notice the color surrounding the town and surprising little Violetia. Her heart rate increases, pumping from fear to fascination as she takes in the beauty of the painted town. Violetia rushes over to her dad’s boat. “¨¡Papá, Papá! Do you see the sky, the bright sky?” She tugged on his muddy overalls catching his concerning attention. He glances at the sky, a puzzling look on his face. “The sky is always like this Violetia, what are you talking about?” “I am talking about the sky! Do you not see the sky? How the sky is painted in a deep hue with the colours of the deep unknown sea, making you feel like Abueltas quilt, covering you in wonder. Do you not see the town? How there are different vibrances of hues bouncing from each house and building. Swirling around, creating a new world of wonder. The buildings feel like the warmth from the sun’s rays, or the fireplace on a rainy afternoon! It fills you up with joy and comforts you with love making you feel safe and warm!” Violetia gasps for air, “Do you not see the beauty? Our home is beautiful!” Noelle Urban ** Ripping Lips I wake up around four a.m. to my alarm blaring at me. Quickly shutting it off, I slowly get out of bed, stretch, and get ready for the last full day in Alabama. My cousin Tyler was also up with me because we stayed in the same room. “I am so excited for today,” I tell Tyler. “This will be my first time fishing in the ocean so this is a new experience,” Tyler says with a long yawn. As we go downstairs we find my dad and start packing for the day. We prepared a pre-made lunch and warm clothes because it was supposed to be cold. “We have a long drive to get to the port we are launching from, so bring blankets and pillows to sleep on the drive,” my dad tells my cousin and me. Once we fully packed, we began the hour-long drive along the coast to get to the launch. I slept the whole drive and what felt like instantly, we were at the launch where we met up with our captain for the day. He was a tall man with a gimp walk like an injured animal limping along. “Hurry up gentlemen, these fish aren’t gonna catch themselves,” emphasizes the captain. We briskly loaded the boat and began our journey out into the waters. I was so excited to see what the ocean had in store for us and see what kind of fish we were going to pull up. We quickly rolled up on our first stop which was an old oyster farm that had wooden pillars from the shore to about 120 feet out in the water. Each rod setup was simple. 20-pound test line, a slip bobber, and a large barb hook with a shrimp on it. With the first cast out I instantly hooked onto a fish. “There you go, son!” Yelled the captain as I brought the first of the day. A beautiful sheepshead with yellow and black stripes popped out of the water. I threw the fish into the live well and before I could even make my cast out, my dad hooked into one as well. This fish did not fight as hard but was perfect for dinner. A smaller sea trout with razor-sharp teeth he pulled out of the water. For the next 15 minutes, my dad and I were constantly pulling fish ranging from flounders, Redfish, black drums, and even a triple tail, but my cousin still could not bring one in. He gets a bite finally but the fish comes off. “You have to rip their lips off boy!” Yells our captain. “We aren’t bluegill fishing.” After an alarming strike on my cousin's rod, he was finally hooked up. But there was something different about this fish. The rod had a much larger bend to it but the fish was slow moving and my cousin could not get it to move. “You got something really big on.” “I don't even think this fish knows he is hooked yet, it feels like I'm dragging a car,” Tyler says as he grunts trying to haul the fish in. Suddenly the fish starts moving and trying to get away. The rod bends aggressively and almost brings my cousin with it. Then the fish started coming in our direction and we were finally able to make out what it was. “That has to be the largest black drum I have ever seen in my life, at least 60 pounds just look at the shoulders on that thing!” the captain says with joy. I saw the tail of the fish which was as large as the tire on a car. Each time it moved its tail, it brought more and more lines out. After 20 minutes the fish did one last push and came off. We were all heartbroken but when we brought the line back in, the hook was bent perfectly straight. “That was the coolest experience ever,” Tyler yells with excitement. “Let's keep casting.” For the next three hours we caught about 40 fish and even a 30-pound drum my dad caught. We made our way back to the harbour and fileted the fish. That was a memory I will never forget. Mateo Haeuser ** Deep Sea Fishing ”Ding ding ding,” The harbor bell rang. It was my first day on my new deep sea fishing job, my dream job, and I was already late. I ran through the streets of Key West, Florida, with my fishing gear. The street lamps had a cold glow, making the buildings around me pop. Blurs of whites, yellows, and reds whizzed past me as I ran to the docks. Rounding the corner, I saw my boat heading out of the harbor. It was long white, yellow, blue, and black. It had an enclosed cabin that read “Florida Deep” on the side, our company's name. There were a few more docks ahead of the boat, so I redirected myself to the furthest. “HEY! HEY!” I started shouting as I picked up the pace for them to slow down. “HEY!” There was chatter on the boat and some of the other fishermen pointed in my direction. I continued running as fast as possible while the boat kept driving. Finally, I ran down the dock, and the boat slowed down. “Nice work, kid, almost missed us on the first day,” one of the guys said. “Yeah, sorry about that; I don’t know what happened. My alarm never went off,” I said, trying to devise a quick excuse. “No problem, kid, your alarm hasn’t gone off. We pranked ya, each one of us went through it. We weren’t going to leave ya behind. I am Jake,” he said, smacking me on the back and heading back to the boat's cabin. I pulled my phone out and checked the time. It read 5:37 a.m. I wasn’t supposed to be at the docks until 6:15. My alarm wasn’t supposed to go off for another eight minutes. I swiped up at the base of my phone, opened my alarm app, and turned off the alarm. After that, I sent a text to my wife: “Hey, Love, I have a great story to tell you when I get home. Don’t eat without me.” Then, I added the heart emoji, I slid my phone into my pocket, and looked off the boat's bow. The water was a dark gray with a hint of blue. A bright orange and red line was coming from the horizon to the boat from the sun rising. We had to go slowly, but it was only until we got past the reef. I didn’t want to get splashed with salt water, so I turned around and headed toward the cabin entrance. About 50 minutes later, we made it to our spot. The ride was smooth. The two other guys on the boat with Jake and me- Frank and Darek. Frank was the captain, so Darek, Jake, and I went out to set the boat up. We were going to use a technique called trolling, dragged fake baits in the water so the game fish thinks it's food swimming in the water. We had five lines set up in about five minutes, dragging them 40 feet behind the boat. From there, the three of us sat watching the lines while Frank made passes across the spots. The time was now 8:07 p.m. We had already caught a dozen fish, but only a few of them I had brought in. By now, the sun was starting to set, and we agreed to bring the lines in when it was dark. I could hear an imaginary clock in my head as the boat rocked in the waves,” tick, tock, tick, tock.” “ZING!” One of the lines started getting pulled out of the rod quickly. I jumped up and grabbed the rod. It nearly pulled me in. I put tension on the line and started battling the fish. Frank stopped the boat, and the others started bringing the other lines in case my fish had friends. Nothing. I continued to battle the fish, getting more and more exhausted. I would get some line in, and then the fish would take more line from me. I pulled back on the rod, bringing it to my chest, then reeled down. I did that for another hour; it was 9:12 p.m. I was trying my best to tire the fish out so I could bring it to the boat and not lose the fish. Finally, the fish was at the side of the boat. It was pitch dark, but Darek shined a bright LED flashlight on the fish in the water. It was huge, it had to be six feet long and the shape of a football with a bright red head with a yellow and black stripe behind it. The fish’s back was white, while its belly was also red and the tail was dark black. “Okay, time to get this sea monster into the boat and head home,” Frank said, as we stared at this magnificent beast. We lugged the huge fish into the boat by the tail; it had to way a ton. Saltwater fishes’ tails are super strong and they can easily be held by it. Before we took off, I wanted a picture with it, so I handed Jake my phone. Then I grabbed the tail with two hands and brought the fish up as close to my chest as possible. One click with the flash and I drug the fish to the ice cooler, plopped him down on all of our other catches. Soon after, I sat down proudly in the cabin and we went home. Joey Risch The Handmaid Explains her Preference for Botticelli A handmaid, naturally I am nameless in the book, useful solely for carrying a basket on my head filled with oil and wine, provisions for my mistress: kohl for her eyes, essences for me to massage her body. (She shudders when my fingertips touch her back). I beautify her ready for seduction, for deception, as mad Holofernes drinks her in with copious draughts of heady wine. Of course I am written out of the action in the book. There she alone adorns herself while I am sent outside his tent to keep watch, passive. As if she could train her hair, anoint the softness of her skin with perfumed oils, kneed her yielding flesh, rub warmth into her muscles to release her ruthless strength! I disappear; she is the heroine wielding the weapon, the blade not so sharp it decapitates neatly. Bitter? No. But I was there, witness and participant. Dulled by drink, he was, nonetheless, a huge, sinewy victim. I struggled to hold him down as he awoke, his eyes ghastly as he felt the wounding. Incredulous, he thrashed in impotent frustration as she hacked and sawed. He writhed in rage ‘til it was over. I had to help sever the head from the body. It was disgusting. Exhausted, ensanguined, we fled the carnage. My role, in the book at least, was to carry the bloody head, disguised, swaddled in cloth, back, in my basket, to Bethulia. This is how Botticelli imagines me, trailing alongside the famous heroine. Spotless, both. No trace of the charnel house we’d fled, no hint of the victorious celebration to come; he paints us frozen in an uneventful moment, our flowing garments elegant, hers light, mine dark, like our faces. His face, expressionless, almost benign in the quietude of death, perches jauntily upon my head. My hand, raised, keeps the basket in place. She looks at me, sympathetic, concerned about the weight but I’m adept at balancing it, even when the burden’s unfamiliar. Her gaze is gentle, intimate, unsullied by righteous wrath or triumph. Solemn, in one hand she holds a slender twig, the sort you might pick up on a walk in the country; in the other, discreetly, his sword, its blade unstained. If not for the evidence, we might be out for an afternoon stroll. I like Botticelli. He doesn’t go in for the sensational: no streams of gore or plunging voluptuous breasts inviting you to become a voyeur, no fascination with butchery. Sanitised? No. Instead, two women, sharing an understanding. We were tasked, tasted horror, bear the evidence. I’m centre stage, not some aged crone or young accomplice, useful for filling the frame. He spares us the male gaze - we look only at each other; spares me my anonymity. I was complicit and he gives me dignity. Carolyn Thomas Carolyn Thomas is from the Neath valley in South Wales but now lives on Tyneside. After retiring from teaching in Further, Higher and Adult Education, she is enjoying the opportunity to write. She has published poetry in The Ekphrastic Review, Impossible Archetype, A Pride of Lions (Coin Operated Press) and the UK Places of Poetry project. She has reviewed for Stand magazine and her account of life as a gay woman in the 1970s is published in the Honno Press collection, Painting the Beauty Queens Orange. Stereotypically, she sports a dragon tattoo and lives with a misanthropic cat. The Ekphrastic Review is pleased as punch to present ekphrastic work from Arrowhead Union High School. Teachers Elizabeth Jorgensen and Terri Carnell love to engage their writing students with ekphrastic lessons and exercises, and we have the very difficult task of choosing a few selections and publishing them. There were five artworks. Today is part four of five parts, with selections corresponding to each painting. To all of the students who participated: we applaud your creativity and your courage. You wrote your hearts out! You all took risks, contemplating and interpreting a famous work of art, being brave enough to interpret it in your own way. You let the art inspire your imagination in new ways. It was an extremely difficult task choosing a few from many for each of the artworks. Congratulations to each and every one of you on your words. We hope this taste of ekphrasis opens for a you a lifetime in relationship to visual art and literature. The Fruit and Vegetable Costermonger She strolls up to me with a devilish smirk, Demanding to see the fruit that is being prepared for the feast. No one can ever satisfy her. I bring her my large basket of peaches in search of approval. As she reaches out, her dark sleeve crawls up her arm The dress she wears matches her heart- dark, black, and cold. It is the only thing that truly expresses her She reached the peach and took a bite. Disgusted with what she tastes, She scolds me to do better Leaving me with a burning pit of shame. Kate Reese ** A Mother’s Lost Love Found in The Fruit and Vegetable Costermonger Natural selection: gorey quality of the circle of life Survival of the fittest: gruesome– Or merciful. Allowing the runts an early way out, For once they grow up it will be too late. Mothers decide–which offspring will be cradled in their arms and which shall be abandoned. To my mother, what qualities of mine showed subordination? Does she see past the mounds of fruit, as plentiful as the tended gardens? Does she scowl when cats follow my every step, like I’m a mother of their own? Is she embarrassed of my ratty, peasant clothes? Or that I never learned to tame my curly hair the way she does? every fruit I inspect, every stare I cast, every heart-aching night, is for her I long for her approval. I yearn for her love. I wish for my mother. No one, truly, survives a dismissive mother. For each piece of fruit she casts away, a piece of my hope goes with it. Maggie Walloch ** Memory of the Market Dear Diary, Today, I went to the farmer’s market—the farmer’s market on Tulip Dr. that Mom and I went to every Saturday morning. It was a special memory that Mom and I shared, until she had gotten too sick to go. I didn’t want to experience it alone, without her by my side. But, today was her birthday, her first birthday since she had entered eternal rest. I knew that she would want me to go because it is what she loved doing: so, I built up enough courage to. As I walked up to the stand, the world seemed darker than usual. The cabbage and grapes—a darker green. The walls were a murky charcoal in which no light shone upon. The brightest thing lying on that entire table were the apples: the only thing I came here for. Apples were my Moms favorite fruit, and I needed them to make her secret recipe of apple crisp; a dessert she always wanted on her birthday. About to order, the woman, who remembers my Mom and I coming every weekend (but not the last couple months), hugged me and told me how sorry she was about my Mom while I tried to fight back the tears in my eyes. I appreciated people trying to show they care, but nothing will allow me to heal the broken heart that she has left me with. She gracefully picked the brightest and most delicious looking of the apples and gently put them into my basket. Each one adding more weight to my shoulders, feeling heavy—like the heart I’ve been carrying since her passing. In the corner of my eye, I noticed a white, tan, and black cat slip out from the shadows. It caught me by surprise, knowing my Mom has always loved cats, especially this kind. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, right in front of my eyes. My heart sank and I almost dropped my basket of apples. Could this be her coming with me? Part of me felt hurt, but another part of me felt comfort as if she was there, by my side. I had asked this woman if it was her cat; she told me it was a stray that has been coming around her stand for the last several weekends. Has my Mom been waiting for me? Is this her way of watching me? I felt sick and in disbelief. Quickly, I gave the woman my cash and hurried off. Walking home, tears puddled in my eyes and slowly rolled down my cheek like raindrops on a window. In denial, I noticed the cat had been following me home. It is just a stray cat I kept telling myself, although deep down I knew it was my mother. Hours and hours passed, and I found myself nowhere but my mothers bed. Today was hard, especially since it was a day to celebrate her life on Earth, in which she is no longer upon. I couldn’t stop thinking about the cat and how I was sure it was my mother checking up on me. I built up enough motivation to get myself out of bed, and go in search of the cat. Shortly, I found it walking around our backyard, a place where Mom loved to plant her flowers, read her books, and find peace while she was sick. It saw me, stopped in its tracks, and stared. “Hi Mom—” I barely got those words out of my mouth before I broke down and started sobbing. My vision became blurry, barely seeing ahead of me from the pool of tears trapped in my eyes. The cat slowly walked over to me, rubbed up against my legs and let out a soft purr. It didn’t leave my side as I made Moms apple crisp and I felt comfort like I was making it with her. I decided to keep the cat and bring it in as my pet. It made me feel close and connected to my mother. I feel more at peace with the world and like I am being watched over and protected. So, Diary, meet my new cat Tulip. Isabelle Berres ** The Lady at the Handcart Walking down the dirty, barely lit roads that were covered in rats and people who were spending the evening together; this was expected. As I was walking down the road, I suddenly started yearning for my favorite dessert: apple pie. I walked down the road, counting my coins to see if I had enough. I asked this extremely exquisite couple on the street where the nearest food market was. “Just carry on down this road and pass the bridge, and then you will arrive at the food market!” the nice couple said. “Thank you, thank you so much, and have a beautiful night!” I cheerfully voiced. I beamed with joy since the food market wasn't that far. The desire for apple pie intensified the closer I got and smelled the freshly baked pastries. I hope to get some of the freshest apples to make an apple pie. I can see the beaming lights of the stands and the sounds of laughter and gossip. I made sure to check if I had exactly the right amount of change. To grant my longing wish of making a fresh plate of some apple pie. As I arrived, I was shockingly overwhelmed. I walked and walked, my feet guiding me, and my nose smelled the appetizing food. My mouth started to salivate. At last, I finally found a stand that would give me some mouthwatering apples. I walked up to the handcart, and I was greeted by a young, nice lady. This young lady dressed truly differently from me, but that did not matter. My eyes wandered across the whole wooden cart. She had so many goods, ranging from apples to peaches, tomatoes to vegetables. I was extremely pleased that I came at a marvelous time. "Hello, ma'am,” I utter excitedly. My stomach was rumbling. After smelling all the delicious food made around me, it engulfed me in a cozy and warm environment that I never wanted to leave. “Good evening, ma'am,” she said with her lovely voice. She talked slowly and properly. She was tall and slim with brown hair with rosy cheeks and beautiful brown eyes that slightly shimmered underneath the damp light. “I would like to purchase your best apples that glisten underneath the light,” I exclaimed eagerly. She looked mighty happy to serve me, slightly jumping up and down; the excitement was slowly emerging, but she tried to remain somewhat professional. It's almost the end of the day, and her wooden cart is very full; she must not have gotten many customers today. I was so glad that I managed to make her some money today just because of my sudden craving for some apple pie. “Of course, you may purchase the best apples; I have so many to choose from; I have green and red ones, and all of different sizes!” She said with a loud but sweet tone. I carefully lifted the delicious apples. One by one, I delicately pick up the red apple, and then the green apple next. They were firm, but I could tell that they were surely juicy. “I would love a dozen of these red and green apples, please,” I stated, pulling out the change that I'd checked multiple times on my way here. I watched as her small, pale hands carefully placed the 12 red and green apples inside a wooden basket. She then gently slid a thin cloth above to keep the apples safe. I wish her goodbye and carry on with my day. I am excited to bake an apple pie once I arrive back home. Savanna Ellenbecker ** Two Worlds Found in The Fruit and Vegetable Costermonger Spirited women with slim waists and, stubborn attitudes stand upon a cobblestone street, with their soft brown hair pulled back into a bun atop supple snow white skin. Exceptional intelligence hides beneath their emotional yet elegant demeanor. Envious personalities covered by their effortless beauty only empowers their animosity. These two will always be one in the same; but never equal. Gabrielle Callen ** Downtown Portland: The Fruit and Vegetable Costermonger The lovely shimmering yellow sun peeks over the mountain tops. Nothing but the smell of the ocean on the horizon. You can look and see the factories huffing and puffing, to produce items and goods for those who be lovin Tired fisherman sail out to their lobster traps. Merciants swivel their signs to open with the morning’s grace. The tang of blueberry muffins flow from the bakeries. Snails and crabs crawl beside Portland's shores. Seagulls croak to say it's time to rise, Waves crash continuously and sound. The black rusted anchors lay out on the shore . Like seals lounging on the sunlit rocks. Good Morning Portland The daily construction has begun. Audrey Worgull The Long Haul After three years of caution (to protect my husband’s vulnerable heart and lungs), we stop wearing masks. Within ten days, we both test positive. Four months later, I am unmoored from my life. My body is a stranger, my energy unreliable. I’m too hot, I’m too cold, my heart races, my blood pressure dips and rises, as wobbly as a toddler. I have a good day. I do too much (it doesn’t feel like too much at the time). The next day, I am a weeping mess, a bawling child. I sob in my husband’s arms, beyond consolation. A storm has blown in from mid-Atlantic, I can find no shelter, the storm is in me and I am the storm. I am the pouring tears and thundering waves, the leaden clouds and the lightning rage. One wrinkle in my brain tries to hold on to a life-raft: this will pass, this is the virus, this outsized grief and terror for the future. But it is useless. I am swept away. And then it is gone. There is sunlight, dappled light. Clouds come and go, my feet touch the ground, my body is my own. Until the next time. Monica Corish Monica Corish lives in the north-west of Ireland. She is an award-winning writer of poetry, short fiction, and creative non-fiction. Her work has been published in The Ekphrastic Review, The Stinging Fly, Poetry Ireland, Myslexia and elsewhere. She leads writing workshops online and in-person. www.monicacorish.ie The Ekphrastic Review is pleased as punch to present ekphrastic work from Arrowhead Union High School. Teachers Elizabeth Jorgensen and Terri Carnell love to engage their writing students with ekphrastic lessons and exercises, and we have the very difficult task of choosing a few selections and publishing them. There were five artworks. Today is part one of five parts, with selections corresponding to each painting. To all of the students who participated: we applaud your creativity and your courage. You wrote your hearts out! You all took risks, contemplating and interpreting a famous work of art, being brave enough to interpret it in your own way. You let the art inspire your imagination in new ways. It was an extremely difficult task choosing a few from many for each of the artworks. Congratulations to each and every one of you on your words. We hope this taste of ekphrasis opens for a you a lifetime in relationship to visual art and literature. Halves Is it too much to want two things at once? Is it too much to want the sun and the stars, and the shadows and deep sky? Is it too much to crave a golden warmth and also a woven blue safety net? I attempt to paint the romance I feel in the air. The golden candlelight contrasts with the fluorescent starlight. The painting turns muted as it reaches the bottom of the canvas. That’s where I sit, alone and cold from the same breeze that fills the awnings over the restaurants. I paint the people that stroll down the street, some holding hands, some gazing at the stars. I step back from my painting, admiring the contrast of colors and emotions. I have portrayed the feeling of loneliness and warmth. Gold and blue. Hayley Indermuehle ** Fearing the Cold, Embracing the Warmth The gritty feeling of cold cobblestone scraped against my face. The air felt even cooler when on the ground. I didn’t know if I could stand up. I lay, bound to the frozen ground. I needed warmth I so lacked. I couldn’t stand the cold. My muscles tightened up. My body tensed. Shivering up. Cold. Until. Warmth. Heating up. My body relaxed. My muscles protracted back. I felt the welcoming warmth. I feared the lingering frozen air. I never wanted to leave this warmth. I got up, sat down in a chair. The air felt warm and smelled of coffee beans. The welcoming feeling of the cafe left joy on my face. Andrew W. Epstein ** One Empty Chair Two glasses of water, two menus, and two chairs. One impatient waiter, and as of now, only me. The light breeze flowing through the alley messes my nice hair. But I am not worried. I am happy. My heart beats in my ears as I think to myself. What if she truly is the one? I tense my clammy hands under the table. After 13 sips of water, I check the time. It is 6:30. Maybe she’s just late. I sit, waiting in my nice shoes, best button-down shirt, and the bow tie my dad gave me when I graduated. The smile I saw in the mirror while getting dressed had since faded. The waiter once again approaches the table and asks, “Are you still waiting on someone?” I respond, “No, I don’t think so, sorry.” I take the napkin off my lap and stand up from the table. I walk away from the patio and into the night. I gaze up and observe the pairs of stars dancing together with bliss and radiance, and think, Why is it so hard for me? Kyle McNeil ** Hometown I’ve lived in a nearby town almost as magical as France. Shooting stars shine through the midnight sky, while people dance to 90s band music. Every weekend families shopped at small businesses and grabbed a cup of coffee at my shop. Every weekend parents wandered the enchanted eggshell town. Every weekend this town was filled with optimism yellow, but now it’s empty and ebony. What happened to our world? Now, there are 0 orders. Now, there are beige empty cups lying around town. Now, there is a ghost town for whom happiness and laughter filled the air. Where is everyone? Why is everything so divergent? What changed? Well… Covid caused everything to feel black… No more dancing, food trucks, beer gardens, or wine tasting. However; the shimmering stars shining within the sapphire sky.. create a town of hope. Rachel Druckrey ** A New Orleans’ Night Warm, breezy air fills the summer night, the beautiful baby blue sky disappears into the night Luminescent lanterns float up high to cast light up the sky As I walk down the rocky cobblestone path Tiana’s Palace glows in the New Orleans, night Trumpet, trombone, and tuba fill the silence with rhythmic blues Seating crowds atop the burnished brown deck Laughter and happiness grows louder towards the entrance The restaurant’s packed to celebrate opening night Marmalade orange glows the room Lily pad green tablecloth drapes over the table Fresh gumbo and airy beignets lie in front of each person Everyone’s contentment brings the restaurant to life Lauren Fernandez ** The Lights Tell the Story The street lights light up the warm summer night. Laughter and joyous emotions fill the street air. You see people laughing and smiling from restaurant to restaurant and store to store. Atlanta, Georgia: Sports bar to sports bar. The Braves stadium is filled with excited fans. The loud music and good vibes filled the stadium. During the player introductions, a loud chant roared from the fans. “Acuna! Acuna! Acuna!” Fans shout. The game wasn’t in their favor, but the streets are still booming. The lights make it possible to see the happy fans all walking in the street. Nashville, Tennessee: Broadway Street is filled with music. The open window bars are on top of each other. It was like I was looking at a mosh pit of concerts all happening at once. The cowboy boots and hats were all I could see on people. The lights tell me a story about the love of music. Cincinnati, Ohio: The orange and black lights lit up the buildings as the Bengals play in the AFC Championship. The fans all chant, “Who Dey!” hoping that their hometown team can make it to the Super Bowl. The diehard fans showed me how much they love their city and won’t back down. Each city has its own story and they all tell it in different ways. Whether it’s like the music in Nashville, the diehard Bengals fans in Cincinnati, or the optimistic Braves fans, every one of them is unique to themselves with just their city lights. Joshua Gilroy ** Cafe Terrace at Night Christmas Eve all alone. Again. No family to come home to. No love to fill the air. This is the third year in a row where I venture the holidays by my lonesome. The restaurant I approach has few people yet filled with loneliness accompanying the seats. Shadows cast along the empty seats longing for someone to sit there. It is a beautiful night, the stars twinkle like early morning dew, and the sky is a midnight blue that reflects a sunset orange with the city lights. The cobblestone streets seem to go on forever with the bumpy, rugged texture making my feet wobble underneath me. I look up above. They always say to wish upon a star. Well I wish to not spend another Christmas alone. I turn around and hear someone approach me. “Hi.” Maybe I have hope for next year. Rachel Kleinhans ** Nowhere But Home Found in Cafe Terrace at Night I roam the streets like a stray cat. No ending destination, nowhere to go. In the vast dark blue sky, twinkles of yellow shine light to the somewhat empty streets. Home and store lights illuminate the spots of darkness left. As the day comes to an end, everyone starts to go to bed. Stores begin to close for the night; except Cafe Terrace. They smell of vanilla warmth and cinnamon comfort, at any time of night or day, Cafe Terrace radiates light to the whole street. Bring a smile to anyone's face that steps inside. It's always calm even when its busy And as I walk around I always get a smile. This is very different from how I am treated on the streets. A nice lady always serves me In the same seat I am always in. She is sweet like a pastry and has the kindest heart. I enjoy my meal in peace. People sometimes stare but I don’t mind. After I am done, the nice lady comes back to clean up my dishes. I wonder what her name is? I wonder where she lives? I wonder if she would let me go home with her? As she walks away, so do I. I make my way back into the street, The dark, cold, and gloomy streets. I roam the streets because I am a stray cat. No ending destination, Nowhere to go. Looking for a home. Emma Nettesheim ** Champagne Face Love is in the air, two lovers entangled. Over some warm Italian ‘za. The lights create an enchanted mood. The cobblestone streets describe the history. The starry night watches over the population. The flavors fill the night air with emotion. Glasses clink as conversation sparks. It’s as romantic as watching the sunset. Soon, It will be over just like that. Familiar faces, back to strangers. Burke Phillips ** The Cafe The cafe, with its vibrant and lively atmosphere, is bustling with activity. The warm glow of the streetlights flood onto the cobblestone street, inviting pedestrians to step inside. As I entered, the hum of conversations and clinking of glasses filled the air, creating a symphony of voices. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the sweet scent of pastries wafted through the space. The laughter of friends, the animated gestures of lovers, and the discussions between people all blended together into a bundle of life. In the bustling crowd, I found myself engaging with people around me. The barista's friendly smile, the polite nods from strangers, and the infectious laughter with the people around me helped me enjoy every moment in this vibrant cafe. I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, as the limit of space got to my head. Even outside the cafe was warm and welcoming, almost as if it was a trap. The place from the outside is drawing people into a cafe that can't fit anymore people, like a venus fly trap. Looking around I decided this was the place to be. I started scanning for tables outside; it was much more open out here, more space, more air, and more comfort. I settle on a corner table on the cobblestone street barely stretching its legs onto the wooden patio. I sat down and decided to wait for my friend's arrival, as I was already many minutes early. The smell of pastries wafted through the air as the symphony of voices slowly turned into a bundle of whispers, as my focus turned to a painter standing outside the cafe. He almost looked like a beggar with the raggy clothes he had on and the look of he hadn't bathed in a couple weeks. But the more I looked, I realized that he was a painter. A man no larger than 5’ 8'' stood many feet away from the cafe, peering at his canvas then the cafe, alternating back and forth. He had red hair, green eyes and an angular face, no smile was shown but you could see his smile through his frown. You could tell this is what he was made to do, like he's done it a million times, like he enjoys every second of it. The thought of going up and talking to him quickly faded away as I could tell he was in a trance. Not losing his focus or eye contact on his canvas or cafe, this would explain the clothes and the look of dirt on his face. My attention slowly faded away from him as my friend neared the table. He complimented me on the choice of cafe, and that the food smelled amazing, as we both got up and decided to get some coffee and pastries. After squeezing out of the cafe, we sat at the same table I chose before, as the conversation started to blossom. Like gasoline added to fire, the words kept spewing out, creating this art piece of conversation. But sooner than we expected. We gathered out final statements and gifted each other goodbye as we both left the table. Then turning into my own direction, I spotted that painter again. Feeling much more social I decided to approach him, as I neared his glare never lost sight of the canvas or the cafe. So I decided to walk behind him to see how the painting looked. “Wow. That looks incredible, what's your name, son?” I asked excitedly. The painter didn't even spare a glance as he muttered “Vincent. Vincent Van Gogh.” Connor Lestina ** The City a deeper look into Cafe Terrace at Night, by Vincent Van Gogh The city is quiet, though, not quiet enough. It’s evening, the starved people gather in the city to eat. They’ve waited all day for this. A sapphire lit sky, dancing with orbs of light as the city grows colder. The city starts to sleep as the night creeps in. Though, the streets remain alert. Swirling colours, entrancing smells. The people are alive. Prancing through the alleys, hopeless romantics dance as though the sun shined. As the cool breeze commences, the shutters of the sleeping people crash against their walls. The city never stays asleep. For there are still things to do, places to see, people to meet. The sun shouldn’t dictate that. It is nighttime in the city, yet, the people are alive. Emma Fingleton ** Light in the Tunnel The stars shine through the city like fireworks as families smile and enjoy the food as the night dwindles away. As laughter runs through the homes, the smell of fresh brewed coffee fills the air. The joining of personalities brings the town together as night falls through the small town. As people walk, happiness fills the streets from smiles to elderly couples having the time of their lives. The character of the rock streets to the cafe that brings people together. The cafe has been a staple entry to happiness and peace. Locals know how much this special small town means to them, and new travelers see the special bond that everyone in town has. Windows are normally for privacy, but within the town they are used for company.The windows being left open as a sense of openness towards everyone in the town has brought a town of ruin to a place that is stronger than anywhere else. From being a town that hated everyone with killings and recklessness. Strength was brought to the town when people saw love within each other. They light up the city and a sense of comfort to the streets. From talking over the streets from house to house, to singing and bringing song to a town that is a compass of happiness. Locals get asked, “Why is everyone so happy?” They respond with, “ The openness and love that we have for each other has brought light to a community that once was in shambles.” Being able to see for miles because of the windows always open has been a gateway to the streets being alive and truly a place of purity. The cafe has been a location that has done many things for the locals. Waking up a mile away and the smell of fresh bagels flows through the streets and into the open windows of sleepers. Light… “How is the city so light?” From when the locals decided to bring this city alive they knew that light was needed. But not in just the happiness sense. From the windows bringing light to the streets to the cafe being open all the time. Lanterns are always lit in the evening for three consecutive hours to keep the town light. They knew people won’t just be brought together by people being nice to each other. So, they brought the sense of light to the city by being nice, but also by physically bringing life to the streets. The joy the lanterns bring to the city has truly shaped the culture of the town to be something of joy and gratitude. Painted in gold, alive in richness, the cafe. The staple part of everyone's life that has ever stepped foot into this town. Being the only place not painted in black or gray, shows the importance of what it means to the locals, besides the warm fresh bagels. People always ask why the cafe is such an important spot in the city. Well…if you ask anyone who has spent time in the town they say one word. Love. The love it brings to everyone is love that no one has ever seen before. Walking in, is a walk that only people who have gone to the cafe have experienced. Described as something out of a film, a walk that is remembered for a lifetime, a walk of light. No one knows the true meaning of love. This city that is alive and thriving knows the true meaning of love. It is at every corner and fills the streets without hesitation. They come but they stay because the true meaning of love is in this town. Finding love and happiness is a hard task in a world full of many opinions. But, the end of the map leads to this town, which once was in ruins. Bryson Kneser ** Italy As I stepped onto the pavement, the streets felt like an old quilt, each cobblestone patch was uneven. People were talking loudly sometimes in languages that I couldn't understand. Italy was much different from the US. People were friendly and everyone smiled as we walked past. As we walked past each building I caught a waft of a different food each time. There was a restaurant along the beach that we decided to stop at to get some water. When I walked in I noticed everything was vintage. The walls were painted in faded green and tan colour with different shapes painted on them. Near the back of the restaurant all of the walls were cobblestone and there were mirrors everywhere. The floor was an old, rough wood that seemed like you would get a sliver from just touching it. Although the restaurant didn't seem like it was in the best shape, the food still smelled good. It smelled like a mix of different pastas and pizza. As we continued down the street we noticed a large brick building along the side of the street. It was an old church that was much taller than all the other buildings. When we walked in we noticed that everything in the church looked very ancient. There were cobwebs everywhere. The air felt still, carrying with it the scent of aged wood and history. There were red carpet mats. The quiet church was very peaceful and inviting. The stained glass windows painted colourful pictures on the floor. An old organ stood in the corner, its keys and pipes showed signs of many years. As we continued on the street a large stone water fountain statue emerged. The clear water cascading from the fountain was very soothing. Continuing down the street the lively buzz of conversation filled the air, a mix of languages that were blending seamlessly. The streets foreign, although had a welcoming and familiar scene to the US. As we kept walking we entered a darker alley and the atmosphere shifted dramatically. The buzz of conversation faded into an eerie silence. The narrow path was dimly lit with flickering lights casting shadows on the ground. The scent of Italian food was replaced by an unsettling aroma. I could smell the sewer. As we navigated through the alley we came across a small antique shop. The entrance was a creaky wooden door. When we entered the shop there were many different types of stones. The air inside carried a musty scent of aged paper. There was stone in every colour and size you could imagine. Some of the stones were covered in diamond or were cut open and had purple crystals inside. They were very expensive. The most expensive one that I saw was a brown stone with blue crystals inside. It was around $5000. We then left and went down to the beach by the seaside. It was starting to get late. The sun dipped low on the horizon and the day turned into an evening. There were still many people out. Kids were still yelling and playing. Colourful beach towels and shoes were spread along the shoreline. As I walked along the beach the sand felt cool beneath my feet. The sound of waves crashing along the shore was soothing. The sky transformed into a canvas of bright oranges, pinks, and purples. Seagulls flew overhead creating shadows on the ground. As the sun started to set we decided to call it a day. By the time we left we were one of the few families left on the beach. Noah Kane ** A Winter Break The star-filled abyss, lights up the night sky like a spotlight. I feel the cold breeze brush across my face with a shiver sent down my spine. Buildings line my left and right as my family and I walk through the Steamboat, Colorado, Ski town. Chatter fills the air as we pass restaurants and bars. Keeping an orange glow from heaters lined on the patios. The crunching of snow under our feet as we strut down the streets. In search of a place to relieve our hunger after the green excitement of the day of snowboarding, we find our target. A small German restaurant tucked away by a ski shop. Dad barging through the doors, I follow closely behind feeling a warm gust of heat releasing the shivers that had developed. “Good evening everybody! Follow me to your table,” the waitress insisted as we picked up our feet again making our way to the table. “Here are your menus. Is there anything I can get for you to drink right away?” I responded with the quickest answer I could muster, “ Water will do.” “Sounds good! I’ll be right back with your drinks,” the waitress stated as she turned around and started to make her way back to the kitchen. I sat there waiting for my water, clenching the menu in my grips immediately in search of what I was going to eat. Not having any idea of what to get for German food, I turned to my dad, “What is the best option to go with here?” I asked in all seriousness, my hunger devouring me from the inside out. “Go with the pork schnitzel and spaetzle. It is a very popular German dish.” Taking my Dad’s word for it, I set the menu down with a yellow expression ready to order. Legs bouncing up and down off the ground anxiously waiting for the food – I had barely eaten anything throughout the day – I was more than ready to enjoy a German dish. Clink! Clink! Clink! Clink! Each glass slid on the table to the designated person. Ecstatic, I grabbed my glass of water, finishing half of it before the waitress could even leave. My dad picked up his pint of beer matching his burly shoulders and overgrown beard. The froth from the beer sitting upon his mustache – a white coat of snow. My mom and sister were too busy in a conversation to even realize a drink was in front of them. Looking around the restaurant provided an experience in which I was able to feel more of a German culture - something I have never been exposed to before. German signs and posters stapled to the walls added more immersion in the restaurant. The smell of foods from other tables flooded my nose making my stomach churn. These new smells put me in excitement to try my food. So I sit patiently waiting for a new exposure to food. I spot the waiter with the big pizza-like tray with all of our food on it. She placed the stand by the table and set the tray on it, already reaching for my food. I was the first one to get my plate. Then my mom, my sister, and dad. “Enjoy your meal!” The waitress exclaimed as she picked up her trey and her stand and continued to make her way back into the kitchen. I look down at my plate, steam rapidly rising from the food. I could feel my mouth salivate as I picked up my fork and knife and began to dig in. The smells from each plate at our table became overwhelming as I wanted to eat anything and everything I could. I take the first bite of the pork schnitzel leaving a taste in my mouth I’ve never tasted before, but I more than enjoyed it as I immediately went in for the next. Before I could even look back up at my parents, I was already on to the Spaetzle. Very similar looking to mac and cheese I could tell just by looking at it that it was going to be good. I clenched the fork in my hand and shoveled my first bite of Spaetzle into my mouth. It was better than mac and cheese, not having a single regret for the choice of the meal I made. The strings of cheese dripped off each noodle as I continued to finish everything on my plate. I need to have this again, is all I could think about as I grabbed my coat off of the chair and began to venture out the door and back to our condo. Back down the same street we came, still filled with the green liveliness of people enjoying the winter night in Steamboat, Colorado. The heaters lining the patio with the same orange glow. The same cold breeze brushing across my face. The star-filled abyss still lighting the sky, we open the door to the condo indicating the last of our night. Mason Hull ** Clear Parisian Night The sky is simply lit by the stars. The streets are quiet, with the exception of muffled voices coming from the café. The lights are dim and yellow, but the café is brightened and brought to life by the people. They are laughing, eating, and having conversations. The waiters are serving food, filling up water, and taking orders, all with a smile on their face. Only a few people remain on the streets, some are walking home and some are just beginning their evening, but everyone appears at peace on this clear Parisian night. There is faint music coming from the square just around the buildings, everyone seems to have someone. Everyone but Timothée. He sits alone, his back to the rest of the tables so he doesn’t have to stare at all the couples, families, and friends. So he doesn’t have to be reminded that he has none of those. Timothée moved to Paris a month ago in hopes for a fresh start, for something new. The last month he has seen amazing things, done amazing things, and met amazing people, yet none of them stayed in his life for more than a day. Timothée works in fashion, hence why Paris was the perfect place for him to be. He met his coworkers on his second day in Paris. While they were nice, they also had a slight hint of a parisian stuck-up attitude; something a lot of French people hated about Paris. Timothée was warned about this attitude before he left Menton, France, his home for twenty years. Timothée sat and watched the people passing by the café for hours, every Friday since he’s been in Paris. He notices the regulars, people who seem to have it in their routine to walk the same streets at the same time every Friday. He sees the ones who are in love, the tourists here on their honeymoon or the locals who just needed a night out. He finds the most amusement in watching the Americans who don’t speak a word of French try to navigate the streets, and read the signs. Timothée has even let out a quiet chuckle a few times when the Americans ask for help, and the French act as if they don’t know any English. But it's Paris, everyone knows English. Although there have been many people Timothée has enjoyed observing for the last four Fridays, there has been only one special person he couldn’t keep his eye off of if he tried. He looks for her in the window of the jewelry store located right across the street from where he sits. He has decided she must work there because every Friday, at six o’clock Timothée see’s her turn off the lights and lock the door behind her. She then starts to make her way toward the square where Timothée loses sight of her, but he imagines her dancing and laughing with her friends. Her brown hair bouncing off her broad shoulders as she skips around the square in her flowy summer dress. Timothée can hear her short heels clicking on the concrete as she runs to join the dancing. He can see her brown eyes light up as they play her favorite song. As the music fades, Timothée imagines her leaving the square and heading to the bars that surround the area. Of course he doesn’t know if any of this is actually true, because Timothée is too scared to talk to her. As the night lingers on, Timothée contemplates taking a walk near the square. Everytime he thinks about getting another glimpse of her, he gets butterflies. Eventually, Timothée has to leave, like every Friday the café closes at eight and the workers begin clearing the tables. Unlike every Friday, Timothée decides tonight is the night, and he walks toward the square. In the square there are people dancing and drinking, just as he suspected. He scans the crowd to see if he can find her, but no luck, so he walks into the chaos. Timothée isn’t one to party, and he certainly isn’t one to dance but when he gets pulled into the crowd he finds himself in the middle of the dance floor. He frantically looks for a way out. He feels a hand on his shoulder, it was a girl but not the one he’s looking for. This girl had blonde hair and fair skin, freckles painted across her face and crystal clear blue eyes. This was the moment Timothée realized he might not be in love, just lonely. “Excuse-moi, monsieur, are you okay?” The girl asks. “Oh oui merci, I am just looking for a way out,” he replies with a shaky voice. “Why would you want to leave? The night is so young.” Her eyes really were beautiful; Timothée got lost in them as her gaze met his. “I don’t really like to dance, I was just looking for someone” “Well, I don’t believe that, everyone likes to dance.” That's when the girl took Timothées’ hand and they danced. He was awkward at first, but eventually he let the music guide him. In that moment Timothée forgot about his job, his lonely life in Paris, the café he sits at every Friday, even the girl from the jewelry store. The only thing he could think about was how he didn’t feel so lonely anymore. Megan Hughes |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
This site uses cookies to deliver your best navigation experience this time and next. Continuing here means you consent to cookies. Thank you. Join us on Facebook:
Tickled Pink Contest
May 2024
|