|
The work below was written, edited, and selected by high school students under the direction of their teachers Terri Carnell and Elizabeth Jorgensen. Terri teaches English to juniors and seniors in a traditional high school setting, while Elizabeth works with freshmen through seniors at a charter school that emphasizes leadership, career exploration, and global citizenship. Despite their contrasting teaching environments—both within the same Southeastern Wisconsin county—Terri and Elizabeth collaborated to engage their students in authentic writing thanks to Lorette and The Ekphrastic Review. Lorette provided four thought-provoking artworks for students to explore and respond to:
Each teacher’s students focused on specific works:
Following the student ekphrases are student remarks on the process.  Marine Twilight, by Antonio Smith (Chile) 1864 The End of The World As I sit here, watching the waves crash below, I can’t help but feel the weight of how quickly life slipped through my fingers. The laughter with my brothers, the echo of our voices calling each other back to games that had to end and no rules. I remember how my brothers and I would sneak apples from the orchard down the road, stuffing our pockets and laughing as we ran, feeling like the worst outlaws in the land. Back then every day felt like a promise–an assurance that life would always be full and simple. Then, in the blink of an eye, the war came and everything changed instantly. The once vivid colours became muted, and the air turned thick with worry and fear. The gunpowder and smoke clung to the air. Every night, I lay in the mud, clutching my rifle, unable to sleep, haunted by the screams that seemed to echo without end in the darkness. It is a day I will never forget, a day I would have to leave to carry a gun and put on a uniform. The sight of sheer fear on my mother's face as she stood in the doorway haunts me to this day. Mom stood there trying to be brave and hold back tears. But it was obvious, she was filled with the pain of letting go. I didn't see it then, I thought it was just the fear of the unknown. I now realize it was something much greater than just the unknown. Mom knew I would never come back the same. The war changed me in ways words can't capture. I saw things I wish I could wipe from my memory. I felt things I wouldn't wish upon my greatest enemy. Every day was a greater battle, not just to survive, but to remember the memories of joy and freedom that kept slipping out of reach every passing moment. As I stare into the empty void, I wonder what all this was for. My brothers are gone, one by one striped from me by the impacts of war. I returned to this world no longer recognizing me. I feel completely disconnected from myself and my thoughts. My mind and body are completely different things. The life I knew and loved is completely gone, and in its place is a sacred landscape. Here, with the storm clouds looming, winds punching me in the face, and the ocean roaring, I feel a strange sense of peace. Perhaps, this place, the end of the world, is where I was meant to come all along. A final resting point, a place to relax and remember my simple life before the war. Maybe, if I close my eyes and listen hard enough I will hear my family's voices again, carried on by the swirling wind. As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, I close my eyes, and in the wind’s chill, I almost feel an arm on my shoulder, and hear a whisper I’d forgotten. A familiar voice says, “It’s alright, you're home.” And for the first time in what seems to be an eternity, the emptiness feels… full. Owen Knaus ** Weathered Feelings I peek around the building clouds. My golden rays illuminate even the darkest of the shroud. While I remain unchanging; a beam of radiance, the weather is the opposite. A storm is brewing, and the wind tugs at the waves. Together they crash into the shore, digging their signatures into the rocks again and again. And the wind- it howls. It whips around the rock outcropping, trying to be heard over the thundering of the other elements. Not even I can hear the hushed tones over the deafening environment. However, a keen ear picks up on the sound of the wind’s misery. This human hears what the rest cannot. And they traveled to the coast to find me, the peace of their inner storm. Alone and desperate for warmth, they pushed through what every other could not. Just like the protruding rocks, the human has been eroded, smoothed, and softened over the years. They’ve worn down, and they crave some stability from others around them. And just like how I warm all of the revealed stones, I warm their exposed feelings. Together we can face the storm. We may have clouds soaked in freshwater tears in between us, and a pool of hard work and sweat below us, but it’s nothing we can’t overcome if we work together. And so we both take one last small smile. I then disappear behind the dark curtains for the rest of autumn. But as the seasons change, I know I’ll get to see the forlorn one again. And the waves may crash, the wind may whisper, but my warmth will never change. Clara Johnston ** In the Light of the Dying Sun For ages he has waited. Every evening, just before the flash of green that hits the horizon, he watches for her silhouette-- an angelic form, just as he remembers her, bathed in the light of the dying sun. Golden hair, a lithe form, material beauty at its finest, yet with a heart so saturated in compassion that he is certain she must be an angel; her wings are the light of the dying sun. In the whisper of the wind he thinks he hears her; in the textures of the clouds he thinks he feels her; he thinks he sees her face in the light of the dying sun. Better, he thinks, for the sun’s rays to be dying than already dead-- dead in the dark waters that kill the sunlight if one ventures too deep, too far from the light of the dying sun. Ava Prins ** All Falls Down There. The man thought to himself, examining the fixture of rocks ahead of him. The image matched perfectly. In his hand he held an arcane map his father—who had recently fallen ill—had given him. It had been in his family for generations; “The ultimate inheritance,” as his dad had said; leading to a treasure his father believed could cure him. The image of the map depicted two points of a rock formation meeting: one big one small. Between them—drawn out on a small island of rock just off the shoreline—there was a small hole in the map. It should be right out there. I can’t see from here, I need a better view. I bet I could see from up there, he thought as he looked at the higher of the two rocky peaks. He began ascending the large formation of rock, stepping carefully as to not fall. I still don’t see anything. It should be right there, he wondered as he diligently scanned the rock. He approached the edge of the cliff carefully examining the nearby island of rock. Where is it! His thoughts became more aggressive as he crept closer to the ledge. His father had worked for decades trying to uncover the location and he had finally done it, but had fallen too ill to pursue his latest lead; now more than ever he needed it to survive. Time and time again he had let his dad down. He was never enough. This was supposed to be it; this would have made him enough. The man broke down into angered tears. He grabbed a rock from the ground, winding up to throw it far into the distance in a fit of rage. As he drew his there was a sudden crack in the rock beneath his feet. He slipped, plummeting to the jagged rocks of the shoreline beneath him. He watched the ground get closer and closer as he approached a particularly sharp rock. In an instant, he felt a sudden drop in his stomach, the world around him disappearing as he awakened, gasping for air. As he sat up at the side of his bed, reaching for the ice cold water by his bedside. He stayed there in the silence of his dark bedroom—a drop of sweat on his forehead, still catching his breath. He looked at his dresser at his portion of his dad’s ashes, sitting atop, inside the urn that he’d been given last week. “Just go back to bed,” he told himself. Pack Davis ** To Love Something So Bad For You I just need five minutes not standing on the edge of the world. Every day, I dance on this cliff, swaying between destruction and the wind. The sharp winds that threaten to steal my balance. Spinning and twirling; I never stop moving. I could step away from the edge. But my pride and passion have shackled me to this mountain. Even though I long for a break, I can’t bring myself to pause. I live for the push, I breathe for the struggle, my heart beats for the want of more. To stop, for a moment feels like a surrender, a betrayal to what I expect of me. The dance that drives me and moves me. But burns me, it wears me down. I have learned to live with the aches in my back and the blisters on my feet. The more my feet drip and ache the more I must keep going. I’m in pain but how will it feel to stop, all I’ve ever known is movement? All I know is the adrenaline, the turning of my stomach, would it feel worse to stand still? I know I could step away from this edge. Save myself the trouble. I could choose to rest, to steady myself, and find my balance. But the thought scares me more than the ache of my body. To stop would be to let go of what I know. To stand still would be to admit that I’m afraid of what happens when the music fades and I’m left with only silence and the sound of my beating heart. To rest would be to give up, wouldn't it? To rest would mean it's all for nothing, right? I wonder, Could I ever truly be proud of something that wasn't earned through struggle and through pain? Can I be proud of something I did without my blood, sweat, and tears spilling? I know the answer is yes, but I can’t say it out loud. To admit I suffered for nothing but others, no gain of my own, I don’t have the strength for. Not while I’m still here balancing on the edge. The adrenaline has become an addiction, something I can’t live without. It's no longer about the goal at the end, it's the thrill, and the rush that comes in the middle. Not the end when the music stops and the dance comes to a still. The middle where the violins blast and I play on the edge of disaster. When my muscles ache, my lungs are burning, the bittersweet taste fills my mouth. Bittersweet but reminding me that I can keep going, keep going. For if I stop I might feel the emptiness I’ve been running from. When my body slows my mind will start moving. At the speed of light, like my body was, thoughts will race through my head. Spinning in my ears, I can’t hear what I’m saying. So I keep getting the ache and the pain drowns out the sounds of being alone. But do I even remember what it would be like to rest? The sound of my breath, the sound of my heartbeat. The pressure and the weight lifted off my chest. No need to climb higher or run faster. I wonder if it would feel calm, slow and steady the sound of my body. How long has it been since I’ve heard that sound? Am I ready to stand still? Julia Mattson ** Tobacco Smoke The waves pummeling the cliff were angry, hissing as droplets crashed against the battered rocks, the salty spray filling the air and being swept away by the roaring gales. How is this what I’ve become? I shuddered as a particularly aggressive gust careened up the cliff wall and surrounded me, the wind screaming in my ears. The rain soaked stone shimmered scathingly, taunting me, teasing with their lightness and colour. I turned to head back to the house, eyes locked on where my next step would land--but why did I care? “Tread lightly,” something said, “Lest you slip. You’ll be further from them than you are now.” The pathway so carefully cut and walked leered at me as I neared the junction of cliff and land, seeming to say, “You and your father cut this path. You walked it with them; you all chose this place. You made this. Now you have to walk it again.” So I stepped into the sharp, untamed brush beside it, the thorns biting at my legs. My feet dragged, heavy as sin, tearing right back at the brush that sliced my skin. I approached the porch and felt my heart stutter, heard it whisper to me, “I don’t know how much more I can take.” Every cell in me pleaded with me not to look to the right, where those mounded patches of dirt lay, so vulgar and dark. In a house where love once flowed so freely, where a child’s laughter flitted from room to room like a sparrow, the mere notion of such a feeling was now arcane. Each step up the porch planted a sinking feeling in my chest, and the step that brought me across the threshold forced it into bloom. The long kitchen work table was still dusted with flour from Mother’s breadmaking. She had baked a loaf three days ago. The half-eaten loaf left sat on the edge of the table, glaring at me. There was still a newspaper sprawled across the floor in front of the hearth, stained with ink blots and covered with scraps of fabric and thread, like my little sister Eliza was going to come running down the stairs any second to finish making her new doll. Her dolls would lay forever untouched, away in a box in her sealed off room. The loose leaves of tobacco and Father’s pipe were scattered in their usual manner upon the walnut side table. I thought that maybe if I stared at them long enough, if I willed him to come pick them up, he would come inside and tell me to finish my chores, to stop staring. He would come inside, kicking the toes of his boots against the side of the doorframe. He would pack the bowl of the hawkbill pipe and light it before settling into his chair, the wood groaning as he adjusted. He would let out a few short puffs of smoke before taking a long breath in, holding it, and breathing it out, his shoulders relaxing and head falling back to rest atop the chair. The sweet, thick smell of tobacco smoke would soon start to fill the living room, and Mother would tell him to go smoke outside, if he must smoke at all. She would haul the cumbersome Dutch oven out of the cupboard, a metallic thud sounding as she set it on the wood countertop. I would sit at the table, finishing my grammar and arithmetic from school, and Eliza would sit by the fire atop a pile of blankets, petting the cat or practicing her letters or playing with her dolls. A fire would burn in the hearth, snapping and cracking, casting dancing shadows on the walls. There would be warmth and laughter and stories and Father’s voice, rich as tobacco smoke, would curl under the door and kiss me goodnight as he read little Eliza to sleep. But instead, there were empty beds, doctor’s scribblings on stacks of paper, syringes and amber bottles, dirty footprints across the porch, and three piles of dirt in the yard. Instead, the hearth sat empty, the piled blankets were folded crisply, the countertop was empty, and the pipe sat cold. Lucy Fredman ** The Journey of the Tiny Little Soldier There once was a boy who went by the name of Tiny Little Soldier. Everyone who knew him called him that. Whether it was his friends, his family, or the villagers, the name stuck to him like glue, and it always followed him wherever he went. “Why does everyone call me Tiny Little Soldier?” A question he always asks himself. A question no one bothered answering. A question that lingered in his mind. This name was a simple nickname to most but to him, it felt like a heavy, humbling label that confined him, a constant reminder that he was always seen as smaller, weaker, and less important. The Tiny Little Soldier, he's determined not to be called that anymore. No longer wanting to be defined by size, no longer wanting to be seen as a mere boy in the eyes of the world. He had dreams, and he wanted to prove to everyone that he was more than just a name. “I will leave, I will make everyone realize I am not just a Tiny Little Soldier,” he declared one morning, his voice steady with resolve. On the rocky path, he walks, careful of every step he takes, determined to make it east, not wanting to take a break. The path ahead was rugged and difficult, but the Tiny Little Soldier pressed on. Through the trees, he runs, going faster with every lunge. The trees seemed to whisper secrets, their leaves rustling like voices trying to divulge their arcane knowledge. The Tiny Little Soldier just wants to succeed. The road was rocky, the ground uneven, but he was determined. He would walk carefully, paying attention to every step, unwilling to let anything slow him down. The world around him seemed to blur, replaced by the rhythmic beat of his heart and the steady sound of his breath, like a drumbeat that only he could hear. He passed by all the tiny sticks and small animals. “I've never felt so big, why does everyone call me Tiny Little Soldier?” Each step he took seemed to carry him farther away from his old self. After what felt like an eternity he finally reached his destination. The wind howled in his ears as he climbed the last few rocks, reaching the very edge of the world. The wind whipped at his ears as he climbed the craggy cliffs, reaching the very edge of the world. Below him, the vast sea stretched out to infinity, its waters sparkling under the setting sun. He stood there gazing out at the endless horizon. From the edge of the cliff, he could realize just how small he truly was. He was no longer the boy they had once called “Tiny Little Soldier”. He was someone new now, someone with a strength that no one had ever truly seen before. He wasn’t tiny at all. He wasn’t a little soldier. He was so much more than that. With a final glance at the sea, the Tiny Little Soldier turned away from the edge and began his journey home. As he walked back, he no longer asked or wondered why people had called him Tiny Little Soldier. Instead, he knew that the name had never truly defined him. He had found his own identity. And from that moment on, he would never be small again. Kiah Koplin-Potrykus ** Jack’s Tail I see the waves crashing. I smell the salt water. Has my journey finally ended? Have I reached the limit? Can I return home once again? Is there nothing left to explore? I miss home. I miss my family. But there is always the marina. I have explored for 20 years. But I haven’t explored the ocean. I have seen everything– What if I find something obscure? Everything there is to see. I could find treasures like gold! My back aches from walking. My feet itch to go see more. My legs cramp with each step, my mind can’t help but hope– I hope I return to home. I hope I go explore more. But I wonder what my purpose is. Why I journey? Why have I journeyed as long as I have? Was it to find riches and wisdom? I cannot return home because they are all gone. They are all living with the worms. If only I had never drank from the fountain. I wouldn’t be trapped here–Here journeying for all of eternity. There is no reason, no reason to continue but I will go– Go swim through the ocean and find riches beyond compare. Go walk-in the forest and discover villages with farms and people to chat with. Go explore deserts and find oases and creatures I have never seen before. I will continue my journey and push the limit. I will continue to explore. I will explore the Marine Twilight. Elizabeth Kolp ** Here’s what students said about the experience:
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
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:
January 2025
|