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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  Pingvellir, by Þórarinn Þorláksson (Iceland) 1900 Navy Blue Skies The horizon stretches endlessly at Þingvellir, where the earth yawns into a mosaic of emerald plains and jagged cliffs. Wisps of low-hanging clouds brush against the towering basalt columns, their shadows dancing across the terrain like fleeting memories. The rugged terrain is scarred and sculpted by the shifts of the earth. Smooth, polished stones speak of the relentless grinding force of the ice. The river winds through the valley, a ribbon of silver liquid reflecting the kaleidoscope of the northern sky. The foliage on either side of the river bursts with earthy tones, interspersed with splashes of wildflowers that add elegance to the dull scene. The pristine river meanders through the valley, its crystal-clear waters reflecting the gray hues of the sky. The vast, open landscape beckons you to step into the scene and lose yourself in its natural beauty. There’s an overwhelming feeling of freedom and possibility, as if the land is whispering ancient secrets and inviting you to uncover its mysteries. The mountains rise above, guarding the valley. Gray clouds swarm and swirl. They curl, drifting lazily across the darkened sky, casting fleeting shadows on the rolling hills below. The luminous mountains reflect onto the water. A frog leaps into the water with a subtle splash, causing ripples to form innocent waves. Across the valley, a small farmhouse with an old porch overlooks, unspoken, of the land. The rusted and worn down chimney puffs smoke into the swirling sky. Towering cliffs frame the scene, their rugged textures bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. In the distance, snow-capped mountains stand sentinel, their majestic peaks touching the heavens. The ancient stones are storytellers, their silent presence echoes the voices of those who walked this land long ago. The distant mountains are a reminder of distant dreams, their peaks touching the sky like aspirations reaching for the heavens. The air is filled with the sounds of distant battles and the calls of seagulls. The scent of moss and rain hang in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the volcanic soil. The cool mist will kiss your skin, and the rugged rocks beneath your feet will ground you to the ancient earth. Some say beneath the moss-covered rocks dwell the hidden folk, their unseen presence woven into the very essence of Þingvellir. When the wind whistles through the crevices, it’s as if they’re calling out, sharing tales of those who once braved the land before you. They whisper and wisp in the wind, telling only those who dare to listen. They told tales and legends of journeys through the mountains and across the seas. You step on this timeless land, and every breeze carries a story. The generations of folk from years before, they count the heads of those brave enough to cross their land. The ancient forms of rocks tell the story of the ancestors and their families. No one knows what's real or myth; the legends may never be true, but the believers believe. As the last light fades, Þingvellir whispers a final secret—a promise that here, between the earth and the sky, eternity is but a moment. Liv Hubbard ** Out Where. Out where the crickets sing a melodic tune. Chirping away, from sunrise to sunset. Out where the birds harmonize with the crickets, forming a euphonious song. Out where the mornings are saturated with dense fog that blankets the slow-rippling pond. Out where the dewdrops canopy on the lichens and sedges that cover the fields. Out where the coastal winds dance with the lanky greenery and sway with the trees that tower over the rich soil. Out where the psychological silence brings comfort and bliss, being able to hear the atmosphere around you. Out where it brings you a sense of equanimity, despite living in a chaotic world. Out where the gentle sunrays glisten on the hushed water, that is rarely ever disturbed. Out where the horses doze off in the evening sunset, laying on the horizon. Out where it is a quintessence of serenity. Sawyer West-Toebe ** Untitled Abandoned. Calamity is coming for our home. Their home. My home. My home. My prison. I once roamed these lands, free, wild, untamed. Until they found us, taking me and my brother from the group. They took me from vast plains and put me in their farmhouse. Barely enough room to move around, barely enough air to breathe within all the dust. I thought I could get used to it. I was so damn oblivious. To think my captors would show me love, or mercy. To think I was once free. I tried to find love, but my time with these people only filled me with deep resentment, resentment in my actions, and my thoughts. To think that the one time I desired their support, they left me to die. Now the mountains surrounding me spew ash and flame, and I know my fate is sealed. I know that my captors have left me to die. They horde resources so greedily, so lackluster of any empathy for what they did to me. My brother and I take one last sip from the body of water, knowing it is over. We stare up as the sky turns darker, and from it, see a beacon of dark red light. Sound fills my ears. Ashy figures dance towards the ground, filling my lungs, obscuring the view of my brother. All while my captors roam free. I die filled with hatred. Brady Weston ** On the Run I grew up a foal, dancing through these fields, stumbling, trotting, galloping. I fall, I rise, I run. My mother encouraged it, nudging me with her nose. She’d say, “Go play, feel the wind, roll in the grass. Times will not always be like this.” I never thought about what she meant by that, but I took my sister and obeyed. From the early morning to late afternoon, we played. Nothing else mattered. Until it happened. I heard them before I saw them. Steady thumps, the earth trembling. Shouts filling the meadow, whinnies of horses mixed with sweat, mixed with the whoops and hollers. The hunters. Atop clean-cut steeds, my brothers in a different life, they held ropes. My mom said one thing: run. And I did. I ran like I never have before. Legs pumping, heart racing, mane billowing in the wind. All day and all night, I ran. I ran until I dropped from exhaustion, and even then, I was back up in just a few hours. Like this, I galloped. I galloped for the memory of my mother, for my immediate safety, for the future of my sister. We never stayed in one place long. For years it was our routine, driven by fear of being caught. Settling down meant being comfortable and being comfortable meant letting my guard down, and I couldn’t afford that. In a field is where we stopped. A simple cottage on a hill. Grass swaying in the wind. A safe haven. No people, no ropes, no worries. To this day, we still live there. I am learning to play with my sister like a foal again, but I am not as agile as I once used to be. Some days, I think I still hear the sound of the hunters approaching, the sound of my mother screaming, and I feel my heartbeat skip at the memory. But I remember that I am safe in the meadow, wrapped in nature’s embrace. Madison Anderson ** Beauty and Cracks There are volcanoes. Pingvellir—filled with volcanoes and cracks. A beautiful place-- a wonder-- despite the cracks. This place breathes peace. The horses are serene near the reflective pond. A beautiful place-- a wonder-- despite the cracks. The volcanoes remain dormant. The question is not if, but when. A beautiful place-- a wonder-- despite the cracks. They have the power to destroy. Yet everyone decides to stay in-- a beautiful place-- a wonder-- despite the cracks. Megan Petersen ** Warning. The land is still, but the volcanos will change that. Ashes flying everywhere, the sun blocked by the dark. They cling to everything, like scavenging wolves. Their little bodies leaving scathing burns along every organism. Until they cool; Only a family of emaciated souls remain, their eyes clouded with pain. They have a routine they follow each morn. Sulk in the church, let the sun set, then collect each bit of ash leftover by death. Each traveler passing by joins, meeting their fate. Now they cannot leave, a thread squeezes tightly to their throats. No matter how hard they claw and scratch, they will never break the bond. They are stuck. The ash pulls them down even more sinking like a pebble in a pond. When people search for the lost, the darkness shifts, growing hooves, sprouting a mane. They begin grazing upon the grass, and this tune they sing: Each speck that flies covers the skies. Weeping over what we have lost. Horses hiding honesty. Horses hiding truth. Sinking, sinking, sinking into the pool of dark. This thread that binds us is unshrinking. And our bodies are sinking, sinking, sinking. Horses hiding honesty. Horses hiding truth. Each speck that flies covers the skies, so beware the land you have crossed wipe the dust from your eyes. Lily Dable ** Letter to Nowhere Dear Family, It’s August 22, 2026, seventy-three days since the plants exploded. I’ve been living in this farmhouse, or what used to be one, right next to this beautiful mountain range. The view here sure does make up for the fact that I’m alone. Completely isolated. I found this old typewriter though, which is what I'm writing on. This is the only way I’m staying sane: writing these letters that will never get sent to a family I don’t even know is alive. The explosion was in town at the plant Mom and Dad worked at, one block away from the school the kids were in. I hope, pray, and plead with any higher power out there that can hear me that you all made it. When I lay to sleep at night, my mind wonders; it wonders to the thought of you all. I imagine Dad driving his busted-up farm truck with Mom in the passenger seat with the wind blowing through her long, blonde hair, Lily and Jack sticking their heads out of both windows with Winnie, our German Shepherd squished between them, searching endlessly for me. Amid these thoughts, sometimes, for a split second, in the back of my mind--I hope you're all dead. I hope it was quick and you felt no pain. You wouldn’t want to see what this world has turned into. Death, everywhere I turn, every corner I take; I can’t escape it. Yet somehow, I’m still here. I found some other people as I left town, they said that power plants all over the world exploded, all at once. I guess humans have done too much damage to the world and Mother Nature finally decided to fight back. I think this is her way of cleansing the world, cleansing the world of us, cleansing the world of the atrocities we’ve created, we’re the problem. I was gonna write a little something at the end like, wishing you well or see you soon but I know that’s not a reality I live in. Love, Your daughter Dear family, Hello again, It's September 3, 85 days since my whole world went to shit. I still watch for you guys, hoping a glimpse of that dirty red truck will bless my eyes one more time. Well, anyway, I found a dog. He’s some sort of cattle dog; I think he lived at this house and found his way back home. I don’t think I’m who he was looking to find though. He’s helped me keep the horses in order. It’s nice, the company these animals bring. Sure they may not be able to talk back, but at least I didn’t make dolls with your guy’s faces on them. That’s when I know it's really going downhill. Don’t get me wrong, I tried to talk to people but, I realized most people aren't people anymore, not in the head at least. It was something with the power plants, anyone who was close to the blast ingested some sort of chemical that made them go psycho. They look normal on the outside, so I never know who's been infected, until I get close. Then I know, from the noises and the way they move. That’s not even the worst of it, the virus spread. Anyone the infected comes in contact with gets infected too. They either lose the limb touched or suffer an excruciating three hours till their mind is no longer their own. Love, Your daughter Dear Family, Day 201. Two-hundred and one, two-hundred and one days since the explosion. I’m running out of food. I stretched it out for as long as I could but there's not much left. The animals were eating better than I was for a while. In the end though—I had to let them go, I couldn't keep them locked up with no food, starving. I think to myself--well, at least some of us will survive this, as I watch the horses disappear into the open field and slowly into the woods that follow. Maybe the horses will find you all. At least they will be there with you while I can’t. This dog though, is still here. Don’t know his name but he doesn’t know mine either. His eyes look just as tired as mine like he understands. I guess I never really thought about how we were in the same boat, we both lost something in this apocalyptic hell. Our families. I know I’m gonna have to go back into town. It’s a two-day journey there and back and on top of that I don’t have the horses to travel with anymore, but that’s not the problem. The infected. They run rampant, I barely made it out last time. Some of them still even know how to talk, how to act normal enough, long enough, to get you to hesitate. I don’t hesitate anymore. I may not be dead. But I might as well be. I’ve lost most of my humanity. Whatever’s left lies within these pages and that stubborn cattle dog. I used to feel lucky to be alive. To have the chance to find you all. I’m not so sure anymore though. What is a life of waiting around for a family that most likely died during the blast? I scavenge, hide, and run. Day in, day out. At least the infected don’t have to think about what the world has become. Maybe I’ll find food this time or supplies or maybe even my family. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I won’t come back at all. Would that really be so bad? Love, Your daughter Maggie Riggs ** The Old Raggedy House The old creepy house. The one no one knocks on during Halloween, the stereotypical haunted house. “Is it abandoned?” the kids ask. In truth or dare, the dare is always to knock on that door, but who lives inside? As I approached the house, my stomach was in knots. My friends were asserting me to knock. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Is the noise my heart makes. The neighs of the horses in the background arise. K N O C K N O C K An old man opens up. Not the door, but rather his bedroom window. He startled me, but he promised me one thing, “If you bring me two fish and a hay bale, I will tell you my story.” One day later, I came back with his desired goods, I wanted to divulge him. He was a lumberjack. He was all alone. He built his house. All. By. Himself. He never got visitors, yet he was the sweetest old man. The food? That was for his horses; he hunted for his food Strong and Independent. Lonely. His wife died years ago from cancer; I left him all alone- just the voices in his head and him. I came back day after day with food, Not just for the horses, but for him too. Freshly baked bread, fish, fruit, meat. We were nearing Thanksgiving, I went over and invited him to mine. He hesitantly said, “Why?” It had been ten years since he celebrated it. He came. He ate. He smiled. He thanked me for supper. I now visit him every day; my friends come with me too! The older the house, The more stories it holds. Olivia Orzechowski ** The Last Entry September 23rd I just arrived at my destination. My pony, Arthur, is handling it well thankfully. The mountain range and the water down below creates the most charming view. I hope it all goes well from moving out here and disconnecting from all technology completely. All my friends think I am audacious since if something were to go wrong I would have no connection to the outside world. I know my family did not love the idea of me leaving on my own, but I told them I would visit in December, so I hope they dont worry too much. September 25th I caught some fish today and I was excited to finally have a real dinner, since the past few nights were a bit rough. I had taken some food with me, but resources were running low. From all my other outdoor trips and adventures before moving here, I thought this would be just as easy, but it turns out being out here can get lonely. It's also frightening that if you don't catch something you will go hungry unlike a normal camping trip where you always have a backup plan. Sometimes it takes much longer to get the fireplace going, and I get nervous I will turn to ice. September 30th I haven't written in awhile, unfortunately we have already hit a roadblock. Arthur went missing for two nights and then returned in pickled shape. His back left leg had a large bite mark and it looked like the first bite into an apple. The bite is quite large, but I'm grateful he returned back alive. While I'm trying to keep his wound clean to avoid infection I want to find whatever injured him. October 2nd Arthur is still hurt, but as long as it doesn’t get infected he should be getting better. Tonight I’m staying inside because it seems a terrible storm is rolling in. Once in a while there will be a large pop and crackle of lightning and thunder. October 3rd The storm seemed to pass through only disrupting a few trees with the wind. However, I did experience something quite odd. I went around the cabin to check for any damage. When I went outside I noticed some scratch marks on the outside walls that were about 1 inch deep and looked as if a tiger left them. “Search the entire cabin and surrounding area.” The chief told us all. We all flashed our flashlights around since there was no electricity and each candle was burnt out. All I knew was someone lived here with no internet or cell service and supposedly went missing. I turned into a room in the back of the cabin that turned out to be the bedroom. There were sheets torn into a mess and thrown on the floor as if someone had been in a hurry. The lantern that hung on the wall made of metal was bent, and there were mud tracks on the creaky wooden floor. I opened a chest that was under the window and peered inside unknowing of what I was about to divulge. I found a leather notebook and started flipping through the pages. I read the first headline, “September 23rd” it said. My heart stung, it was January 23rd. I quickly but carefully flipped through each page until I found the last entry. The last one stating October 3rd and describing the current scene we were just now investigating. I stared blankly at the page, knowing this investigation was going to take a terrible turn. Amanda Mantei ** The Way Life Unfolds Sitting in his comfy painting chair, he looks out his massive front window at the beautiful, snowy mountains. His hand, which has a paintbrush that looks like it is meant for a mouse, flows ever so perfectly to the sound of the horses, and the whistling of the wind. His piece is not even close to finished, yet the slowness of his brush makes it seem like he is one stroke away from completing it. The horses out in the distance started to neigh, startling him, and his hand then viciously slid down the page and started to get himself. But he turns his head to the side and realizes that his mistakes can become opportunities. So he turns the whole painting on its side and continues to paint peacefully while looking out his gigantic window. Looking out at the lake, on his property, it clearly shows his reflection. His paintbrush starts moving a little faster, and a little faster until it looks like he is fighting his canvas. He starts to think about where he went wrong in life and the decisions that he has made. Should I have become a painter? Should I have a wife? Should I have a family? Realizing he needs a break from all of his overthinking, he goes outside and starts to ride his horses. He rides his horse up to the top of the mountains, and when he gets to the top he looks into the sky. He pictures him and his family of five sitting on the dark green grass, enjoying some freshly baked bread. Once he is done picturing his life and thinking he needs to be happy, he rides his horse back down the mountain. After his trip to the mountains, he gets back to his house, picks up his paintbrush, and starts to paint audaciously. This time he isn’t looking out his window, he is remembering what he pictured on the mountain and starts to paint that. His paintbrush starts to create a picture of him and his family all gathered around the dinner table. They are enjoying a nice, warm, home-cooked meal that is steaming hot. He then paints a dog in the corner that is lying there enjoying life being in his family. He then cracks a smile and divulges that he should chase any dreams that he wants before it is too late and time decides for him. Jack Hill ** The Middle Man January 3rd, 1986 – There are many stories about the man who lives in that home, I’m going to divulge all that information here just for you. Many people say the man in this home is “mentally deranged” or “a crazy psychopath” Well this isn’t exactly true it’s very close to the point, it is believed during the summer of 1965 the Government had a close eye on this man for a series of crimes during the winter of 1960, and by close eye I mean, very close eye. Men in black trench coats follow him all the time keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t commit another crime when he never committed these crimes. Being watched by what he called “The Watchers” slowly drove him insane, he’d notice them taking notes and watching closely at his actions, he thought these could be many things as the community knew he was a strong believer in aliens. This fear is what drove him insane, he thought “The Watchers” were aliens coming to take his brain to capture him. Eventually, he thought everyone was an alien locking himself in his home and eventually shooting both his wife, Clare, and his two kids Simon and Jefferson. He was transferred to a house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by man-made mountains and terrain by the Government to hide their mistake. They built a food market nearby so that he’d always have food, that they would restock secretly when it was getting low. They put two genetically mutated horses that would live as long as he lived on this plot of land cause they would “Remind him of his kids.” While this seems dumb in hindsight it must be working cause nothing has happened in the 21 years he has been here, I’ll have to keep documenting this to see how he spends his life in the next coming months, or maybe even years… Cameron Miller ** Ripples Looking out the window, the two wild horses bowing down caught my eye. Drinking from the pond, their mouths upset the otherwise still water. The reflection of the nearby hills sways back and forth. Living on my own, things like this remind me why I escaped the rest of my kind. Being alone brings me peace. There is such perfection in everything untouched by man. The interrupted water makes me think about how much my species affects everything else. Outside of the land where I reside, is the grumbling and noise of concrete and oil. We work jobs with no end, only to further contribute to the inevitable destruction of our planet. It feels arcane as if only I can understand it. The mountains that surround my land provide shade from the rest of the world. Others like me pay no attention to the beauty of life. If only they could see the ripples in the water. Snapping out of my trance, I see the twin thoroughbreds trot away. I remember the work I still have yet to complete. The nearby town has the supplies I need to repair the fence that surrounds my land. In a sort of selfish way, that fence is the only safety that ensures that I am the only human who can enjoy the solitude of where I live. Walking to my blue Volvo, I notice the rust that has gathered all over its body. The neglect I have shown has caused it to wither away. I do not use my car very often. The soft, but torn cushion of the driver’s seat scrapes against my denim pants. Turning over a few times, the cumbersome engine sputters until it starts. The dirt road to the town is like a scar upon the land, and will only be taken back by nature when I am no more. The hum of the car overcomes the silence of the hills. Nearing the town, the dirt road fades into asphalt, and the small buildings come into view. This sight once again reminds me of the ripples on the water. Nate Kisting ** Þögul Halló* Nightfall was upon the world. His shadow just minutes away from capturing the world in his haunting glory. Clouds moved over their lands, the mountains in the valleys haunting the ground they stood on, and wind pushed against the cold pond. The wind pulled against the ebony mane of a mighty steed, standing tall and proud of the land his feet wandered. He pulled the grass beneath him from their roots and chewed on them quite loudly. To replenish his parched throat, he trotted over with his powerful legs to a pond nearby in the open plains of the field he lived upon. His lips greeted the water with a gentle kiss, as he took tiny sips from the flowing waves. Only a few steps away from him lingered another horse, a mare, who seemed intrigued by something afar. Sensing only the gentle embrace of the wind, he paid no mind. Finishing his long drink, he lifted his great neck as his ear flicked to the sound of an old barn door opening in the distance. Strange… he thought to himself. No mortal has roamed these lands for as long as I have stood. Turning his head to see, he saw the abandoned barn and home, life draining from their very bones. And, as sure as he was, a door to the barn had been opened. And, with an epic push, the wind forced the door shut, alarming the mighty steed. Could it be a vicious mortal, a spirit of the lands, or is it the wind itself coming to haunt him and the mare? The steed trembled and glanced at his friend beside him. The mare did not fear anything. The steed saw that her ear flicked at the sound but she made no other movements. Her head still remained on a sight the steed could not find. What a strange creature, he wondered to himself. He returned back to the waters to parch his dry throat, paying no more attention to the curious mare. A mare grazed with a friend of hers upon the luscious sage lashes of Mother Nature growing from the rich, mahogany skin of her terrestrial body. As she ate, she listened to the glorious sounds around her as if nature were greeting her once more before she rested. Then a sudden sound seemed to startle the attender. She is used to many sounds of the land but this noise… This noise made her a curious mare. She lifted her tired head to keen away from the light of the world and more to the mysterious sound of the land. She turned to the open fields… No, silly me, the mare shunned herself. No one besides me and this steed, along with the occasional herd, have roamed these lands in ages! Could it have been from the sky? No, no, you stupid mare; no one could be in the sky besides the eyes and wings that watch over us! Where could that sound have come from? Seemingly to be in tune with the Terra around her, she used the sound of her heartbeat to steal herself and find that odd sound. She closed her dark eyes, let her hooves remain on the ground, and listened to the world around her. Indeed, she found the noise and it was no noise… but a song. She heard the mountains in the valley singing the song of the holy land, their feet wandering as clouds twirled around their peaks in enjoyment. Her ear flicked to the sound of the wind joyously whistling along as their fingertips brushed through her blonde mane. A distant noise of something closing made her ear twitch but she became enthralled as Dusk met with Daybreak as her gentle tears–beams–of suffering light paid homage to the blessed land. They fell and dripped into the waters as the light danced with the waves whilst the tragic wind pushed and pulled the water in a seasick melody. Oh, be still, my trembling heart, for the mighty call of Terra is singing to me. The mare raised her head up to the sky above her to listen to the song of the holy land as the world enveloped her into a melodic embrace. She paid no more attention to the steed behind her making a fuss over a tiny sound, for it was no match to the rest of the world’s silent hello. Ella Cutts *þögul halló translates to “silent hello” from Icelandic, an official language spoken in Iceland where the painting is located.
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The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
December 2025
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