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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.  Migrants, by Candido Portinari (Brazil) 1944 Ghost on Grim’s Trail Sickly creatures that were no longer humans. Starved. Prey-to-be. A group of white wisps that blew about in the wind. “Mother” clutches its past, something no longer within its possession. The “man” who stares beyond that of which it fears; it is angry, so very furious. It knows who to blame, who put it there, who stole its food. Big bellies were whom the ashes envied for they had bones so sharp that its gray poked through the skin. Hollowed cheeks struggled to form words, no longer able to ask for help. The drought had seeped into their veins, eating away at what was left. Such is the “story” told within Candido Portinari’s Migrant. A stranded memory that once was a family who traveled the path of death. If not for its lack of flesh, the murder of crows would have feasted. They too have seen the trail that death had blazed, ate with a voracious diet for sad souls. Did the white ashes know they were being stalked? Did they know that their winged cousins were inching closer? Cannibalism was a virtue. Ignorance was no freedom. Everything was dying or maybe all of it had already died. The ashes blown about should retreat. The crows should give up. The land should sink under. A composition of decadence; efforts were futile and the after-life was already setting up a welcome party. Even the moon had turned away from their pitiful efforts. This is the life of the unwanted. Too insignificant to be considered human. But who decides who is and who is not a person? Surely the blood in their veins is proof. Who decides who is and who is not a person? The very people that took their lives away. The crows. Look once more at the murder and see that their feathers are rich and deep in their black, they have full stomachs and the strength to fly. Look once more to the elusive creatures gawking at their success. They take and take oh so diligently and yet were still greedy, they see no mercy from up above their skyed view. To them, perhaps, those ugly, white creatures are feed and the crows only pity the things. The creatures too had bellies that didn’t always cry, they once had cheeks that blushed, they once had blood in their veins. So, sickly creatures, once human. Still human? Starving, hungry yet still alive. With little they have left, it is just enough to beat the crows to death and finish the blazing trail. Let death follow only after victory, let death be but no more than a confirmation that life was fulfilling. Let those sickly creatures be human once more. AJ Holmes ** Checkers We have never been lucky. Growing up, we had to constantly move around our country because we could not afford living anymore. Although, this time was different. This time, we were moving for good. Our country was suffering, our village was suffering, and we could not live there anymore. It was time to pack up our bags and go, but I didn’t own many things. The only thing that I had with me was my favorite checkered shirt, which I was already wearing. My mother said we didn’t have enough time to pack up everything–we were scared and needed to get out. For days, we walked. The minutes felt like hours, hours felt like days, and days felt like weeks. After three days, we had found a safer place to stay for the night. Everyone was tired, hungry, and in pain—we needed to rest. We needed to find food. My grandfather struggled to continue on. He had not eaten a meal in nearly four days now, and he had painful blisters and infected wounds on his feet from the rocks and the thorns, because we could not afford shoes. Nearly 86 years old, he was a modest man and knew his time was coming soon, and he had one last request–playing checkers. “But how could we play checkers without a checkerboard?” I asked in a quandary. “Give me your shirt, boy.” And so I did. We gathered some rocks and leaves, and laid my shirt down on the ground. My grandfather chose to be rocks, while I chose to be leaves. We set it up just like a checkerboard and played the best-of-three. In our typical competitive way, my grandfather had won the first game. Then I won the second game. We were tied! This third game determined the ultimate winner… It was getting close but I was doing better. I knew that I would win, but then I remembered why we were playing this game. This was my grandfather’s final request from me. I couldn’t win and let him die losing. So purposefully, I moved the wrong piece, giving him an easy win over me. He was ecstatic. Joyfully cheering through his coughs, he could now die knowing that he had just won playing his favorite game. It was time to leave this spot and continue on, but we knew we had to leave my grandfather behind. He could not go on and we could not force him to. It was not a safe or smart idea. So, I picked up my checkered shirt off of the ground and put it back on. Even though it was full of dirt and sand, it had become the thing that I cherished the most. The memories of my grandfather that day were the most important memories that I have. Isabelle Menden ** A Cycle of Carnage We are in danger. We need to evacuate. We will perish. My neighbor cried a piercing scream that sent shivers through my fragile bones, echoing through my mind. Time stopped and the air became rotten. Sirens killed any sense of peace that the small town brought. As my family and I rushed to pack our things, a feeling of dread and anxiety hit me like a sledgehammer. As I fell to my knees, I gripped the skin tightly wrapped around my ribs easing some of the pain that passed through me. The world outside our cramped apartment has changed. *** We’ve been walking for months. My feet are fractured and torn exposing me to the horrible outside cold. Each step burns. I look down at my feet, frostbitten and black from dirt and blood. I don't know how much more I can handle. My children are tired and limp along with me silently. Their faces are obscured by their blank stare and matted hair. They barely talk other than the rare cry of pain. My oldest son, once a strong and respected man, now wobbles with each aching step. He carries much of our clothes while grasping at the twigs that my grandson's fingers have become. The youngest has not moved in days, I'm afraid she has grown too tired to continue living. The crows that glide above remind us that we are walking corpses, shadows of what we used to be. As we wander, the haunting caw of these dark nightmares keeps me awake. They swoop and tear flesh from our skin and meat from our bones as I swat at them with a walking staff I had picked up two months into our journey. When they started attacking, it felt like a giant hangnail peeling off my back while tiny strands of muscle held it from tearing off. Now their bites don't hurt as much like the pinch from a needle. However, my body aches more with each chunk of my life taken from me. We are headed West. As the sun paints the sky orange and pink, we confirm our direction. In the distant future, a sanctum of flourishing trees, lively people, and guardian hawks awaits us—a place where we will finally be safe from the terror and pain that this walk has brought upon us. *** We arrive but there is no sanctum. The lively people have been torn to skin and bone. The hawks have fled I assume to somewhere safe. The trees feast on the decomposing bodies that I once considered my saviors. I collapse to my knees once again with my family surrounding me as I see the beast that has caused this cycle of carnage. Charlie Platten ** A Day in the Life Len’s Journal March, 1846 Day 1: Today is the day. Mom and Dad said we are packing up and heading West. I don’t really know why but they say it will be good for us—something about manifest destiny? Packing didn’t take long—I don’t have much to take with me. My grandpa seems kind of worried about our upcoming journey, but my sisters were nothing but excited. I am sad to be leaving, I don’t know when I will be seeing all my friends again and we have to leave our dog behind. It is weird seeing everyone else gathering together and ready to leave. Why is everyone leaving? We are positioned just past half the way back in the line, only wagons separating us. That's all for today. -Len Day 2: I am nothing but excited. I am having so much fun on the trail, playing tag with my sisters and running around the others. My parents seem to be happy too, we only got yelled at once today about having too much confidence, but my grandparents still seem somber. There's only a few other kids on the trail with us, most of them teenagers, but they seem nice enough. The food we packed was really good today, I ate until my stomach hurt! Check in soon! -Len Day 7: Today marks one week on the trail. I think it's going well, but I'm starting to get bored. I wonder how much longer we have left? It's starting to smell, we haven't seen a river in a while. My legs are hurting from all the walking, but mom says the wagon is already moaning under all the wait. Later. -Len Day 12: Today was not good. I got into a fight with my sister and my dad made me walk behind the wagon in silence. And to make things worse it started to storm today. The BANG of the thunder scares me everytime. Not to mention I'm sick of this food. I just want a homemade meal again. My grandma seems weird today, but I'm not so sure why. I hope tomorrow is better. -Len Day 17: It was finally sunny today. The weather is starting to get warmer too, but that means mosquitos and flies. I think people are becoming ill. Coughing is surrounding the wagons like a cloud, but it shouldn’t be a big deal. I saw my first deer on the trail today which was fun! One of the older men at the front of the line diligently got him for us and we had a good meal finally! Things are starting to look better! -Len Day 43: Today was bad. An older woman died today. They say it was from disease so now we are all scared to death. Everyone gathered to bury her but my grandparents stayed in the wagon. Next time. -Len Day 82: I don’t know what to do. Grandma died today. Grandpa is distraught. That makes it 22 total to die on the journey. Why are we doing this? I saw a buffalo today. My grandma would have liked that. R.I.P. -Len Day 117: It is soooooo hot. My clothes are a home to sweat. I have been starving lately, we really only eat once a day. Dad says we are almost there but I don’t really trust him. My sister broke her arm a few days ago. My mom made her a splint but I can tell she is in pain. My birthday is soon! -Len Day 143: My birthday was terrible. I awoke to another dead traveler. This time a younger boy, close in age to me. I didn’t get any gifts as we didn’t have anything in our wagon. I really hope we are close. This is such a nightmare. Day 182: Finally! We made it! My dad says we are way West. I wonder how far—we have been walking for a long time. It is really nice here, lots of land—my dad says that is good for us. We found a new town we are going to stay in for a while. I'm still thinking if this was worth it. I guess we will see. Until next time. -Len Alec Behringer ** Genesis We do not know what is yet to come, for we’ve been through so much in the past few days. Scorching heat, dehydration, hunger. The tight pulling sensation of my pale skin on my brittle bones. The smell of my daughter’s hair, encased in dirt and grime. The feeling of the unsympathetic sun, burning our faces, arms, and bodies. My father, Alejandro. My brother, Andrés. My wife, Lucia. My daughters, Emilia and Lola. My sons, Carmen, Gabriel and Antonio. And me, Alvaro. We do not know specifically where we are going, but we knew we needed to get out, escape, not only for myself but for my children, so they can have a life past the age of twelve. We do not know how the people from the “land of the free” will react to us, pale, scrawny, and worn. The people from the “land of the free” who take pride in their country, who wave their flags on the street as soldiers march by. The people from the “land of the free” who don’t fear being attacked in the middle of the night. The people from the “land of the free” who have clean water. The “land of the free” where my children will be able to get an education. The “land of the free” where my children can have a future. We only have a short time left of this life before we can become one of the people of the “land of the free.” On the brink of death but the cusp of freedom. We can only aspire for the best. For this, this is our genesis. Sawyer West-Toebe ** The Travelers The nine of us stand in a bunch, looking into the distance. The air sad, filled with sorrow. Our stomachs growl with hunger, but we refuse to eat. We continue on, to a better life, a better future, a better hereafter, for our kids. So they don't have to feel this again, the emptiness. The feeling of the hot air. Feeling like we are suffocating. Like we are being tied back, like someone is holding us back, from finding the end of the tunnel. The nine of us stare into the distance, watching as the dust goes by, waiting for a new beginning. To start over, to feel at home again. Audrey Gottschalk ** Migration Migration… Cracked feet drag through mysterious pathways, skeletal bodies lean on branches of hope. Dark weary eyes search through paint, clawing out of frame. Migration… Generations look to each other for guidance, the desire for better is hydrating. It helps cool the skin from the dry heat. Migration… Birds flock overhead, anticipating the next drop, the next failure, the next death. Hope withers, flying like dust through the air. Migration… There is no option of turning back, feet have carried their fatigued bodies for too long. Bodies race, competing with factors beyond control. Migration… Hope that can both save and kill, hope that is as dangerous as it is healing. Hope is migration. Zaela Schlissel ** La Esperanza Bloodshot eyes and pronounced ribs. Food is so far. Bliss even farther. But hope is here now. Hope is the last crumb of bread spared for my empty stomach. Hope is brother’s hat shading my eyes, papa’s tunic covering my figure. Because these shaded eyes see forward; leaving behind what was and whirling towards what will be. What was fades behind me with each hobbling step I take, our icy village just remnants of a memory, replaced by endless sand. I covet what will be—but I ache for what I have now. Losing what I have is losing everything. No matter the riches; tear-shaped diamonds cannot rectify their sacrifices. Pobrecito niño. Mason Long ** Here’s what students said about the ekphrastic experience:
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January 2025
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