Student Ekphrases: Fikret Mualla - Arrowhead Union High School and KM Global School for Global Leadership and Innovation

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 ​

Composition, by Fikret Mualla (Turkey) before 1967

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