​
The Book of Jane Foole


I. The Way of the Foole

It is not enough to spring and twist and tumble. A good foole
is a living foole who must be adorned with the finest
of shoes, made grand with bows and bells and ribbons
and pointed toes to separate me from everyday fooles,
political fooles, and fooles in love. I burn through them
like they are made of wax and I am rewarded
with more, with better, with pride. In court, I relax
on a velvet cushion, point observations like arrows, 
wit the unsentimental weapon of the artificial foole.
The foole from the next kingdom over does not
have so many shoes, nor so grand, my mistress tells me;
he is not as merry as Jane. And it is true,
the Queen's Foole wants for nothing except her freedom.

II. Jane Foole Goes to Church

I go because after my hair is shorn, the priest refuses
me. On those few days before, I stand with the others, close
my eyes to listen to the deep-belled sounds
of wolfish Rome, moved by the music
of the words if not the meaning—although
I learned the meanings of all the words, unlike
the many who rely on faith that the words are sacred
and true. (But the truth is not always sacred
and the sacred is not always true.) I keep
this knowledge in my hair, it rises from my thoughts
like steam, plumps from roots to ends and this is why
it must be cut, then shaven to a cap of shadows,
because no foole needs too much knowledge
beyond the sleight of hand that good magic requires.
Twice-times a year, I go to remind myself that mystery
is my work, as well.

III. Foole in Love

My heart speeds at his entrance, but my face,
painted white, is a mask. Then—is it love or gratitude,
to meet his eyes and somehow find recognition
there? No, Jane the Foole will not allow such folly.
I look down, look away, look anywhere else,
but too late—in a flash, my humanity is witnessed
by the flint-eyed ladies of the court. Do you love him,
Jane, they laugh despite the fact that I have turned
to silent stone. I memorize each mocking feminine face,
fashion an arrow for each jagged feminine heart,
wait for the time when I can bring them down with words.
Later, in the garden, he presents me with a knot
of flowers, and my blood tingles through me
in a way that feels like drowning and flying and I reach
for them before looking up into his eyes and seeing
his laughter there, and here am I, a foole of note,
having forgotten that to be apart is what I do. 

IV. No Foole Like an Old Foole

I leave the leaping to the young. It takes two
young fooles to take the place of Jane's dancing feet.
But none can match my quick tongue, even now,
when I am slow to rise from my place at her feet
and my dry bones crack like autumn twigs. These
days, she wants always to know my opinion: Jane,
is this dress becoming? Jane, should I forgive
him? Jane, who should I trust? Jane, is my child
in heaven? I soothe her with magic, amuse her
with words, but I know better than to have opinions
about royalty. The foole from one kingdom over lost
his livelihood, and then his life, because he could not bend.

V. Freed Foole

These days I spend in contemplation
of the bone-deep pain of time passing, and the short,
straight road ahead. No one asks a thing of me,
because no one notices me, and this invisibility
is no longer a magic trick. Mornings, I wake before
dawn, walk through the blue light of the coming
day to greet the dependable sea. The Queen's former foole
is treated with a kind of consideration, left to her own
with a girl to serve her needs and whims. Free too late
to seek a different fortune, live a different life, no caravan
of actors moving up and down the coast now, no slipping
into characters to conjure not just laughter but real
tears, now my dream is only for the warmth
of the hearth, the full stomach, the comfort of soft, reclining
days and still, tranquil nights of untroubled slumber.

VI. Death of the Foole

There was a time I held the courts
of Europe in my hands, helpless
with laughter, half in love with my
words, my jests, my stories, which they would repeat
endlessly to one and each other, “Were you there
when Jane said this? Did you see Jane do that?” I was loved
in my way, treasured for my art, talked about
in my time. I remember. I wasted nothing
then but time. Now time is all I will not waste. 
I no longer ponder the lives that might
have been for me; what good is regret to the dying?
No priest for Jane, though my mistress wishes it.
Jane on her toes, Jane at her best, Jane the Foole
does not believe in what comes next.
Bury me wherever you wish. Behind
my closed eyes, I fly with the birds.

Sanda Moore Coleman

Sanda Moore Coleman lives in New Hampshire with her husband and daughter. She has been an editor, a writer, and a teacher. Her poems have appeared in Inkwell, Tar River Poetry, and Midwestern Gothic, among others.

georgia and alfred
 
300 might be enough 
she said looking up 
just one more he said
she looked skeptical
but it doesn't show 
in the photos
 
that's love for you
a hellofalot of forbearance
why nude she asked once
but she knew the answer
it was why people were
always taking their clothes
in White Sands the rangers
chase them but they always
come back
 
flesh against sand
against sky
in front of clouds
her soft skin 
contrasting with
her pubic hair
against the roughness 
of bark texture
is everything
 
he never took his clothes
off for her outside
she didn't mind she 
preferred to paint flowers
that looked like vulvas
bones that looked like
pelvises
she was so small and
thin they always say
artists keep more of the 
child the brightness of 
her paintings 
the dense darks of his photo-
graphs they were each 
others black and white

Melanie DuBose

The poet was particularly moved by the photo Torso, by Alfred Steiglitz (USA) 1918:
https://www.moma.org/collection/works/92198
​
Melanie DuBose lives in Los Angeles (Highland Park) next to camphor trees filled with parrots.Her poetry and prose has been published in many print journal and online sites including The Los Angeles Press, Nu Verse News, Kelp/the Wave among others. She recently finished writing her first novel, People Who Love You.

Don't miss this Zoom on the enigmatic American surrealist painter Gertrude Abercrombie. Abercrombie is a fascinating figure from Chicago, who was active in the jazz scene, hosting parties and jams for musicians in her home. And she painted curious, spare, symbol-rich artworks that revealed the interior landscape.

We will be doing some creative writing exercises with her work and discussing her art and life.

​Join us!

​“Paint it Black” 
 
“I see a red door
And I want it painted black
No colours anymore
I want them to turn black”
– The Rolling Stones 1966
 
“A colour in art is not a colour.
Colourlessness in art is not
colourlessmess.” 
– Ad Reinhardt, Lugano Review, 1966
 
Didn’t Mick and Keith realize “Paint it Black” had 
been done? That they’d come to the party several years too 
late? Or were they each having conversations 
 
with themselves, separately in their own heads?
Like the conversation I’m having now, this morning,
the same conversation one might have 
 
standing in front of your black canvas, 
apparently monochromatic, but actually composed 
with variation in line and intensity, 
 
a two-way stream of nothingness populating 
the distracted mind, hearing a voice contained in the canvas, 
not uttered at the canvas, but somehow being 
 
repeated in my head, 
as if imbedded there by its very darkness
insinuating itself inside the brain
 
like a stylus following the grooves of synapses, 
those electrified connectors, 
in a mass of gray and silent matter. 
 
A conversation best represented in a colour 
that is all colours, comprehensive and inclusive, 
closed but strangely open, 
 
a kind of claustrophobic reckoning 
with infinity, and comforting, 
like nature’s darkness before it is interrupted 
 
perhaps at 7:21 a.m. on a January morning 
by a quickening of light barely perceptible
that reveals a flock of common grackles 
 
foraging on a grassy portion of yard, 
a suddenly visible oasis among the 
snowy, frozen landscape.
 
Lou Ventura
 
Lou Ventura lives in Olean, NY.  His poetry and prose have appeared in several publications including The Worcester Review, Sledgehammer, and Sein und Werden. His poetry collection, Bones So Close to Telling, is published by Foothill Publishing. 
 

Partnering with Lorette C. Luzajic, the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, Elizabeth Jorgensen and Terri Carnell’s students have explored curated selections of artwork chosen by Luzajic each semester for the last two years. 

Elizabeth Jorgensen teaches at KM Global School for Global Leadership and Innovation, a charter school within the Kettle Moraine School District in Wales, Wisconsin. Her students’ journey began with Equestrian Oba and Attendants, a piece created by the Edo people of Nigeria between 1550 and 1680. Students immersed themselves in the history of the Benin Bronzes through various resources, including news articles, documentaries, maps, and primary source artifacts. To meet an argumentative writing target, students crafted well-reasoned arguments to support their claims and deepen their understanding of the artwork.

Terri Carnell teaches at Arrowhead Union High School in Hartland, Wisconsin, where her advanced composition students studied Equestrian Oba and Attendants, Composition by Fikret Mualla (Turkey, before 1967), Pingvellir by Þórarinn Þorláksson (Iceland, 1900), and Raven and Whale by Chief Nakapankam, Mungo Martin (Canada, 1960). Inspired by the artwork, students crafted short stories, poems, essays, vignettes, diary entries, and letters.

To select pieces for publication, students analyzed each others’ writing. They examined words and phrases, exploring their technical, connotative, and figurative meanings, and considered how specific word choices influenced meaning and tone. 

Both teachers are grateful for this collaboration which has provided their students with a unique opportunity to engage with art, refine their analytical skills, and express their creativity. Working with Lorette has not only enriched their students' learning experiences, but also broadened their global perspectives, fostering a meaningful connection with art, writing, and critical thinking.

Terri Carnell and Elizabeth Jorgensen ​

 
Useless Creatures 
 
Greed
seizes the back of Pride.
Wrath
shouts, threatening
Envy
to take the tattered tail of Greed and stop this bothersome bird.
Sloth
sits atop of Greed’s green eyes, uselessly watching the battle that is ensuing.
Gluttony
stares from the empty stomach of Pride, praying that this bird becomes his next meal.
Lust
the smallest of the sins, gazes from behind the eye of Envy, silently whispering lewd thoughts.
Pride
smiles, hiding the sharp, blinding pain he feels in his back. 
 
Seven deadly sins
useless until the end of time. 
 
Elizabeth Kolp
 
**
Untitled 
 
“Phssssshhhh” was the noise of the water that spurted out of my mouth into the sky above me. 
 
Tail said to me, “What are you doing?”
 
“I am trying to get this raven to put us down,” I replied with a determined tone in my voice. 
 
We had been flying for two days without rest; Tail, Face, and I were all very tired. 
 
We were grabbed out of our ocean off the coast of present day Vancouver Island by an abnormally large raven. The raven’s name is Qu?uÅ¡in (pronounced Qu-ushin); he is the ruler of all birds in the Nuu-chah-nulth (Nootka) land (present day British Columbia, Canada).
 
After a third day of flying––our dorsal fins browned with the scabs from the blood drawn by the raven’s claws––we finally landed. We were resting atop The Spearhead in present day Whistler, BC. The Spearhead is 8,061 feet from sea level. 
 
Then, the raven spoke to us. “Kakaw̓in (Cu-Cu-Win) you have been chosen by my good friend Mink—č̓aastimc and I to help bring life to this area.”
 
“How so?” 
 
“In a time long after all of us are gone, the mountain we are atop now will overlook a village known to them as Whistler. Men will come from all over the world to ride the slopes of the mountains you see in front of you and they will be known as Whistler Mountain and Blackcomb Mountain.”
 
“So why are we here?”
 
“You are here to be the sacred guardian of the area.” Then, the raven flapped his wings and was gone. 
 
Over the following hundred years, we sat atop the mountain watching the land. 
 
One day, there was a pack of wolves who came through the valley below us. We watched as they chased a bear cub; they saw it as a potential threat. 
 
The cub was all alone; we had to do something. To the left of where we sat was a basin of water. In a split second decision, Tail decided to hurl himself against the side. Water came gushing out. It picked up rocks as it rushed down the side of the mountain. 
 
The wolves saw the water and were immediately scared away. The cub ran to a grove of trees and hid from the water. 
 
Once the water settled over the mountain, the air began to chill. The frozen water had somehow spread throughout the area covering the two other mountains. It made a thick layer of ice over the surrounding land. 
 
As time progressed, Tail, Face, and I had no source of water and no food, but we did have a sense of calm. We knew we had done something. 
 
A gust of wind blew and we were picked up and carried into the sky. Then, we spread out into millions of tiny white pieces, and we fell down to the large ice sheet. We were the first flurry of snow to come down on the land. 
 
Ryder Setter
 
**
 
The Battle of the Raven and the Whale
 
I think this symbolizes two Native American tribes going to battle. The whale represents a tribe near water (Mohave) and the raven represents a tribe in open space (Menominee), like in the middle of a field maybe. They battle and become one tribe and the faces can represent the chiefs or important people within the tribes. 
 
A long time ago, two tribes, the Mohave and the Menominee, lived near each other but often fought. One year, they both needed water from the same river, and a big fight started. The Mohave were quick and great with bows, while the Menominee were strong and smart in the forest. They battled hard, but after a while, they started noticing how talented the other tribe was. They began to wonder why they were even fighting.
 
On the fifth day of the battle, a huge storm came. Rain poured and lightning struck. The leaders of the tribes, Kano of the Mohave and Ralo of the Menominee, met in the middle of the battlefield. They decided that nature was showing them how there is enough for everyone and that fighting was wrong. Instead, they agreed to work together and became one tribe, called the Menoave.
 
When they joined as one, they shared their skills. The Mohave taught the Menominee how to live near the water, and the Menominee showed the Mohave how to survive in the forest. Together, they became stronger and lived in peace. Their story was told to children for years to show that working together is better than fighting. The Menoave became a happy and strong tribe.
 
Natalie Lietzau
 
**
 
Oh Mister - Raven and Whale
 
Oh, Mr. Raven, how I wish I were you. With the sky stretching endlessly ahead, your wings carry you wherever the wind may take you, free from the weight of anything underneath. But here I am, my body heavy, my world ridden with plastic, the ocean now pressing against me like a cage. What would it be like to soar without blue-bound limits, to leave behind the depths and the everlasting dark? To not be a whale.
 
Oh, Mr. Whale, what wonders you must have seen. You move through the vast, uncharted blue, weightless, and unchained, while I am still bound to a world filled with smog and steel. The ocean is a refuge untouched by the choking air above, a place where life moves with rhythm rather than resistance. I long for that silence, a world not riddled with unfamiliar noise; that space to breathe without the heaviness of poisoned air in my lungs. To not be a raven.
 
Oh, Mr. Human, look what you’ve done. You have turned our rivers into bottomless graveyards covered in filth, and our sky into a shadow of what once was and could have been if you weren’t so selfish. You have divided, polluted, consumed—left nothing untouched by your dirty hands. And now, the damage is done, Mr. Human. We cannot fly. We cannot swim. And soon, neither will you. Yet, you still stand here complicit, watching as the world slowly collapses in on itself. But the earth, the sky, the sea—we will remember, how could we forget? One day, we will divulge your secrets, revealing every act you thought could be forgotten.
 
Ethan Gomolla
 
**

The Illusion of Control

Sometimes, those who appear to be in charge are nothing more than puppets, their strings pulled by an unseen force. They wear the mask of authority, but behind them lurks the true master, the one who truly dictates the flow of power. You can’t always trust what you see. Those who seem small and insignificant might be the ones controlling everything from the shadows.

The mastermind perches above his puppet—claws digging deep into his back, his beak twisted into something that almost resembles laughter. He enjoys the game, knowing the puppet cannot resist, cannot fight back—not truly. The puppet, gritting his teeth, stiffens under the weight, unwilling to let the others see the truth. He must play the part, must keep up the illusion. If they ever found out who really controlled him, everything would fall apart. He must never divulge the secret.

Yet, there is someone watching. Sitting in the darkness, unseen but present. Their faces are empty, emotionless, and observant. Slowly, the darkness shifts, revealing a faint outline—an eerie face emerging from the void. A follower? A believer? A disciple? They linger behind the puppet, seeking guidance, seeking strength. They do not realize they are seeking it from the wrong one.

The puppet senses them and panics. He must not let them see his weakness. He struggles against the claws of his master, feigning resistance, blowing weakly at the one who truly holds the power. It is a performance, an illusion for those who watch. He pretends to be in control, pretends to fight, but in reality, he knows—he has always known—he is powerless.

Above him, the mastermind’s grip tightens, his amusement growing. His eyes gleam with delight at the absurdity of it all. The puppet believes he is fooling the watchers, but he, too, is blind. The blind leads the blind, and those who follow do so without question. They are complicit with their false leader. Their eyes are empty, hollow as the night sky. They watch in silence, believing they are witnessing leadership, never realizing they are simply watching a performance, a carefully crafted illusion of power.

And so, the cycle continues. The mastermind laughs. The puppet struggles. The followers watch. None of them aware of the truth.

Sofia McGinley
 
**
 
Origins Far Restored

An ancient tradition transformed, the art of lacrosse reborn. The chiefs of some of the most prestigious tribes in North America gathered in the mountains of Canada under the guidance of their ancestors to meet with Chief Nakapankam to debate the Native American-originated sport: lacrosse. 
 
Throughout the meeting, the Chiefs discussed the transformation of lacrosse. Originally, a sacred tradition for the Iroquois tribe, now played by over one million people. At its origins, the game was played as a test of strength and skill but now is overshadowed by competition for wealth and fame. Traditional sticks were painstakingly handcrafted from hickory wood and plant fibres, now they are manufactured from metals and synthetic fibers. The balls, composed of wood and animal hide, are now made of fluorescent rubber. The Chiefs expressed their dislike of the transformation lacrosse has had from its organic and natural roots. 
 
Chief Nakapankam believed the meeting went well and set up several meetings to further debate possible reasons lacrosse has evolved far from its origins. They express they are proud that a once traditionally Native American sport has now shared its influence around the world, but they believe the sport of “lacrosse” isn’t truly lacrosse. 
 
In a calm voice, Chief Nakapankam proposed the idea: “ We shall create a league of Native American lacrosse players. They will play the game in its natural state. Wooden sticks, balls and protective gear made of animal hide, and no strict rules of shot clocks or penalty calls. The game will be played to bring pride to our ancestors of the Iroquois tribe. We will play for each other. No competition for fame and wealth. Just pride for your tribe.”
​
From the meetings under the Canadian air, the Native American Lacrosse Association—NALA was born. The league would consist of 14 teams each representing different tribes. The equipment used would be only the Earth’s gifts and nothing else. Players would feel the Earth beneath their feet, the cool wind on their faces, and the pride their ancestors had in them. 
 
NALA would represent the past of lacrosse while bringing its ancient traditions into the future. NALA would be represented by the Raven and the Whale—the balance of the land and sea. The raven symbolizes generosity, uniqueness, and adaptability while the whale represents strength and peace. Together these two live in harmony, just as Native Americans do with their lands. 
 
NALA restored the love of lacrosse at its purest form for generations to come in the Native American community. Everyone, adults and children alike, began to fall in love with the feel of the smooth hickory wood stick in their hand forming grooves in the stick from its constant use. 
 
As the first games of NALA were played under the towering Canadian mountains, the sound of cheers, wooden sticks clashing, and pride from the ancestors above filled the air. The traditions of Native American lacrosse were restored and, with it, a new league of lacrosse was born.
 
Gabrielle Haas
 

Mud
 
The young man worked from daybreak to sunset, carting mud from the banks of the nearest river two miles away. It was hard work; the mud was heavy, but he carried it cheerfully in buckets, one in each hand and one hanging from either side of a long rod balanced across his neck and shoulders.

He trudged up and down the hills all day long, whistling, in no particular hurry to build his hut. He could sleep out in the open at night next to a fire to keep lions and leopards away, so he got to know the stars well. 

One night, he saw a constellation that had not been there before. Curious, he lay awake all night staring at it.

The next day, he made the long trek to the nearest village to consult a shaman he’d heard about who could speak to the ancestors. He’d carved the constellation on a stick to show her. 

The shaman stooped, and her gnarled hands moved slowly as he handed her the stick. Then she started speaking rapidly to him in an ancient tongue, waving her hands in excitement.

Bewildered, he shook his head. He didn’t understand her. The shaman called to someone outside her hut in her raspy voice.

A young woman, his own age, with two small children in tow, translated for him. “The constellation is a sign that you will meet your beloved soon. She will appear from the mud once you’ve finished preparing a hut for the two of you to live in. You will have a child together, a girl, and you will be united forever.”

The young man made an offering to the ancestors to show his thanks and pressed a coin into the shaman’s wrinkly palm and thanked her profusely, although he knew she didn’t understand him.

Scarcely able to believe his good luck at this auspicious sign from the heavens, the young man increased his efforts to build his hut. He toiled eighteen hours a day, carrying the mud even in the dark, and became skilled at seeing the whispering shadows of animals that might threaten him, but he was not afraid. He carried a stick of fire to ward them off and light his path so he could walk faster and increase his trips to the river.

At last, the hut was ready. The young man, remembering the prophecy from the shaman, set about fashioning a woman out of the remaining mud. Then he waited for the woman to take her first breath. 
But nothing happened.

That night he lay awake listening for the sound of her first inhale, but it never came. The woman remained as silent and still as any hunk of mud he might have plonked on his mud hut.

Many years passed with him sleeping beside her under the stars at night, not wanting to leave her alone. The constellation he’d come to think of as their own was still there, shining as brightly as before. 

Lonely and not willing to give up on his dream of love, he promised her he would come back and made the long trek back to the village. He was middle-aged now, and the shaman was now well into her nineties, bent double with age, her sunken face wrinkled like cracked mud.  She was blind and hard of hearing, but she recognised his voice. She held his face in her hands and traced the lines around his eyes and the furrows in his brow.

Then she spoke to him rapidly in the ancient tongue. This time her grandson translated her instructions. “Take these two ceramic pots, boil water in them, then pour the water from each pot at the same time over your beloved. Then she will come to life.”

The man was doubtful but took the strange pots offered to him with thanks and, as before, made an offering to the ancestors who’d spoken through the shaman. This time, he pressed two coins into her palm. She took his hands and smiled at him with a toothless grin.

When he got back to his hut, he made a fire as instructed and put the two pots on to boil with water he’d collected from the stream earlier that day. When they came to the boil, he held them over his beloved and poured the boiled water poured from their spouts. One had a male organ for a spout, the other a female opening.

Before his eyes, the mud woman hardened, then became solid. Her skin was delicate and smooth and her eyes and mouth moved freely. She could twitch her nose if she wanted to. The man rejoiced. His beloved had become flesh and bone. She was as human as he was.

His dream nearly complete, he held her hands, and they danced around the fire until the embers died out. Instead of sleeping inside the mud hut that night, they lay out under the stars and studied the constellation. They named it Family because right below the original constellation of two there now twinkled a smaller one to complete it.

That night the man slept deeply and dreamed of the child he would fashion from mud with his bare hands, a girl who would bounce in his arms in the morning.

Rosie Copeland

Rosie Copeland is a New Zealand writer and artist. She is currently writing a novel for YA. Rosie completed writing papers at the IIML and belongs to several writing groups. Mayhem, Reading Room, Tarot have published her work, and she has also been a finalist in several poetry and fiction competitions in NZ. She has also poetry published in the USA and several NZ anthologies.

Partnering with Lorette C. Luzajic, the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, Elizabeth Jorgensen and Terri Carnell’s students have explored curated selections of artwork chosen by Luzajic each semester for the last two years. 

Elizabeth Jorgensen teaches at KM Global School for Global Leadership and Innovation, a charter school within the Kettle Moraine School District in Wales, Wisconsin. Her students’ journey began with Equestrian Oba and Attendants, a piece created by the Edo people of Nigeria between 1550 and 1680. Students immersed themselves in the history of the Benin Bronzes through various resources, including news articles, documentaries, maps, and primary source artifacts. To meet an argumentative writing target, students crafted well-reasoned arguments to support their claims and deepen their understanding of the artwork.

Terri Carnell teaches at Arrowhead Union High School in Hartland, Wisconsin, where her advanced composition students studied Equestrian Oba and Attendants, Composition by Fikret Mualla (Turkey, before 1967), Pingvellir by Þórarinn Þorláksson (Iceland, 1900), and Raven and Whale by Chief Nakapankam, Mungo Martin (Canada, 1960). Inspired by the artwork, students crafted short stories, poems, essays, vignettes, diary entries, and letters.

To select pieces for publication, students analyzed each others’ writing. They examined words and phrases, exploring their technical, connotative, and figurative meanings, and considered how specific word choices influenced meaning and tone. 

Both teachers are grateful for this collaboration which has provided their students with a unique opportunity to engage with art, refine their analytical skills, and express their creativity. Working with Lorette has not only enriched their students' learning experiences, but also broadened their global perspectives, fostering a meaningful connection with art, writing, and critical thinking.

Terri Carnell and Elizabeth Jorgensen ​

The Wicker Basket
 
The murmur of the crowd pains my ears. Do these buffoons have anything better to do with their time? I have places to be! Move! My feet ache in my grey boots, as I have been traveling on them for hours, and the cold frost bites my neck through my blue cotton scarf. The doctor certainly couldn’t be in a worse location from my quaint little house on the edge of town. I might look like I belong at the fancy parties with exquisite champagne and tiny hors d'oeuvres, but it couldn’t be farther from the truth. 
 
My family was not rich in money, but in love. With a meager piece of yufka and a tiny cup of vegetable stew, maybe with ground meat if we were lucky, dinner was always light. I enjoyed them, but my two younger sisters always complained about our dinners. They were always ashamed of our social status, spending every bit on the illusion that cast them as wealthy. I saw right through their act.
 
Everything in my life was manageable. Not good. Not bad. That was until December of my fourteenth year, when my mother died in our little home from tuberculosis. I couldn’t do anything about it then except help with the burial. Our house still reeks of grief and sorrow and my father blames himself, even though it was never his fault. Maybe that's why the universe cursed him with the same disease, and why I am so determined to save him.
 
I race through the city with my little wicker basket filled to the brim with Rimactane and Mycobutin to cure him and some fresh yufka to heal his heart. It had cost me all my lira, along with the hat off my head and the ring off my finger. All I can do is pray that I make it home in time.
 
“Ugh!” I exclaim as a nearly trip on a little black dog. Who just leaves their dog to wander the streets? I nearly lost the medicine! I bob and weave through the thick crowd, racing fast against the ticking clock.
 
As I approach my house, the air feels strangely still and eerie. I place my hand on the doorknob, pausing before opening the rotten chestnut door. He better be alive. I twist the handle and find my two sisters sitting on the ground, silent as a stone. Father was no longer in the chair where I had left him. “Where is Father?” I demand. 
            
“You are too late. He died an hour ago, in his bed,” Eleanor, my youngest sister, replied. “The shovel is outside. I can’t risk my nails getting dirty.” 
 
My other sister, Alara remained silent with puffy eyes. 
 
“Useless as always, Eleanor,” I spit back. I pleaded my gaze towards Alara, and all she did was shake her head. Outside I grab the shovel and see the sun setting on a quiet plain. What would those two do without me? They wouldn’t survive a day. I trudge to the backyard and begin digging up the Earth next to Mother, holding my tears back. 
 
Nicole Anderson
 
**
 
Chromatic Commotion
 
Scarlet brickwork, scintillating like dragon scales,
Glistening golden garments amid inky blue fabrics,
Blankets of sterling silver cease the sky from speaking,
A singular ray of sunshine awaits to make its debut.
 
The verdant summer drifts into an aureolin autumn,
Solemn structures stand silently still in the breeze.
Footsteps. Click clack. Click clack. Click clack.
Temperature in the city gradually descends in degrees.
 
People travel from one location to their next destination,
Reticent, solely focused on their own responsibilities.
The group is as quiet as the buildings in the background.
A frame in time captures the chromatic commotion.
 
A cherry colour cardigan alongside a skirt with citrus hues,
Beside her stands a cobalt colour coat with a snowy dress,
Trying to catch up with her puppy as she trials behind.
A mother strolls her newborn child in a baby carriage.
 
Sprinting in the opposite direction is another woman, 
Taking swift strides as she navigates towards the bakery.
A shared experience, different people, varied situations,
Yet all seem to have a connectedness, silent but not still.
 
Moving in the distance, a man wearing a mustard coat,
With a cane and briefcase, walks orderly to his workplace,
Westward in the scene appears a platinum three-piece suit,
Belonging to a man facing left, smiling happily to himself.
 
Footsteps. Click clack. Click clack. Click clack. Click.
Moving still.
No, still moving,
On a road that provides community, creates a community.
 
Nicholas Homberg
 
**
 
A Problem Much Bigger Than Me 
 
I look down to 
a hurricane of imperial red. 
Feet pattering in panic move around. 
 
As I raise my head, people surround me. 
Women in ankle length skirts and fluffy jackets 
look in different directions; 
some look like they are running on a hasty expedition.
 
Some look possessed and confused.
Men who don't have time for me rush around; they don’t notice anyone. 
Unease fills me. 
A black poodle-looking dog prances past. 
 
Why don’t they notice me? 
 
I’m concealed. 
 
One lady catches my eye;
she wears an imperial red jacket, the same color as the ground, and stares out. 
Past us all. 
She was the only one not moving; the only one not in an undefeatable rush. 
 
What does she stare at? 
 
She seems to know more than me. 
I stare the same way as her. 
I see nothing. What does she know that I don’t?
I slowly creep up to her. 
 
Whoosh. 

A person in all black swoops by 
and the lady in the imperial red is gone.
 
“Don’t stare,” I heard whispered into my ear. 
 
I couldn’t stop staring. 
 
Whoosh. 
 
She was gone too. This is a mystery gone cold.
 
Kayleigh Seftar
 
**
 
Hayatın Pişmanlıkları
 
Dax - Tall man, grey suit, mysterious - I woke up today and ate my breakfast consisting of eggs and a tall glass of milk. I then took a long cold shower, put on my grey suit and left for the day. I find myself at kırmızı kasaba meydanı*. 
 
Diane - Tall young lady, yellow sweater, accompanied by child and dog - I woke up today, put on my favorite yellow sweater, and rushed to make breakfast. From there I had two hours to take Jax and the pup to kırmızı kasaba meydanı otherwise we would be late for dinner. I’m happy I took the time to make memories with my kid.
 
Sarah - Young woman, purple coat, long blonde hair - I woke up today and realized I was late to my brunch date with Mateo. As I arrived at kırmızı kasaba meydanı, I realized Mateo was not there so I waited. Why stress? Take this as an opportunity to take in the world.
 
Edward - Tall man, yellow trench coat, cane - I woke up today in the hospital on the last day of bed rest. I just had major surgery on my legs. I have to get back to work. Doctors say I need to use this cane but they know I need to get to work. I'm already late. On my way to work I pass through kırmızı kasaba meydanı I’m already late. What does three minutes do? At least now I can take in the beauty of kırmızı kasaba meydanı.
 
Amber - Tall, teen child, purse, black jacket - I woke up today to breakfast in bed but I was disgusted to find pancakes from the bakery and not the homemade ones my personal chef makes. I feel like Dad doesn’t understand my needs. I take a long walk though kırmızı kasaba meydanı to allow me to calm down. At least the park is beautiful.
 
Luna - Tall, red jacket, stylish hat - I woke up today and barely had enough time to put on my makeup. I had to skip breakfast. I modeled for three different magazines already and I am currently missing lunch with my mother right now due to a fourth session at kırmızı kasaba meydanı. As we wrap up the session, I’m filled with regret. Why am I chasing money instead of memories?
 
Dax - Everyone doing something. I wish I could have spent more time with my mom. I wish I could have spent more time with my dog Rusty and my kid Sam. I would do anything to go on another date with my beautiful wife Colleen. I would love to see my co-worker Pete right now. 
 
Author - You only live once; capitalize on what time you have with your loved ones whether this be humans or a furry friend. You never know what's going to happen at any moment of your life. One second everything is there and the next nothing is and you feel all alone.
 
Sawyer Vogds
 
*kırmızı kasaba meydanı : red town square (in Turkish) where this piece was created.
 
**

The Ghosts of Neighbours 
 
Miriam stands there dressed in a gray pirate hat to distract from her face. Her face is drained from hope. She is avoiding her home. She doesn't know where to go but she needed to escape, away from the soul-shattering quiet since the passing of her husband at sea. She doesn't know what to do now, but home reminds her too much of him. While standing in the bustling streets, she feels that something is going to happen.
 
Ted is walking the streets during his lunch break. He works in bland gray suits. Years ago he had such a passion for his job as an actuary and was so excited when he got the letter from the office informing him that he got the job. He loved all of the statistics; but after a while, they all blurred together to look the same. Now he just waits until the clock turns to five so that he can go home. Sometimes the walls of his home bring him back to his childhood where he was raised by his grandmother. He misses her. He notices the same sorrowful look on Miriam's face and wonders if she feels the same way.
 
Eleanor called in sick today. She feels overwhelmed by the first graders that she teaches at the local elementary school. She thought by being a teacher she could influence the minds of the next generation, except they don't seem to listen. Every other week she lets herself take a sick day. She wears her blue coat today so she is not spotted by her students on their way home from school. She does whatever will bring her joy until she has to go back. Her feet usually bring her to the bookstore. She has more books than she could ever read; the untold stories sitting in her living room hold plenty of magic to help her through the demanding days teaching unaware seven year olds. 
 
Henry rushes by as a streak of yellow. He is late for his haircut. Later, he has an important interview. He barely notices his neighbours as he rushes by and they hardly see him. The only thing he can think about is this interview. He undoubtedly needs this job and money. He will soon be a father. He is filled with anxiety but can't figure out how to be on time. Last time he had an interview, the interviewer left and didn't consider him for the position because he was terribly late. Today, he hopes will be the end of this streak and he can get the job. His wife will be so elated. Then he can be the finest father he can be.
 
Denise carries a basketful of food for her dinner party tonight. She didn't hear her alarm this morning and slept in till noon. She is so rushed because by now the chocolate mousse should be done and chilling in the fridge and the turkey should be in the oven. She should be at home working on the potatoes, cooking the beans and chopping the fruit. She doesn't know how she will get everything done before her guests arrive. If she disappoints the guests, she might have to move and not show her face in the street again. Undoubtedly that is not true, but in her state of rush, that is the thought that clouds her mind. 
 
Elsie walks her baby around everyday at this time, hoping he will fall asleep. She looks around at the people coming and going. She sees these people a lot but none of them seem to notice the others. Her baby sometimes sleeps and she gets a few stolen moments of silence. But he doesn't sleep all of the time and Elsie wishes that he would stop crying. 
 
Each neighbour walks by the other everyday without really ever seeing each other. Everyone is a ghost. Everyone is isolated, but together. One day, hopefully someday soon, they will realize the strength of community. They will come together in the midst of darkness. Hopefully on the other side of the despair, there will no longer be ghosts walking among the streets in Turkey.
 
Megan Peterson
 
**

Mother Dearest
 
3-6-1966

Mother Dearest,

Something is not right. I cannot put my foot on what it is. It could be the eerie man in the yellow coat, carrying his long, cumbersome cane, whom I pass on my way to the school yard. Perhaps it could be the small dog that seems to endlessly walk in circles, or the woman in the odd hat that I see at 8:37 AM on Fridays.
 
No.
 
It is the woman in blue. Her golden hair intrigues most. I am one of them. Whilst everyone else is walking west, into the city for work, she grasps her hands tightly in front of her and trudges on east. Where is she going? Why such urgency?
 
I have tried to ask, but she shoots me a look that turns me to stone. Until my body unfreezes, ice clears my throat, and the butterflies leave my stomach, I will wonder…
 
Why must she be so different? 
 
8-9-1966

Mother Dearest,

I am starting to feel the days repeating. The man in the yellow coat tips his hat at me every morning, his cane tapping away in front of him. The woman in the odd hat doesn't just arrive on Fridays anymore; I see her every day. Still strictly at 8:37 AM.
 
Even the woman in blue now seems to blend in perfectly with the crowd. Everyone has a routine, a schedule so arcane. One that if broken would strike fear in the devil himself. 
 
Though from afar they seem like nice lads, up close, they mess with my head. My body still turns to stone when I see the woman in blue, surging east, but nobody else seems to blink an eye. Maybe I shouldn’t worry about it either. 
 
I try my hardest to mix with this unique crowd, but every day I wonder…
 
Why must I be so different?
 
10-24-1967

Mother Dearest,

There is someone new in town. He stares at us all every morning. He stares at me, the woman in the odd hat, the man in yellow, and even the little dog. 
 
Does he have no respect? Where are his manners? We are simply going on with our day to day, as he should be doing.
 
Everytime I catch his eye, I wonder…
 
Why must he be so judgmental? 
 
El Galster
 
**
 
Single Mother

He came back from war a changed man. It was a Monday afternoon as I sat on our porch, awaiting him with open arms. I was beyond excited to introduce him to his child; Elizabeth. Gravel rumbled in the distance as his truck grew near. I sat in my rocking chair holding Elizabeth tight. I hadn’t seen Jonathan since I found out I was pregnant last year. The truck door opened and I jumped up to run to him. He stood there waiting for my embrace cold as stone. I offered him Elizabeth to hold, but instead he refused, gave me a kiss on the cheek and walked inside, leaving a faint smell of liquor behind. As I composed myself, Elizabeth began to cry, as if she knew her daddy had no interest in her. I held her in my arms and cried with her.
 
Weeks had passed and still Jonathan was hardly able to hold a conversation with me, still not able to hold our child, not even able to look at her. I had tried many times to ask what was going on, but he only got angry, so I stopped. As I walked into the kitchen after just waking up, I heard the fridge close quickly and found Jonathan holding a beer. 
 
“Honey, it's nine in the morning, it's too early for that,” I exclaimed. 
 
A look washed over his face, which I had never seen before. A look that made my heart drop, and with one swift motion, Jonathan slapped me across the face. I stumbled back and stared back at the man I once loved. Except it wasn’t him anymore, it was someone completely different, someone that I didn’t know. At that moment, I decided I would leave. Not just for myself, but for my child, our child. He was no longer my Romeo. 
 
I quickly shoved my and Elezabeth’s clothes into a singular suitcase, threw my utilities in a bag and headed to the car. I finished putting everything in the car and went to grab Elizabeth. I had expected Jonathan to tell me to stop, hoped he would beg me to stay, but he just watched. He almost seemed pleased that I was leaving, which made my blood boil. I whispered, “goodbye,” and slammed the door. 
 
I drove to my mothers house with blurred eyes, wondering what had happened during the war that changed Jonathan so much. As I pulled into my mothers driveway she came outside with a worried look on her face. My face was the only succinct answer she needed. All I could do was cry in her arms and my dad took Elizabeth inside. As I calmed down I was able to divulge the full truth to my mother and as I did I came to the realization that I was now a single mother. Alone. Lost. Single.   
 
Chloe Topp
 
**  
 
Colours 
 
Everyone has their own colours. Some people are shades of red, some are shades of blue. I see people that are purple, and people that are green. Everyone has their own colours, every colour has its own meaning. People who have red tend to be angry, people with purple tend to be rich. Everyone has their own colours, people who are blue tend to be sad. People who are yellow tend to be happy. But that isn't always the case. 
 
The happiest person I know is blue, and I once met a purple homeless man. Whenever I try to talk about the colours, people look at me as if I were Icarus flying towards the sun. They all think I'm crazy. I haven't met anyone else that sees the colours, all my life I have wondered why I was given this arcane power. My childhood friend has always been yellow, blue and red. But, he always seems to be monotone. He never shows his anger, happiness or sadness. I always try to judge people based on their colours but it isn’t always right. I have never seen anybody's colour change other than my Dad’s. 
When my mom disappeared, he changed from bright yellow to a deep blue like the ocean. His smile changed too. Before she was gone, when he smiled, his eyes were the sun's rays. After she disappeared, his smile was just his lips, his eyes stayed locked in their sad expression. Nobody else around us seems to notice how he really feels, everyone sees him as this happy, carefree man. I can see what he truly feels, I can see what everyone truly feels. I have come to learn that the colours are not burdensome. They were given to me for a reason. I was given this power to help people.

Ben Meyer

**
 
Crossing Paths
     
Elizabeth
It was a hot summer day, and I was on my usual route to work. On this particular day, I was running very late. My coffee spilled all over me on my way out the door, and I had to go back inside to find clean clothes to wear. The past couple of weeks have been hard for me; I walk around with a heavy heart and I struggle to find happiness in my days. As I walked through town, I nearly ran into a dog that was sprinting through the roads. My day was already going bad enough, and I was not looking forward to the rest of it. “I’m so sorry!” said a frantic mother. Suddenly, I realized the scowl on my face may have scared her. I flipped my mood around because I recognized that everyone is going through something that no one knows about. So, maybe I needed this small interaction with this young mother to brighten my mood and not let my struggles affect others’ moods. 
 
Ayla
I was taking my morning walk with the stroller and my dog Max. Out of nowhere, Max bolted towards a squirrel he saw ahead. He almost tripped a scary-looking lady, and I thought she was going to kill me. I quickly professed, “I’m so sorry!” Having my newborn and Max has been a huge hassle, but I wouldn’t change it for anything. I haven’t been sleeping well lately, but I try to continue with my daily routine anyway. I constantly remind myself that the newborn phase will end, and my baby will be sleeping through the night soon enough, or at least I hope. With my husband working extra hours, I have a lot more responsibilities at home. It is important to me to prove that I can still carry on without my husband’s help 24/7—I am terrified of coming off as weak. It is a lot, but I love our little family. 

Betty
Last month, I moved to this small town in Turkey. My job moves me all over, and I often have a tough time adjusting. This morning, I put on my favorite yellow skirt that somehow always gives me an aesthetic look, and I walked into town. For a while, I stood off to the side and watched the community. They are quick to forgive and never forget to flash a quick smile with a, “Hi.” They worked beautifully together, and I thought that maybe I could give this town a chance. No matter what they are going through in their personal lives, they push it away to value their peers' moods. I thought about how every person in this town has their own story, but somehow they cross paths as they take their morning commute. It is amazing to think about how every choice we have made has led us to walk past each other in this exact moment. 
 
Marin Lillesand

**
 
Different People
 
Each morning this town is a buzz, some people out on a morning stroll, others rushing to work. One thing is for certain, there is never a dull moment. Ever since moving here and eternity ago, I have sat in this exact spot on this bench every morning, just watching.
 
Mrs. Lee strolls past at precisely 8:00 a.m. each morning, pushing Lee, Jr., in the stroller. She walks slowly with no sense of urgency attempting to keep Lee Jr content. The only way to get Lee Jr.  to stop fussing in the morning is to take him for a walk in his stroller. Even though it is early, Mrs. Lee always looks aesthetic on her walk in her ankle length skirts and bright yellow sweaters, each day is the same outfit -clean and wrinkle free. 
 
Mr. Dee struts past in his black coat and navy blue skirt. His boots sound like thud each aggressive step he takes. I can tell he is on his way to work because of the beige briefcase dangling by his side.  His facial expression never alters, each morning his eyes are narrowed, focusing only on the road ahead of him, and mouth lies in a straight line. Some days I follow his eyes or give him a wave to see if there is any emotion behind his eyes, and each time his eyes do not falter off the road.
 
Mr. Gee, an arcane old man, is the Sherlock Holmes of our town. Anyone with problems goes straight to him, though his ways are peculiar, he always finds a solution. No matter the weather, he trudges past in a bright yellow trench coat, covering the top half of his knee high black boots, and his top hat a matching yellow colour, while clutching his cane in his hand and briefcase between his arm and side. 
 
Ms. Vee, an elderly lady, walks by each morning in the same black fur coat, knee length skirt, and boots that reach perfectly under the hem of her skirt. Though she is old, she still works at the school on the far end of town. Some days she passes with a stack of paper in her hands, but today she is only holding her old fashioned pocket watch. 
 
Mr. Tee gracefully strides to the bank each morning at the town bank he dresses sharp as a shard of glass in his grey suit coat and pants along with the matching shoes. He follows this up with a hat tipped just below his hairline. 
 
Mrs. Cee is an extravagant young woman, she is always wandering around town with abstract paintings for outfits. This morning she came out with a hat triple the size of her petite head, a blazing red cardigan with delicate buttons down the center and fur around the neck and wrists. Her yellow skirt extended to her ankles allowing her dainty black high heels to be seen. I look forward to seeing her each morning and being amazed by her eccentric style.
 
Catarina Romagna
 
**
 
This is Sonder
 
Sitting outside a quaint café, I watch the world rush by, each person a fleeting moment in a much larger, intricate web. They are rushing to work, sipping my coffee, eyes tracing the hurried figures. Then, a gentle figure emerges: a mother strolling leisurely with her child and dog, the soft rhythm of their steps bringing a peaceful contrast to the chaotic world around them. This snapshot of life stirs an awareness within me—a realization of sonder. It's that quiet, arcane concept that every individual is immersed in their own story. Each person lives their own rich life filled with personal experiences, ambitions and struggles that all overlay at once on a slow Sunday morning. Yet, we often overlook these moments as we are rushing through our own narratives.
 
Through the café window, I watch the sea of passersby. A man hurries to catch the bus, likely on his way to a pivotal meeting that could alter his career trajectory. Another, absorbed in a text conversation, asks her mother for advice on a personal dilemma that weighs heavily on her heart. An elderly gentleman strolls toward a cozy brownstone, likely anticipating the warmth of his grandchildren's laughter, while an elderly woman, with a look of quiet excitement, is meeting up with college friends for the first time in years. It's a reunion steeped in nostalgia–filled with the promise of shared memories and the joy of rekindled bonds.
 
And then there's the young mother. She strolls, pushing her baby girl in a pram, her dog yipping happily. Her steps are hesitant yet full of grace, as though she is rediscovering the simple joy of movement after the exhausting few weeks on bed rest. Her dog, an exuberant companion, hasn't walked more than a mile in weeks, and today is a celebration of both their newfound freedom. Their quiet stroll is a testament to the fleeting beauty of motherhood and the weight of its responsibilities, but also the pure joy of experiencing life's simple pleasures.
 
Beyond them, the city's architecture looms like a quiet witness to these stories. These ancient, aesthetic buildings, with their chipped facades and weathered charm, hold the ghosts of countless stories—of families who once found refuge in their walls, businesses that grew from humble beginnings, and communities that flourished within their shadow. Simple brownstones, standing since the 1700s, whisper tales of lives intertwined through the fabric of time, all while the world moves relentlessly forward.
 
This is Sonder. It's not just a fleeting thought but a profound understanding that everyone we encounter is living a story as rich and complex as our own, shaped by their experiences and dreams. Every person we meet is a walking narrative, and we, in our quiet moments of reflection, are merely one small chapter in a world that is ever-turning.
 
Signe Warwick
 

The Vale of Rest
 
You’ve come then, though we weren’t expecting you.
It seemed right, to come and ask forgiveness.
You seek in the wrong place. 
I’ve given my confession, Sister. I’m sure of His grace. It’s her that I need to speak to.
She’s not here.
Aye. But she’s not where she should be, is she, Sister?.
Just a few feet away. Before the sun is set, she’ll be at peace.
I’d do more than move her sister, to be sure.
The Holy Water in this vial, the words Father would have spoken. She’ll have a proper burial.
She haunts me, Sister. 
The mind of a murderer must be a maelstrom. The peace of the Lord be with you.
In spirit, not in mind. 
There I see sheet now, Eileen, take care with the spade.
Let me lift her out, for you, I’ll carry her.
Over the steps, beyond the hedge, is her proper resting place.
Vera, vera, I didn’t mean to, I never wanted, you must.
God help us. Eileen, get Father, quick, I’ve not enough Holy Water for two.

MJ Malleck

MJ Malleck is a Canadian writer who grew up on the US border. In 2024 she won the Flash Fiction contest at gritLIT and came second place in Geist's annual Postcard contest.

Partnering with Lorette C. Luzajic, the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, Elizabeth Jorgensen and Terri Carnell’s students have explored curated selections of artwork chosen by Luzajic each semester for the last two years. 

Elizabeth Jorgensen teaches at KM Global School for Global Leadership and Innovation, a charter school within the Kettle Moraine School District in Wales, Wisconsin. Her students’ journey began with Equestrian Oba and Attendants, a piece created by the Edo people of Nigeria between 1550 and 1680. Students immersed themselves in the history of the Benin Bronzes through various resources, including news articles, documentaries, maps, and primary source artifacts. To meet an argumentative writing target, students crafted well-reasoned arguments to support their claims and deepen their understanding of the artwork.

Terri Carnell teaches at Arrowhead Union High School in Hartland, Wisconsin, where her advanced composition students studied Equestrian Oba and Attendants, Composition by Fikret Mualla (Turkey, before 1967), Pingvellir by Þórarinn Þorláksson (Iceland, 1900), and Raven and Whale by Chief Nakapankam, Mungo Martin (Canada, 1960). Inspired by the artwork, students crafted short stories, poems, essays, vignettes, diary entries, and letters.

To select pieces for publication, students analyzed each others’ writing. They examined words and phrases, exploring their technical, connotative, and figurative meanings, and considered how specific word choices influenced meaning and tone. 

Both teachers are grateful for this collaboration which has provided their students with a unique opportunity to engage with art, refine their analytical skills, and express their creativity. Working with Lorette has not only enriched their students' learning experiences, but also broadened their global perspectives, fostering a meaningful connection with art, writing, and critical thinking.

Terri Carnell and Elizabeth Jorgensen ​

Give Us Back Our Art!
 
The British Museum has about eight million artifacts in their possession. Now, like myself, you must be thinking, surely all of those artifacts can’t be on display at once. And you would be correct. The museum displays less than 1% of the artifacts they have (about 80,000); the rest are left to collect dust in storage. Yet The British Museum Act prevents artifacts from being given back to their rightful owners, which is downright disrespectful. The British Museum isn’t giving these artworks the love they deserve, being holders of vibrant stories and history, and are still refusing to give them to the people that would love, respect, and care for them. The British Museum Act should be removed and the artifacts returned to their rightful owners.
 
The British Museum Act (1963) tells us that The British Museum has three conditions for being able to return artwork to their original owners. First, the artifact is a duplicate of another (meaning that if there are two artifacts that are similar in the most significant ways, the British Museum can get rid of the duplicate). Second, the artifact doesn’t seem to have been made before the year of 1850. And lastly, the artwork is deemed unfit to be kept in the museum. Sadly, this means that pretty much every single artwork in The British Museum will not be returned to their owners, or as the British Museum Act refers to it, “disposed of”. 
 
The British Museum is entitled to the artifacts that they have bought. However, those that were taken from other countries and cultures, especially by unethical means, should be returned to their rightful owners. It is not fair that The British Museum gets to hold on to these artifacts that are so rich in culture and history, when the people whose history they are from don’t get to see them.
 
The British Museum has also been cowering behind The British Museum Act under the guise that the artworks are safer in their care, even going so far as to claim that they think other countries will damage or misplace the artifacts if they did give them to them. However, this received backlash from the public, especially with last year’s scandal involving one of The British Museum’s employees, who was fired for stealing about 1800 artifacts from the museum.
 
Additionally, many countries are demanding retribution for stolen art pieces. This is seen from the people of Greece asking for the Parthenon sculptures, Benin City asking for the Benin Bronzes, and even the Rosetta Stone. These are simple requests, but The British Museum is a little more than reluctant to let them have them back.
 
It is possible for The British Museum to return the artifacts to their original owners without too much hassle. It is possible to create replicas of these artifacts, which would be important to the safety of the art as well as make it possible for the artworks to return home. And if people worry about not being able to see the artifacts, then they can go see them in their home countries. The British Museum also can rent the originals for a festival each year, and then the British would still be able to display the originals and the countries would receive compensation for their contributions. 
There are so many oddly simple solutions to the problem at hand, but The British Museum is simply too stubborn to listen to reason.
 
Madison Anderson
 
**
 
Theft of Culture
 
From 1550 to 1680, thousands of cultural art pieces were created in the Benin empire, which is now modern-day Nigeria. The most famous pieces are called the Benin Bronzes. There are 900 brass plaques created to decorate buildings and showcase culture and traditions. But after British occupation, most of the artifacts were taken from the people they belonged to. Although the British occupied Nigeria when the Benin Bronzes were created, they culturally belong to the people of Nigeria and therefore should be returned.
 
The Benin Bronzes and other art pieces were taken from their home in modern-day Nigeria to be sold to wealthy buyers and put in museums. This art showcases the culture of the Benin empire in Nigeria and not the culture of Britain. Art is at the heart of culture and shows the depths of commitment to the culture. In the absence of this piece of culture, the Nigerians are missing pieces of their history that many of them will never know about. 
 
During the colonial period, many groups stole culture from other countries simply because they lived there. The Rosetta Stone, containing many new discoveries about ancient language, was discovered in Egypt but was taken away to The British Museum. 
 
When Britain occupied what is now modern-day Nigeria, soldiers stole cultural art pieces and put them in their museum or sold them for money. They took the art to get back at the people of the Benin empire, but also to make money. If someone were in the situation of the people from the Benin Empire how would they feel? They would probably want their pieces back as well. If someone took the famous works of Picasso or Van Gough, what would they do? Everyone wants what is theirs back and returned. We need to think about how we would feel in the same situation to truly understand the effects of our actions.
 
Others may say that more people can view the Benin Bronzes at The British Museum with their millions of visitors every year. And others say that these art pieces will be more protected at museums. These claims are true that lots of people can see these culturally significant pieces, but also not many people from Nigeria have the opportunity to see these pieces. Chika Okeke-Agulu is an artist and art historian in Nigeria, and he said, “Most Nigerians will never see them.” The Benin Bronzes teach new generations about their culture, but without them it is very hard to pass on values, traditions, and culture to the next generation.
 
The Benin Bronzes should be returned to Nigeria even though the British troops occupied the empire during the time that they were created. The art of the Benin Empire created many beautiful pieces of art about their culture. In the absence of these pieces of art, they are missing vital parts of culture that many will not be able to witness. 

In the future, hopefully this injustice will be reversed and finally bring this piece of culture back to its proper home.
 
Megan Petersen
 
**
 
The Benin Bronzes: Restoring Cultural Heritage to Nigeria
 
When you go to museums you might think, wow I am super lucky to be able to be here right now and witness these historic pieces of art. According to the British Museum “More than 6 million people visit the British Museum every year.” In this museum, there are many pieces of art. According to Artnet, “The [British] Museum acquired more than 200 plaques, made of brass, as a gift from the British government.” British Government? How does the British Government get a hold of art pieces made in Benin or Modern Day Nigeria? The Benin Bronzes are ancient artifacts that have been wrongly stolen from Benin's palace in 1897, and they should be returned to the OBA Palace located in modern day Nigeria.
 
The Benin Bronzes were wrongfully stolen from Benin in 1897 causing a historical injustice. According to a reporter at National Geographic, “[The Benin Bronzes] were looted by British colonial troops who invaded Benin City, the kingdom’s wealthy capital, in 1897.” This shows that the bronzes were unrightfully stolen from the Benin community. Also, if these bronzes were returned, it would help unify and acknowledge the wrongdoings that happened during the colonial times.
 
The Benin Bronzes can be used not only to provide people with real world items from their culture but also to educate the people of Nigeria. Nelson Mandela states “People without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.” If the bronzes are brought back to their original place of origin, it will allow people to learn about the history of their culture in a hands-on experience. Not only education, but it also could give the country of Nigeria another opportunity for tourism.
 
Counter Argument: The world’s people should be able to see the Benin bronzes in person as it allows people to further connect and feel with the artwork. I do agree that people should be allowed to see the artwork but I believe that the ancestors of the creators of the art should be able to see it in person. According to OXFAM International, “More than 112 million people are living in poverty in Nigeria.” This is around 49% of the Nigerian population. This suggests that many of the people of Nigeria (also known as the ancestors of the creators of Benin Bronzes) are not able to travel out of the country to look at the bronzes in person. People who have a cultural connection to an item should be able to see the item in person over people who just want to look at an item from history.
 
The Benin Bronzes should be returned back to modern day Nigeria to right the wrongs of past history during the colonial times. The bronzes have been held in places far away from their origin ever since being stolen in 1897. If they are given back, it acknowledges the wrongs from past times and allows Nigeria to reclaim one of their major pieces of heritage. Additionally, the bronzes can serve as an educational piece and a tourism sight. While it is a good thing that they are held for the world to see, the correct thing to do is to return them back to their rightful owners where they still can be observed by the public. 
 
Sawyer Vogds
 
References
 
Brown, K. (2018, July 27). Benin’s Looted Bronzes Are All Over the Western World. Here Are 7 Museums That Hold Over 2,000 of the Famed Sculptures. Artnet News; artnet News. https://news.artnet.com/art-world/benin-bronzes-restitution-1322807
 
Gregg, E. (2022, September 17). The Story of Nigeria’s Stolen Benin Bronzes, and the London Museum Returning Them. National Geographic. https://www.nationalgeographic.com/travel/article/nigeria-stolen-benin-bronzes-london-museum
 
Oxfam International. (2019, October 20). Nigeria: extreme inequality in numbers | Oxfam International. Oxfam International. https://www.oxfam.org/en/nigeria-extreme-inequality-numbers

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The Clay of War  
 
Patiently waiting for father to arrive was treacherous. It's been what feels like 26 years but only two. Mother has been teaching me how to make pots for the past few years when he has been gone, because I have to take care of the business if they parish. 
 
Hearing the stomping of the stampede coming in with the trumpets from victory. Most of the men I grew up with in our army were gone. Father had a scar across his face, his hat still stands proudly on his head. The protector gets on all fours next to the four legged mammal. Father steps on his back to get down. He stumbles to the front door of the grassy hut and bursts through the door. 
 
“Honey, get my tub of water going this dirt will not come off.” patting my head, the smell of curtailed blood from his hand runs across my nose. He stumbles to the tub in the next room over. The assertiveness coming off his body after washing his hands with blood. I knew it wasn't a pretty bad war, The town deserved it though. Chief Tehede disrespected our tribe and learned the consequences. 
 
The audacious decision to destroy their tribe came in full force two weeks after the threat. How dare Chief Tehede would threaten our land is what coursed through my head every night before bed… tossing and turning for the wait of his arrival.  
 
“Honey, we need to make this story an art piece to show our victory of their defeat.” Father screams loud enough, the birds outside move the next branch over. The way he stepped out of the room wasn't so proud anymore but like a bird that protects his nest from prey. 
 
Mother was at the stone creating a pot for our shop when she stopped in mid need. “You’re right, tell me the story of how you defeated someone who shall not be named my love.” She grabs the orange clay from the kitchen and begins to need it. 
 
The sun is beginning to set as I'm watching the chickens outside fight for the feed mother set out this morning. Mother set the fire for the stove and began to boil the water for the vegetables on the table next to the fire. Father seems angry in the next room over. His expressions are louder than ever. All I can hear is the BOOM of hands hitting the stone. 
 
Walking into the room seeing what mother was creating, it wasn't a pot. all my life it has been pots in our shop… but this was different. It was a slab of clay just big enough to fit on the fountain outside the town square…that is exactly where it went. 
 
Father and the soldiers that stood by his side through the fight standing tall in the clay mother crafted for everyone to see. Chief Oba, father, our savior and the mentor of the town of Edo. 
 
Hannah Mueller
 
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Edmund’s Journey
 
They say I am young and weak. Being the youngest brother out of two, it is hard for me to keep up-physically. With our parents abandoning us, forcing us to become orphans, it’s hard to stay positive. Having an older brother and sister helps a lot with feeling safe. And having a younger sister that looks up to me, makes me want to take initiative and help us out, by doing whatever I can do. 
 
But, I made a mistake that some people never get to come back from. Siding with the other side was something I never thought I would do. They really used their tricks well. Bringing me in and giving me anything, just to give away a position of something so small. I've tried to plead my case and help, but there was no coming back from this. I thought. I feel as if most of the time I am holding the four of us back. But we are a family, a unit. We would do anything for each other. Which is why they welcomed me back into the group. We came here as one and will leave as one. I know that not one of their useless troops will tear us apart. Nobody will bring us down. We have finally built up our army, consisting of people ready to put their lives on the line, and are ready to defend Narnia. Knowing that we will defeat them because we have Aslan on our side. 
 
I will be strong. I will be audacious. I have a ton of armor on me, concealing my bare skin. My eyes are focused on the field that lies before us. I have never been this locked in before. This is for more than just our lives, but for the world of Narnia. We have everything set, everyone in their places, waiting for the enemy to approach. My heart is beating faster and faster, like the banging of a drum. As they come into view, my brother, Peter, yells “For Narnia!”. We all charge, risking our lives for the good of Narnia. 

AJ Ohrmundt


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A Warrior
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A warrior is molded by the battles he chooses to fight: his victories, his defeats, his triumphs, and his tribulations. A warrior is guided by his will to protect and his will to conquer. A man does not choose to become a warrior, it chooses him. The way of combat must decide to nurture him, and he must let it do so. The way of the warrior is an arcane, winding path.. Those who are able to walk it command honor, respect, fear, and admiration. To be a warrior is to never retreat from your trials. A warrior needn’t wield a sword or a bow, they needn’t wield a dagger or a spear, and a warrior needn’t practice real combat. A warrior needs only to overcome his challenges and the will to assert himself against that which opposes him.
 
It is the duty of those proclaimed as warriors to do what others cannot. It is the duty of those gifted with stronger will and a higher strength to protect those who are not. Although it is the duty of a warrior to protect that which others seek to take, his head must not become clouded. As the path of the warrior is walked, it is easy to grow vengeful — to foster hate. One must remember to carry out their duties with a clear mind, as calm as a gentle breeze. Hate and vengeance are the malicious cancers that stem from confrontation with an opponent. They run you astray and lead you to believe that your enemy stands in front of you. It is important to remember that an opponent is all that you are facing.
 
A true warrior has only opponents, they do not believe in enemies — it is below a warrior to fall to such lows.
 
Jacques Robichaud