 The Skt. Wandanna Cathedral in Band Hain, by Adolf Wolfli (Switzerland) 1910 Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is The Skt. Wandanna Cathedral in Band Hain, by Adolf Wolfli. Deadline is July 8, 2022 . You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. ** The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click below to share a five spot through PayPal or credit card. Thank you. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include WOLFLI CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, July 8, 2022. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we will no longer send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send Spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. Outsider Art: an Ekphrastic Discovery Workshop
CA$30.00
Join us on online on Thursday, July 7 from 3 to 5 PM Eastern Standard Time to learn about "Outsider Art," a problematic umbrella term for self-taught art, Art Brut, prison art, art of artists with mental illness, art of artists who are not literate, remote artists' art, some folk art, "raw art," and more. The world of outsider art- art outside the mainstream of the art world narrative- is a fascinating tapestry of human histories. Writers will find endless inspiration in the biographies of trial and triumph and in rich and curious paintings, sculptures, and art environments of artists like Bill Traylor, Sister Gertrude, Henry Darger and many more. We will take a visual tour through outsider art's history, highlighting some fascinating pictures and stories. There will be some creative brainstorming exercises to spark imagination and ideas, and a chance to start or write a poem or story. Doors open at 2.45 PM EST, for those who wish to meet and mingle. We prefer to end our workshops organically after our last discussion and exercise, so they may go overtime. No refunds for cancellations, sorry. We will happily move you to a future workshop if you cannot attend. Our workshops are all about community, creativity, and conversation! We encourage discussion and sharing. We strive for an environment that is both challenging and supportive, to grow your writing practice in unexpected directions. Join us to learn more about "Outsider Art," a fascinating voyage into the struggles and triumph of the human imagination. Outsider Art is a problematic blanket term that refers to remote artists, self-taught artists, artists inside of institutions like prisons, orphanages, or asylums, visionary artists, and other people "outside" mainstream art society. This field is a personal passion of Lorette's!
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 The Massacre of the Innocents, by Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, modern day Belgium) 1612 Why? Swords, axes fly sink into soft flesh eyes wide fear emanates why? Torn from mother’s arms they fall they cry hearts broken pierced from under desks sound of whimpers drowned out tears streak faces why? Teachers’ arms spread wide to protect shocked faces bullets fly into youth innocent blood spilled death reigns gun, swords kill the same but why blank stares crowd, school slaughtered voice shouts there’s one alive over here Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a poet and writer of YA fiction, often addressing teen issues of bullying, abandonment and alcoholism. She shares her home with two rescued feral cats, quiet companions that indulge her poetry recitations. A Pushcart nominee, Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, working in-home with seniors. Her work appears in various journals including Misfit, Open Door and The Ekphrastic Review. ** Good Karma "In esoteric religions, Karma is the sum of a person's actions in this and previous existence, actions that decide their fate in future generations." -a definition of karma "The child is father to the man." Wordsworth, My Heart Leaps Up The basket was empty. The lights outside the window had calmed her night terrors and she had seen his face in the patterns of the stars. If you have loved, you will be loved her grandmother had said and a photographer had taken her picture with weavers braiding fibers lining baskets with cushions of soft grasses; smoothing fabric -- almost transparent in its thinness -- over the once-green filaments, rhyming nature with the impossible emptiness she felt trying to imagine herself in the arms of a myth, a man, half sun god (or so the stories said) and part as human as the bully who chased her around the playground because "he liked her" -- what would he have done if his motivation had been hatred of her color? Of her hair, filled with fake diamonds when she dressed up for a dance? Her mother had said Karna (on a bad day, his storm predicted) had lifted her from the basket; how the basket was whirling in the waters of a creek, fast and gentle fractured in currents of possibility & sorrow how she was adopted like a debt conceived in innocence: He called her Karma, his hands unbraiding the vast uncertainty of chance. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp has been honored with multiple acceptances by The Ekphrastic Review. LIsted as one of ten Fantastic Ekphrastics and nominated for Best of The Net, she lives and writes in Houston. Fascinated by Hindu Mythology, she spent hours of her life in Rice University's Fondren Library, compelled and challenged by the Sanskrit Dictionary, where she found descriptions in the Gita comparable to those in early Irish legend. (Karma is a major character in the Gita, half god and half man.) As a mother and grandmother, she found it almost impossible to write about Rubens' Massacre of The Innocents, the Challenge picture selected near breaking news of American tragedy, the massacre of innocents in Uvalde. ** Walking to School Let me pull on your cotton socks, just so. I know how your soles react. Look, look in the mirror at how the curls crowning your pale forehead spring back after each stroke of the brush. Let’s go. Step outside and wonder at this stick, this puddle, that dog. Hold my fingers tight when we cross each road. Nestle snug in my arms against the wind that threatens to lift you. You are delivered. Give me a soft kiss, just here. Listen hard. I wear red because I am not afraid. Mama is ready to bare her chest and fight. She will gouge the eyes that flash evil, so, when the man comes with the gun, don’t wait, run. Run. Eithne Longstaff Eithne Longstaff: "I’m new to the poetry world and looking forward to MA study later this year. After a career as an engineer working in industry, poetry is opening my mind and twanging rusty creative strings." ** Cry of the Innocents Herod, Hitler, Putin. Bethlehem, Auschwitz, Mariupol. We cry to Heaven for sanity. Sound sleep the angels. Stephen Poole. Stephen Poole served for 31 years in the Metropolitan Police in London, England. He has written for a variety of British county and national magazines, and his poetry has been published internationally. ** In · no · cence /ˈinəsəns/ noun 1. The sky was not a thunderstorm, the sun was shifting blue to gold peaceful, for what do the heavens know of the ambitions of man? How were the clouds to know they were supposed to gather in knitted judgement, to help wash the blood down the streets, to flood the city until the foundation of the walls were permanently stained red? 2. Chubby ankles are flung into the walls; I will never question where Cherubs come from, or who their makers are. A mother bores her eyes into the whites of her child’s, attempts to untangle his soul from hers and transfer it back to him, but she hasn’t realized he’s just a memory now and that their next moments together are already gone, replaced with midnight funeral rites and the carrying of his small body to get him there. 3. Guards change their synonyms from protectors and escorts to slayers and pawns. Look at how they fall, all swords, hands, and babies. Mothers claw and curve their backs over their children, and the earth does not shake for them. Mea Andrews Mea Andrews is a writer from Georgia, who currently resides in China. She has just finished her MFA from Lindenwood University and is only recently back on the publication scene. You can find her in Vermilion, Rappahannock Review, and others. You can also follow her on Instagram at mea_writes or go to her website at meaandrews.com ** The Mothers Rachel wept unceasing for her children were no more Rubens' mothers struggled yet fought back arms muscular and desperate tearing at their faces... the killers of the children. Would mothers who had no chance to confront the attacker envy those women a chance to die for their children a luxury the ruthlessness of the killer not granting? A blood tornado sweeping little Bethlehem repeated in so many towns-- Columbine, Sandy Hook, Uvalde-- a litany of teddy bears hover near a pool of light. 19 voices sing no more their desperate cries hollow echoing crying for help from men who failed them. I weep for my own child relive her passing a shiver passes over me I grab for air as I know if the mothers had been the other side of the door they would have taken the guns from stunned men and raged, raged, raged into that day. Carol Lee Saffioti-Hughes Carol Lee Saffioti-Hughes is a retired professor and former librarian in a log cabin in the north woods of Wisconsin. Her publications include work in Poetry Hall, Poetry Quarterly, The Greensboro Review, The Malahat Review, and Moss Pigletas well as many others. Work has been anthologized in UnSettling America (Penguin Press), and Root River Voices, and Artery anthologies. She has participated in ekphrastic readings at several art galleries. Her chapbook The Lost Italian and the Sound of Words is no longer in print, but queries are welcome. ** Rubens’ Anatomy Lesson His first version of The Massacre of the Innocents (1612) is an unapologetic display of Paul Rubens’ anatomic acumen. The composition is appropriately chaotic, the scene frenzied. But the frame is carefully posed to provide the artist an occasion to explore from different angles the subtle play of muscles beneath exposed skin. The anatomist will astutely point out the elements: See, here in the figure just left of center, we note the flexed deltoid and elevated scapulae, the contracted rhomboids between the shoulder blades expressing the tension of the upper back. And there, in the figure on the right, a fine study of the extension of the upper arms, lifting the child. Observe the well-positioned triceps, two of its three heads visible in each arm, and the extended pectoralis. Note how the artist contrasts these muscle positions with those in the more relaxed posture of the figure to his right. The artist has some difficulty with the abdominals, you can see, and hence they are mostly obscured in the three male figures. The obliques for example are concealed in shadow and by a curiously contorted abdominal wall in the figure to our right. But there is fluidity here; no hint of the static tension in over-contracted muscles. Rubens has done well also in contrasting the fleshier texture and lighter hues of the central female. He errs greatly, however, in the adult-like muscularity of the infants. It is exuberant self-indulgence. *** Rubens’ study is largely a success in anatomic position, proportion, and balance. We cannot be certain how serious he is about the massacre itself, though. The faces of the women are mostly passive, with fear creeping in on the right margin alone. Torment is reserved solely for the frozen expressions of the dead—but no blood, anywhere. There are no signs of trauma. The sword does not yet penetrate, the hand resisting it not yet slashed. Nor is any moment of death revealed—only its imminent proximity and its sullen aftermath. It is a scene frozen as if in cinematic preparation. Violence is left to Rubens’ second effort in 1638. Here, blades breach and blood flows. Death is kinetic, validating the work’s proper title. Ron Wetherington Ron Wetherington is a retired anthropologist and university professor living in Dallas, Texas. He has a published novel, Kiva, non-fiction in The Dillydoun Review and The Ekphrastic Review (forthcoming), and fiction in Words & Whispers and in Flash Fiction Magazine. ** Massacre of the Innocents I heard them inside my head. Those terrifying cries. The sound of them moved the brush in my hand with painful exactitude. If there could be no virtue in this world, there would be on this canvas. That was my innocence. Twice, history says — twenty-five years between — I drew from my palette this protest in excruciating colour. Against the slaughter of children, who barely know life. Against the anguish of mothers, who can only scratch the face of evil. Against the destruction of flesh by flesh. But history is wrong. Not twice, but every day I make this painting in my mind. Because they offer me no choice. Those who kill for gain. Those driven by personal demons. And those who watch the death of innocents. This is the death of innocence. Raphael Badagliacca Raphael Badagliacca is the author of two books (Father’s Day: Encounters with Everyday Life, and The Yogi Poems and Other Celebrations of Local Baseball) and 17 produced plays. He has written and performed nearly a hundred monologues. He writes in many genres: poetry, short stories, essays, book, movie, and theater reviews. He wrote English subtitles from Italian & Sicilian for the film, Many Beautiful Things (“Tanti Beddi Cosi”). Samples of his extensive business writings can be found at www.thewritingfactory.net. Author page: (https://www.amazon.com/~/e/B0053HM2R4) Reach him at raphael@thewritingfactory.net ** Irresponsible Uncle “The party got a little wild,” Brutus said. “The wailing, the moaning – all because some baby got tossed in the Baby Tossing Contest that hadn’t been registered by a responsible parent. An irresponsible uncle, apparently drunk on wine and mead, deep in the cups, deeper at the tables. So he signs up his nephew, who lost horribly, grotesquely even. Then the bloke starts stabbing people, getting his purse back by bleeding theirs. Got what he wanted, plus a few nights in the morgue with a bunch of spirits that didn’t like him.” Tony Daly Tony Daly is a Washington DC/Metro Area creative writer. His poem “Sunita Soars” (first published in Utopia Science Fiction, February 2021) was nominated for a 2022 Dwarf Stars Award with the Science Fiction Poetry Association (SFPA). For a list of his published work, please visit https://aldaly13.wixsite.com/website or follow him on Twitter @aldaly18. ** Our Calibre of Prayer Oh dear God, how can we hold it all in the palms of our hands, stained red like targets? We should have nailed it by now. We live with our faith overflowing, we praise the Almighty Weapons in our hands. Witness our children witnessing. Oh dear God, how have we led our children to slaughter, falling one by one, their little palms bloody? We stick to the script, sure, moral high ground and hollow points. We conceal our guilt, screaming for mercy. Still, we teach our children Amen. Heather Brown Barrett Heather Brown Barrett is a poet and member of Hampton Roads Writers. She lives in Virginia, mothering her young son and contemplating the meaning of life, the universe, and everything with her writer husband, Bradley Barrett. Her poetry has been published by Yellow Arrow Journal, OyeDrum Magazine, AvantAppal(achia), Defenestration, The Ekphrastic Review, Superpresent Magazine, Backwards Trajectory, and by SEZ Publishing. ** The Gospel of Saint Matthew No evil could be laid more bare than senseless act to leave despair those torn from nurture never know as seed we bury meant to grow allegiance we will hold above the liberty far more we love than innocents we give as price to be the blood of sacrifice -- all those we've sent to keep us free well knowing they might never be and those forsaken bearing scorn whose only crime was being born forgotten as the reason why the crowd insisted "Crucify!" Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment... Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart ** Slaughter of the Innocents Reubens painted this nightmare twice, this desperate knot a storm of flesh on the canvas women fighting hand to hand with armed men, over the bodies of babies they can’t save the ground slick with blood littered with the newly born, newly dead Teaching us there is no mercy for the small and weak so easy to break, so hard to save While we repeat the nightmare like a bad habit, a ritual of anger and despair of losses we swallow so often we forget to choke Even now, on this ordinary day when the boy comes carrying his new guns into the classroom of children half his age and begins to shoot Where the children try to hide curl up, play dead cover their faces with their classmates blood clutch their phones and beg No one comes They are already ghosts rising like smoke above bodies torn to rags On this ordinary day no one makes it home again no one is rescued, no one saved the scent of their short lives burning like incense before an unnamed god Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, and recent issues of Earth’s Daughters and Third Wednesday. She has been a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. ** convocation before is a word that conjures after breath creates life death is a burning silence that has no end broken the membrane between spirit is an idea that exists beyond matter sheltered embodied vesseled a gun is an instrument that stills the heart bones ashes dust Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Her poetry is usually written in conjunction with her artwork. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/, and see more of her work on her website http://kerferoig.com/ ** Questa è Guerra: Musings on Peter Paul Rubens’ Massacre of the Innocents I pull up Peter Paul Rubens’ Massacre of the Innocents on my computer and for a few seconds I admire the expertise of Rubens’ brush; the dynamism of the composition; the influences of his travels through Italy, the vivid saturated hues so reminiscent of Raphael, the animal physicality that recalls Michelangelo’s paintings on the Sistine Chapel. But this feeling does not last. I cannot help but see the infant corpse whose face has turned blue; the old woman grasping the blade of the sword aimed at her bare breast; the child about to be dashed against the ground while its mother reaches out her arms pleading for her child’s life. I don’t know who can look at this painting and not feel sickened. I can’t. These last months alone have delivered a surfeit of war, a glut of massacres. There is no beauty in butchery. Most art, it seems to me, and painting in particular, is in the business of wooing the eye and spirit with a seductive dream of harmony and wholeness. This canvas is cut from a different cloth, a reminder of the poison at the heart of humanity’s terrible bewildering history. Rubens, like Goya and Picasso and Salvador Dali and Eugene Delacroix and Maruki Iri and Maruki Toshi, and so many others, has used art as a way to say, Look; don’t turn away; see what war has done. I blink, and I am standing in front of Picasso’s Guernica, holding my mother’s hand at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. I am only a child, five or seven or ten years old, and I do not understand what I see. On my mother’s face, though, are tears. I blink again, and I am a grown woman, with children of my own, and I am in Paris, standing in front of Picasso’s Massacre en Corée, the artist’s response to the 1951 Sinchon Massacre of Korean civilians by American troops. This time there are tears on my face. I blink and turn away. The TV is on, and the news is of the dead and dying in Ukraine, whole cities demolished, rubble now. My grandfather was born in Ukraine. Nobody knows the number of Ukrainian dead, or the number of Ukrainian children stolen from their parents and taken hostage into Russia. A third world war has been unthinkable, but few of us living in Europe believe Putin will stop at Ukraine. I blink and turn away, and in front of my eyes are the children killed in mass shootings across the United States. Twelve killed at Columbine High in 1999. Twenty killed at Sandy Hook Elementary School in 2012. Nineteen killed at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas, just over a week ago. Another mass shooting since then, even before the Uvalde children were buried. There are so many other deaths, an impossible number. The parents of children who have died in mass shootings have created a support group. They call it “The Dead Kid Club.” We watch the news from our apartment in Amsterdam. Our friends here cannot understand how the U.S. allows this to continue. We try to explain, but there is no explanation. There are no paintings of the children killed at Columbine, or Sandy Hook, or Uvalde. We have been spared that. I blink again, and I am in Padua, Italy, in 2015, in a museum hosting a photography exhibit. Questa è Guerra: This is War. My husband and I hadn’t planned to spend our afternoon looking at black and white photos of such brutality. When we boarded the train in Venice that morning, we expected to explore beautiful old churches with frescoes and colorful open-air markets, to sit in cafes over espresso and gelato. But the path from the train station to the central market took us past the banner announcing the exhibit and we looked at each other and went in. My pace through the exhibit is initially slow, leisurely, lingering here and there over particularly moving photos. But soon it is too much: there are too many photographs of too much carnage, wall after wall after wall of war after war after war, and I walk rapidly through the rooms until I reach a bench and sit down. A short documentary film is playing on a large screen facing the bench. It is by Henri Cartier-Bresson on the prisoners of war in WWII. The film plays, finishes, and people get up, but I cannot move. The film begins again, and again I watch. My husband finds me, sits down next to me. Tears are going down my face. I cannot speak. My father was eighteen years old when his plane was shot down over the Netherlands and he was taken to a POW camp in Germany. My father would never speak of his experiences, although the reports of others — which I delayed reading until years after his death — tell of atrocities and starvation. My father returned to New York looking like a survivor of a concentration camp, but the more serious wounds were internal, and these never healed. By the time I sat on the bench watching Cartier-Bresson’s documentary, my father had been dead for almost a decade and there was no way to tell him I was sorry for judging him so callously with all the blind self-righteousness of youth. What was in Rubens’ mind when he planned The Massacre of the Innocents? What was Picasso thinking when he began work on Guernica and Le Massacre en Corée? What was Cartier-Bresson’s intent when he photographed the prisoners of war? What can art do in the face of humanity’s barbarity, its endless appetite for power and violence? And how will we respond? Kimmen Sjölander Kimmen Sjölander is an evolutionary biologist, writer, and professor emeritus from the University of California, Berkeley. Her creative work has appeared in The Moth, Still Point Arts Quarterly, and the Buddhist periodical, Lions Roar. She lives in Amsterdam, Netherlands, with her husband. ** Depravity Wars, battles and bodies, Piled like garbage in a dump Limbs askew, eyes begging Blood soaked canvas of depravity Nowhere to go but die. Where is God? Where is grace? Nothing but a figment, or fragment Of imagination. Look again and weep, no yell At depravity for It remains until today. Weep, weep, weep. Ellie Klaus Ellie Klaus was born and raised in Montreal. She has lived different selves over several decades: daughter, wildlife biology graduate, vision quest traveler, family life educator, president (of her son's school committee), friend, confidante, lover, wife, mother, caregiver and now caregivee, if there is such a word. Each has contributed to a different perspective of living, of life. The pieces of the puzzle are evident and coming together, although the final image is yet to be revealed. So, writing has reemerged as a creative endeavor to release some of the angst that arises from living a confined life, or any life for that matter. She has a poem entitled 'Bones' that appears on NationalPoetryMonth.ca April 9, 2020 and poems published in The Ekphrastic Review and Pocket Lint. ** Fighting For the Lives of the Innocents we wince we’re numb Rubens calls us to bear witness to a slaughter on this main street of mothers’ screams The artist pleads STOP this 17th century’s version of King Herod’s massacre last week in Texas tears fell on the sidewalk of Robb Elementary parents waited for the innocents whose laughter will cease to echo in the streets as they ride bikes jump rope it used to be safe at schools movie theaters grocery stores malls churches now young killers roam the halls filled with venom and their assault rifles these horrors will never stop nor will the heroes who die fighting for the lives of the innocents Jennifer B. Kahnweiler Jennifer B. Kahnweiler: "I am a non-fiction business writer based in Atlanta, GA but found my true creative calling during the pandemic when poetry drew me in. I received the 2022 Natasha Trethewey Poetry Prize from the Atlanta Writers Club for my poem, "While Waiting for Her Name to Be Called" and have been taking poetry workshops, attending readings and buying poetry collections to my delight. Ekphrastic poetry is a true find and has helped me rediscover the joy I felt when the lights went out in my art history classes." ** Villanelle: Massacre of the Innocents Too late, too late! Already it occurs: naked, armed, and strong, at Herod’s command, the soldiers have begun the massacre. In the streets, mothers and infants slaughtered; their shrieks and cries echo throughout the land, and it’s too late! Already it occurs: all of Bethlehem is filled with horror. Into innocent breasts, daggers are rammed; the soldiers have begun the massacre. In the middle of the chaos and the gore, a woman, her red dress torn, claws a man, but too late, too late, already it occurs: while a dying woman falls against her, she cannot hold her boy with just one hand. The soldiers have begun the massacre. The future king of Jews, Jesus, savior, must be found. On this day, babies are damned. Too late, too late! It already occurs: the soldiers have begun the massacre. Gregory E. Lucas Gregory E. Lucas writes fiction and poetry. His short stories and poems have appeared in magazines such as Blue Unicorn, The Horror Zine, Yellow Mama, and in previous pages of The Ekphrastic Review. He lives in Hilton Head, South Carolina. He can be contacted at GLucas6696@gmail.com. ** Massacre of the Innocent Innocence is an inborn flight, so, why on earth, someone would hit the only winged human wealth?! You wouldn’t watch such film, but since it is the book of books, you undertake the pilgrimage to the biblical meaning and battle incredible Old Testament impediments, such as fratricide, incest, misuse; in search. Hence, when you get on the New Testament highway you expect a smoother ride and a fresher hue of life. You join shepherds, magi and angels rejoicing at the messiah’s arrival in the manger, but an inauspicious word soon shades the wonder: Herod, the mighty king, decides to make extinct the prophesied conqueror of the Royal throne, and since the magi do not return to inform him who exactly is the god’s son, he orders to be put to death all the male children in Bethlehem and its vicinity at the age of two and under. At the same time, the messiah’s worldly father follows the advice he receives in sleep and takes the mother and infant to Egypt. The butchery proceeds with no effect, yet, the insane horror spills mammoth in Rubens’ canvas turned beast’s paw where small and giant bodies are antithetically cramped, tender tissue is adversely crushed, no pose, no gap, no vistas, just untouchable heat of hell; unlike visions with more lingering spell such as that of Raphael, whose cold suspense delivers swift sward offence on an arena of spiked chaotic run, where horror scratches the air, pain and hope hang on a piece of hair, even sliced in two, in this high renaissance portmanteau. Rubens, instead, ties it all in a baroque knot, flesh, tissue, skin, heads, bodies, limbs – gruesomely pressed in predator’s clench, goliathic muscles flatten baby cells by hand, no allusion of escape, all swallowed by a pale gasping colorscape with just two respiratory hues – red, stamping the earthly blood and blue, upholding the heavenly clue, that they didn’t die in death, instead they live in higher world in bliss. Rubens reaches this higher spot in six years, untying the massacre knot and releasing the Holy Innocents to enfold The Virgin and the Child like petals trouping around the pistil, this parabolic flower dipped in a leaped quantum cloud – curating thus the martyrdom allegory: in physical terms this baby army is no stronger than a flower, but sacrificed for God it gains higher lot than all kings’ armies on earth – a quantum leap setting the meaning in an eye’s blink. These monstrous muscles raging massacre, tearing babies from mothers’ breasts, causing milk-spill over hairy butchers’ sweat, this atrocious act deconstructs the macabre might and wings the innocence’ rubensed flight. No more no less – quantum exactness. If Rubens’ baroque passions deliver the salient dramatic power, his real diplomatic skills procure the exchange rate mechanism of the essential energy dynamism maturing the type of physical installment as quantifier of the metaphysical elopement. The rate that sets armies on their knees, believers in meditative tears, nonbelievers as converts. Like the daily leap when you breathe a blossomed flower in a moonlight hour, but see an altar’s incense burner and Rubens’ parabolic bloomer: no mort no birth, just the winged exchange rate of the two currencies of quantum holiness. Ekaterina Dukas . Ekaterina Dukas has studied linguistics and culture at Universities of Sofia, Delhi and London and authored a book on mediaeval art for The British Library. She enjoys studying Sanskrit. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review and its challenges selection several times. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni, 2021. ** A Scene of Chaos Such a scene of chaos greets my eyes--muscular men, well-fed babes being dashed to death soldiers, women trying to save their children entangled in a ball of horror. I note, though that the scene is bloodless, that the buildings are intact. Rubens had not wanted to horrify his audience to their core. Buildings are crushed into piles of disconnected stones. I look across the room at a small figurine, bought for Christmas, then kept for year-round display—“The Flight into Egypt.” Three people and a donkey make up the statue—the ones who fled the scene, the refugees the Romans sought, the ones the false rulers feared. In Ukraine, the Russians, seeking to be rulers where they are not wanted, have no such qualms. They leave a scene of death and despair dripping in blood. As the Russians bomb, blast, burning Ukrainian books, spill the blood of the innocents, in an effort to destroy their world, their futures, I weep. But my tears will not wash away the blood. My hands are not capable of replacing, rebuilding stone on stone, to rebuild the world, rewrite their books. I cannot quell the chaos. I can, however, look to refugees, and so many holy families who flee the massacre. I can be their Egypt. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta tells tales on page and stage. Her writing has been published in The Ekphrastic Review and other journals and she appears on stage telling stories of social justice, strong women, food, and family. “Encouraging words through Pen and Performance” is her motto. ** Innocence Aftermath Nothing new here. Hasn’t it always been so, this othering? Desire to rid ourselves from threat to the kingdom of self. Murderers might be armored with righteous fervor or crowned with orders to obey. Perhaps untethered voices scramble one’s mind and a rapacious quest to still them. Some baked-in-trait, trick or taint in our genes commandeers our heads. Centuries of bloodshed. Blood as dictator and treasure. More valued than gold. Yet, it’s the naked violence against children, slaughter of the defenseless we seem unable to quell. We are sick. Of it all. Aren’t we? Suzanne Edison Suzanne Edison’s first full length book, Since the House Is Burning, by MoonPath Press was published in 2022. Her chapbook, The Body Lives Its Undoing, was published in 2018. Poetry can be found in: Bracken; Michigan Quarterly Review; The Lily Poetry Review; Scoundrel Time; JAMA; SWWIM; and elsewhere. She is a 2019 Hedgebrook alum and teaches at Richard Hugo House in Seattle. ** The Innocents on My Street I live in a major city in Texas, in a craftsman bungalow built in 1926, situated half a block from an elementary school. Each day, parents and children pass along the white picket fence in front of my house, walking to and from school the way I did sixty years ago. What could appear more wholesome and innocent, more Normal Rockwell? Every day, a letter or postcard arrives in my mailbox: “We will pay cash for your house.” Well-to-do young parents make over-the-value offers to live in this revitalized neighborhood where mammoth two-story houses replace small cottages. They want their kids to attend this school that is winning awards for its achievements in educating the young. But Texas is a state of open carry, concealed carry, permitless carry. How long will these innocents be safe? How long before someone walks past my home with a gun? Or maybe people walk past my house with guns every day. After all, they don’t have to have a permit to obtain one. They can legally conceal it. Texas has a governor and a host of politicians indebted to the National Rifle Association. In a world where actions speak louder than words, they support increasingly lenient gun laws in the face of increasing tragedies. As though firearms were their most valuable possessions. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg is a devotee of ekphrastic poetry. Her poetic and prose responses to art have been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Words and Art, and three volumes of ekphrastic poetry from Friendswood Public Library: Do You See the Way The Light, Still the Waves Beat, and Words Become Shadows as Our Spirits Rise. Her poetry also accompanied an art exhibit at Houston Jung Center in 2019. In 2018, she co-edited Echoes of the Cordillera, published by the Museum of the Big Bend, ekphrastic responses of 39 poets to the photography of Jim Bones. ** The Ghost Shall Return The grey was everywhere Squeezing through the meshed doors and windows, Growing into a giant shadow with a troubled soul. Thrusting like the lightning splitting the sky, Shutting eyes, piling bodies over bodies. The ghost shall return tonight Of horror avenged by the mother- A child knows no fear Holds no grievance As were you once, a wish Held in someone else's arms- The bloodlines shall scar your face Writ your palms with curses Tell tales of laments and disgrace- In dreams you shall be the child Grieving in arms Over the blood that had flowed then. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing the most. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru.  Factum 1, by Robert Rauschenberg (USA) 1957. Fair use policy, Robert Rauschenberg Foundation. Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is Factum 1, by Robert Rauschenberg. Deadline is June 24, 2022 . You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. ** The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click below to share a five spot through PayPal or credit card. Thank you. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include RAUSCHENBERG CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, June 24, 2022. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we will no longer send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send Spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  Vengeance is Sworn, by Francesco Hayez (Italy) 1851 Moretta 0. No going back. It is black on white: he is a cheat. Horizon crumbles bleak. Moretta abandons its mystique. Water quits its belly dancing. The silhouette is licked up by the mist. The edifice towers like a bully’s fist. The stair leads to nowhere. 1. I believed that mother earth wouldn’t be able to make a move at such a dreadful news. I was sure our favorite canal, where he took me for the ball, would fully dry at my soul’s dire cry. I imagined our august Serenissima sinking in gloom at such a doom. No. None. They all mumbled their usual sailing song as if nothing under the sun was wronged. I’m hurt more by their neglect than by his double mindset – yesterday inamorato, today maledetto. Fake. Awake. 2. How – what – why?! My thought is rocking mislead like a gondola banging the canal’s end. My breast is bouncing like fish out of water splashing the air with vaulting despair. My blood is flooding my heart like Aqua Alta the square of Saint Marco. 3. It turned phantom, his small sandolo, that used to take me at midnight colluding tight like sardines in it and ferry me beyond the world, now sinking in one single word – infidelity. There is only one answer to that – vendetta. This is the tide of the rattle! This is the heart of the matter! I can never restore my virtues better but with a proper vendetta. I will never cool my blood without striking vendetta in his heart. I will never find sleep unless I dip in vendetta. 4. I will put on my moretta – eyes flashing flames, lips dancing poise, hands gliding silk, and with a siren’s sprezzatura will lure him in silent bravura by the dark side of our canal where at the corner, I am sure, he will attempt to tear my shawl, to plant his inamorato’s kiss as before, I’ll then pull my moretta and treat him like maledetto: I’ll kiss and bite, hug and strike, look and char, speak and spike – gusting syllables shall rain flame, petal and thorn, as a red rose under a storm – if this doesn’t force him to jump in the water ready to drown his dull adultery clatter, though this canal is shallow for that matter, then he is beyond cure, even by vendetta. 5. Vendetta would matter for a romantic trespasser who kneeling confesses his sin and rising gets on the ladder of divine accent; not for the habitual go-getter who randomly sinks his own stature. If this turns to be the case, I’ll then leave it all to Fate. I’ll save my tender heart from hate. I’ll keep my sweet soul elate. Eventualmente, under my trusted moretta I may befriend vendetta as my future playmate. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas has studied and taught linguistics and culture at universities of Sofia, Delhi and London and authored a book on mediaeval art for The British Library. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to meaning. Her poems appeared in Ekphrastic Review and have been honoured in its Challenge selection several times. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021. ** The Year I Went Without Having Sworn Vengeance I had first worn it instead like a mask. As black as a thought denied air. That still only hinted at death. The same death that worriedly rid itself. Of loose threads. And souls forever lost on the world. When it thought no one looked. And the same mask I tried out on another. As the evening cooled. And the stairs rested for a time. But it asked far too much of me. Made too damning a case for my guilt. And then had worn it like a veil that had lived. Its entire life in the shadows. Until that moment it might be. Kissed back into the light. Free of desire. Or references to desire. And I had worn it another time like a shawl. That betrayed little of its own needs. Only mine. Its forlornness washed again and again. In the lunar blue waters. Only to be reborn. As the lunar blue waters themselves. And had finally worn it like a dress that said. Nothing of the body that had worn it. Never mind itself. Mark DeCarteret Poems from Mark DeCarteret’s manuscript The Year I/We Went Without have been taken by The American Poetry Review, Hole in the Head Review, Meat for Tea, Nixes Mate Review, Plume Literary Journal and Unbroken. ** Vengeance is Sworn the spying sun receding at dusk diffuses yellow suspicions across calm canals spotlights her flawless face her divine décolletage her darkened eyes and flushed cheeks beauty admired by him in yesterday’s first light of love canals wait patiently for the traded words to sink like a millennium of words before her to carry vengeance to the depths of Aion’s memory to merge with the eternalised cycles of failed love gliding and twisting through time’s flesh in a flash in La Serenissima, she is not serene she saw him at Carnevale with her Cara, la maschera, her friend pleads she is not afraid to show herself Dammela, she demands, la lettera my quilled words are not hollow this Kairos moment is mine in the last light of this day Caterina Mastroianni Italian translations: La Serenissima: refers to the Republic of Venice Carnevale: carnival Cara, la maschera: dear, your mask Dammela, la lettera: give it to me, the letter Caterina Mastroianni is an Italian-born Australian poet living in on the land of the Cadigal and Wangal people of the Eora nation. She has published poetry in various literary magazines and four Australian anthologies, most recently in the Live Encounters Poetry and Writing Journal and in the Poetry for the Planet: An Anthology of Imagined Futures anthology by Litoria Press. ** When the Mask Comes Off She pecked his cheek, extended the handle on her bag, and glided out the door. Her coat tails and wavy mahogany tresses floated up to wave goodbye. Katelyn furrowed her forehead. A nagging sensation persisted, but she still left Truman for her best friend, Scarlett. Venice awaited the pair. It had been too long since the two best friends traveled abroad. From the curb, she hailed a cab. The worn vinyl sang when she got in. Following the key and notes composed by her fidgeting, the tune continued. When the car shifted out of traffic to make its second stop, Katelyn noticed a woman waiting on the sidewalk, her wild hair piled atop of her head, set ablaze by the setting sun’s rays. With her hip, Scarlett held up her overstuffed bag. As the trunk closed, the new passenger slid in, and the cab drifted back into a lane. On her lap, Katelyn rested her clenched hands, but Scarlett pulled them apart, intertwining her fingers with her friend’s. “I cannot wait. Venice, here we come! Are ya ready for us?” Scarlett interrupted the mundane silence with a splash of exuberance. In the rearview mirror, the driver eyed the pair. He nodded and winked, wearing an understanding smirk. Katelyn loosened her friend’s grip, “God, when was the last time we took a trip? Just us?” “Leaving the guys behind. This is going to be freakin’ fantastic.” As the cabbie pulled away from the international terminal, he yelled from the open window. “Have a good time, ladies.” On board, the friends settled into their first-class seats. As they organized their in-flight necessities, the two chatted about nothing in particular. Lurching back as the jet left the runway, Scarlett grabbed Katelyn’s hand. “Here we go. I know how nervous you are when you fly.” From the window, Katelyn watched the distance grow between land and sky. “You remember most everything, don’t you?” Her fingers burned in her friend’s grasp. No escape. **** Spring had yet to arrive, but the festive atmosphere warmed Venice. The pair didn’t waste time becoming acquainted with the city. After dropping off their luggage in their shared hotel suite, the women began their exploration. “We need to find out about that ritzy ball. The one George told me about,” Scarlett said. Her handbag swung on her forearm while her hands animated each word. “Can we eat soon? I’m starving.” Katelyn’s voice grieved for a peaceful, solitary moment. Scarlett rolled her eyes. **** Late into the evening, they returned to their lodging’s rented comforts. The conversation may have faltered with her traveling companion, but Scarlett found a listener on the other end of a phone call. From the bathroom, a repulsed Katelyn listened to long-distance wet puckers. Throwing her clothes on the bed, Katelyn said, “I need to give Tru a call. How is Alastor?” Scarlett’s eyes never left the screen as her fingers sped through a maze of letters on her phone’s keyboard. She muttered, “Al is fine.” “Who are you writing to now?” “Um. No one. Nothing. I had some messages I had to answer.” While Scarlett started her preparations for the night, Katelyn relished the silence and picked up her phone. She whispered. “Hey. We made it.” “Buttercup!” She inhaled Truman's sweet voice. “Expecting someone else?” “Nope. I’ve been waiting for your call. Everything going well? “It’s going.” “Ahhhh. You can always come home, you know.” “Venice has a special, infinite beauty. I may never come home.” “Okay. I’ll catch the next flight.” The lightness and familiarity in his voice relaxed her. “We may have to think about that. Baby, we were out all day. Do you mind if we talk tomorrow? What’s your schedule like?” A scrubbed clean woman came out of the bathroom and climbed into her bed. Her eyes avoided Katelyn’s. “Ciao, Babe. Isn’t that what they say? Love you.” Rolled over on her side, Scarlett faced the wall. Katelyn tossed it on the table, then flicked out the light. “Night, Scar.” A muffled response escaped from the mound of covers. **** Costumed and coiffed. Painted faces and nails. The week ended with the grand gala, infamous because of stories recounted by past invitees. During the week, Scarlett had cozied up to some influential Italian and procured two tickets, promising, in return, something she would never pay. “Black?” Scarlett growled. “It has a red petticoat. It leaves something to the imagination.” To traverse the canal, Scarlett ordered a gondola, desiring to make a sublime entrance, given her inferior floral costume. An attendant assisted them as they stepped up onto the marble landing. Two ornate doors of a Renaissance-aged villa opened and allowed them entry. Inside, the ceiling opened to the marvels of a starry sky as disguised guests feasted on food, drink, and other merriments. The women frolicked and danced until a lull fell upon the crowd. Stepping outside, Katelyn gazed over the Adriatic, hypnotized by the city’s lights. Lost in imagination, Scarlett startled her with a touch on the shoulder. Shoulder to shoulder, Scarlett moved closer, her rambunctious voice turned angry, and she scowled. Cheek to cheek, she narrated a tale to an unwilling audience. The redhead’s heated words branded her friend’s loyal heart. “He loves me. I have the proof. Truman wrote me this letter.” In her shaking fist, she displayed a crumpled letter. A weary Katelyn leaned away, attempting to escape the onslaught. When the barrage faded, Katelyn ripped the mask from her face. “You fool, Scarlett. Does Alastor know? He’s too good for you. He doesn’t deserve this.” Scarlett reeled. “I wrote the note. It was me! All this time, I’ve known.” “You’re lying." “What the hell are you thinking? That he would leave me for you? You’re out of your mind. And those text messages? We answered them. Yep - me and Truman — together.” Adjusting her mask, Katelyn, poised in her determined posture, returned inside – and never looked back. Cheryl Ferguson Bernini Cheryl Ferguson Bernini, originally from Connecticut, lives in Italy where she and her husband, Giacomo, share (use that term lightly) their home with four felines. You can read her stories, both fiction and nonfiction (in English and Italian), online and in print. Follow her on Twitter: @FergusonBernini and Facebook: @CFergusonBernini. ** Should I Listen to Her Advice? "See, I said that it was so," you whisper, sibiliating, into my ear, as you try to slide the letter into my sleeve. I push your palm away, preferring not to know. Curiosity overcomes me, though. I grasp the letter greedily, clasping it with my fearful fingers, then remove my mask to read and reveal the truth. I recognize his handwriting, the loop of each "l," "g," and "p," the slant of every "r," and "s," and realize that I have been deceived, definitively. The scent of his cologne emanating from the pages assaults my senses, just as surely and assuredly as it seduced her. I want to inquire how you obtained the letter, yet conclude that it perhaps is better not to know. "You must denounce the scoundrel!" you insist, hissing again into my ear. "Denounce him!" I wonder if revenge really is a dish best served rather cold, or, maybe, "if it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly." Oh, such are the seducing powers of suggestion and persuasion. Renée Szostek Renée Szostek's poems have been published in the Seven Hills Review (2022 and 2021), Panoply, Peninsula Poets, the Pi Mu Epsilon Journal, Integra, and several anthologies published by the Moonstone Press. She won the Third Prize for Poetry at the Westminster Art Festival in 2020 and 2021. The University of Michigan Arts at Michigan Arts Info email newsletter selected four of her haiku poems as "Haiku of the Week." She is a member of the Academy of American Poets, the Poetic Genius Society, and the Poetry Society of Michigan. ** Black Veil The black veil covers the queen’s silky complexion as it blows in the wind atop the castle roof. Her daughter places a gentle hand on her mother’s shoulder, a comforting touch, as she lifts the veil revealing her mother’s solemn expression. Below war looms and the king rides in battle. His crown gleams in the sun light and his horse neighs. Mother and daughter bellow as a sword plunges into the king’s chest, his blood staining the ground. He looks up at his wife and daughter as he takes his last breath. The women cling to each other, weeping, tears drenching their purity and watch as their beloved king is still and silenced, the enemy cheering. The queen pulls her daughter’s veil over her face and the princess pulls her mother’s veil covering her mother’s face once again. Only sorrowful blue eyes appear through the blackness. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published and The Importance of Being Short, in 2019. Her most recent book, In A Flash, was published in the spring of 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** The Cruel Cost of Love You have taken my heart, but your theft will not go unpunished. For all you hold dear dies by revealing the contents of this single, damning letter; I now hold it, and you, in the palm of my hand. It is I who will now be giving the commands. It is I who will now be the real ruler of this land. Behind your glistening golden throne, my puppet, I will be the one pulling the strings; in all but name, I shall be king. Why the fiery eyes? Why the long face? Why the look of shock and horror, Your Grace? Who did you take me for? Some dumb, illiterate whore who would not know, who would not catch on to your crooked plans? But your lips are sealed now because you know as well as I do that they’ll have your head on a platter should this letter ever make its way into their hands. Spare me the details of why you did it. But I must know-- Was she worth it? Justin Farley Justin Farley is a poet and author from Indianapolis, Indiana. He has been published in journals such as Calla Press, wrkwndr, and The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press. He has released three collections of poetry, all available on Amazon. Follow him on instagram @justinfarleypoet or visit his blog @ www.alongthebarrenroad.com ** Banish from Her Heart So Vile a Thought and yet, unmasked and having consumed the fire of her love’s letter to another (the wretch!), a deceit revealed by her Rachele, how could not this Maria succumb to blood vengeance, the bleeding desire, the sharp tip of a cold dagger through his breastbone…to vital Hell? Is anything more inevitable than the shriek of indignance, the bloodshot eyes, the steely stare away from betrayal's bold, bald fact, toward fury’s object, this man (the clod!), the fated force of her swift reprisal for his lies? Sworn vengeance swallows and swells all her beauty into a shadow, hard knot. It sticks in her eyes, her stiff limbs, her throat, as it will into him. Darren Lyons Darren Lyons was born and raised in Akron, Ohio, and received an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from The New School. His poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, The Inquisitive Eater, and Chronogram, among other journals, and a poetry/painting project of his was featured on The Best American Poetry Blog. ** The Betrayal She insisted that I meet her here, away from narrow passageways and bridges, where Venetians transitioning from one side to another observe life on the canals and on the streets, where careless whispers hang in the air indiscreetly, as rumours and innuendos flow back and forth with the tides. Here, we are inconspicuous. It is secluded and quiet. At first, I was reluctant to meet but Eleanor, my childhood friend and one-time confidant, persisted. Once, we had pledged undying love to each other, but our relationship cooled when she became jealous and possessive. Wearing a mask, her head and shoulders draped in a shawl, Eleanor arrived incognito. Wasting no time on pleasantries, she didn't break it to me gently. Edoardo, my lover to whom I am secretly betrothed, is having an affair. My heart sinks. I feel nauseous, faint. Turning away from her, I push her back. She grasps my shoulder, insisting that it is not a meaningless fling but a serious relationship bound to end in matrimony. Accusing her of lying, I send her away. Yet, seeds of doubt are planted in my mind. As she flounces off, a note falls from her pocket. I am about to call out, when I notice Edoardo's writing. Trembling, I pick up the note and read it. He asks Eleanor to stop writing to him, to stop pursuing him. I am his only love. He will never betray me, not with her, not with anyone. Roberta McGill Roberta McGill grew up in Ireland where she loved reciting poetry as a child. She immigrated to Canada with her husband and lives in Orillia, Ontario. Her poetry has won several awards at the annual K. Valerie Connor Memorial Celebration, Orillia, including a first prize award, and has appeared in several anthologies. She is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society. ** Voice The advances he makes are measured as even a lioness wouldn’t move half as stealthily towards her prey ... his movements were gradual, allowing the young girl to get used to a few touches, here and there, that she didn’t even think anything was amiss. a lily plucked - the deeper murmurings go unheard Kala Ramesh Kala Ramesh, a haikai poet and mentor for the last 17 years, is the Founder and Director of Triveni Haikai India, Founder and Managing Editor of haikuKATHA Journal. She is the haiku editor at Under the Basho. Her third book – the forest I know – published by HarperCollins, was launched at the Jaipur Literature Festival 2022. ** Endings The words crowded her mind. She turned away, trying to clear a path between future and past. She wanted movement. Instead she felt trapped, confined on all sides by lies, betrayals, contradictions. She had been held by desire, standing on the precipice of ecstasy, a wave of immanent consummation. Who pulled back first? Did it matter? And now these words, words, words, blocking her breath—ravenous rumors and insinuations that permeated the very air. Were they real, or just an accumulation of hearsay, whispers composed of scraps of gossip collected by those who would never forgive her for the beauty bestowed upon her by fate. What action to take—and against who? Was there actually talk of murder? Was she the intended victim, or was she to be the one to wield the knife? What impulse had conceived of such treachery? As the walls grew louder, closer, outside became more and more distant, unrealizable—a dream, a fantasy, a painted transparency of sea and sky. the mirror cracks, falls, shatters, becomes opposite-- the final act shifts Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/, and see more of her work on her website http://kerferoig.com/ ** Vengeance is Sworn The reason for vengeance: suffocation Tongues may wag with the widening of eyes when hearing the story behind her muffled cries in the toilet you see for she can't cry out loud as it is against the rules to make a sound. What have they done to you to make you cry Did they ask for money or were their requests sky high? All they did was ask for you to cook some food and make you wear clothes in colours suiting their mood. They also requested you never talk back even if what they wish for verged on the unreasonable track. You have to comb your hair this way, not that and stop showing your emotions like a spoiled brat. You were asked to stop working as it was getting in the way of all the tasks they had assigned for you every day. A house is never clean, you know, without constant care so when we said you could work, we meant for just an hour here and there. So is it any wonder she cries soft and low for each step she takes has become such a chore that her dreams too are filled with a thousand buzzing gnats she just can't seem to flee. Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford. She is an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer and published poet. She also loves writing stories. Her poetry has appeared in Glomag, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet (Christmas, Childhood, Faith, Friends & Friendship, and Adversity issues), The Ekphrastic Review, Visual Verse, The Bamboo Hut, Eskimopie, The Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, and Trouvaille Review. Her microfiction has been published by The Potato Soup Literary Journal. She also regularly contributes to the open mics organized by Rattle Poetry. She currently resides in Gurgaon, India, and works as a senior associate editor. Her first book of poetry, She: The reality of womanhood, was recently published by Notion Press (available on Amazon). ** Floral Shackle Pray, do not speak- The stream is a streak of grey And the iron gate a witness. The cracked earth murmurs Of arching shadows where absence rests. Favors hang in shreds, desires etched Thin on the walls like the worms Creeping upon a forgotten grave. Pray, stop- I am unmasked in the hurrying wind. Antiquity trickles in the hallowed ways With the rising scent from the ruins. I believe, I choose to be a floral shackle Taking root in the middle of a twisted tree In a tornado, a torment until eternity. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing the most. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** I Explain Some Lilacs You ask, should I squat in this repossessed house? Inseparable from who appear in it frameless and tacked to the clay where grows a white lilac reads a screed that begins the night, empty streets. And I will tell you all about why I will not hate a song that aborts April rains song that breaks spells that is, I cannot promise stone tiles of a dream fugue. Shop shutters across the city unrested, filled with chimera lacuna that lulls the naïve. And I will tell you that I will learn how to plant the moon that will entwine itself in those lime washed walls tinted taupe grey a walled garden that say, this is a house, these are the children these are Pa’s fists the mythmaking shilling screenplays rhyme and lyrical vagary staircases to the dunes the sedge grasses wetlands and a river. Ilona Martonfi Ilona Martonfi is a mother, an activist, an educator, literary curator, poet and an editor. Born in Budapest, Hungary, she has also lived in Austria and Germany. Martonfi writes in seven chapbooks, journals across North America and abroad. Curator of the Argo Bookshop Reading Series. Recipient of the Quebec Writers’ Federation 2010 Community Award. Martonfi lives in Montreal, Canada. The Tempest, Inanna Publications, Spring 2022, is her fifth poetry book. ** Not Here “Let's just keep this between ourselves, but I think you really need to know.” Not here, I thought. Not now. Do I want to know? Once spoken I know it cannot be unheard. I'm conflicted, wanting and rejecting at the same time. Whatever it is there are always going to be consequences. It doesn't matter if there's any truth behind the babbled story - gossip's the most prized gold, the most valued currency at court. She blurts the sordid details, words tumbling over themselves. How ironic that one so skilled in duplicity should be betrayed. My pride it at stake, I must stay composed and in control. Yet fire rises in my veins and bile chokes my throat. I'll have to put on both my masks - first the veneer of icy coolness then slip the velvet one back over my eyes, knowing it won't conceal the black flames of ire. First I must deal with this tattler, a tell-tale too keen to drip her poison. Next my betrayer, who behind my back makes me look like a fool. Something creative, cruel and long lasting I think. Something that will take time to stew. Vengeance is a dish best served cold. Emily Tee Emily Tee spent her working life wrangling numbers. Now retired, she has recently started writing poetry. She has had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review challenges and in print with Dreich magazine, with some others in print later this year with Dreich and elsewhere. She lives in England.  To celebrate our SEVENTH anniversary in July, we are trying something very new- an ekphrastic marathon. PLEASE JOIN US for this intense and fun experiment! The incredible queen of microfiction Meg Pokrass will be our judge for fiction, and the brilliant, one of a kind Brent Terry will be our poetry judge. The marathon itself is a writing experience. You can then take your seeds, sparks, and drafts and polish and work them out to submit to the contest. Click image above to view more details and sign up!
 The Massacre of the Innocents, by Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, modern day Belgium) 1612 Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is The Massacre of the Innocents, by Peter Paul Rubens. Deadline is June 10, 2022 . You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. ** The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click below to share a five spot through PayPal or credit card. Thank you. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY.
Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include RUBENS CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, June 10, 2022. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we will no longer send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send Spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  Lucky 7: an Ekphrastic Marathon
Try something intense and unusual- an ekphrastic marathon, celebrating seven years of The Ekphrastic Review Join us on July 17, 2022 for our craziest challenge yet! It’s an ekphrastic marathon! With amazing guest judges, Meg Pokrass for flash, and Brent Terry for poetry. Write to fourteen different prompts, poetry or flash fiction, in thirty minute drafts. We will gather in a specially created Facebook page for prompts, to chat with each other, and support each other. Time zone or date conflicts? No problem. Page will stay open for one week. Participate when you can. The honour system is in effect- thirty minute drafts per prompt, fourteen prompts. Participants can do the seven hour marathon or two sessions of 3.5 hours. Polish and edit your best pieces later, then submit five to our Lucky 7 e-chapbook. One poem and one flash will win $100 each. Thank you to our flash judge Meg Pokrass for the marathon technique. Marathon: July 17, 2022 10 am to 6 pm EST (including breaks) (For those who can’t make it during those times, any hours that work for you are fine. For those who can’t join us on July 17, catch up within one week.) Story and poetry deadline: July 31, 2022 poetry and flash, 500 words max- include a brief bio, 75 words or less Chapbook e-anthology selections and winning entries announced sometime in September. We are delighted to have guest judges Meg Pokrass and Brent Terry. Meg Pokrass is the queen of microfiction, with nearly (or over?) a thousand journal credits. Her flash is widely anthologized in both small press publications and Norton’s. She is the founder of the Best Microfiction Anthology series and the New Flash Fiction Review. She has been a guest judge for many flash contests, at Mslexia and Fractured Lit. Meg is also well known for her microfiction workshops and creativity prompts. She is the author of The House of Grana Padano (with Jeff Friedman), The Loss Detectors, Spinning to Mars, and many more. Brent Terry is an award-winning writer and a runner who teaches at Easter Connecticut State University. He won the Connecticut Poetry Prize and was nominated for the PEN Faulkner Award for fiction. He is the author of The Body Electric, Troubadour Logic, and 21st Century Autoimmune Blues, among others. He is an accomplished Spoken Word artist. He loves Dr. Pepper.  Song of Love, by Nita Jawary (Australia) contemporary Guest Editor's Note This is the first time I have ever read poetry and prose inspired by my own work. I am overwhelmed by your loving and skilled responses and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for entrusting your work to me. Every submission I read responded to Song of Love with sensitivity and care, and I am amazed to see how many different emotional and imaginative responses the work drew. I embrace you all for your time and considered responses to this painting. Because of the high standard of works, making a selection was a very difficult task for me. Every piece had a nugget of gold in it. The difference was in the way that nugget emerged from the rock. What I looked for in making my selections was the capacity to edit well, to paint original images that ring true, to demonstrate an awareness of rhythm and sound, and to carry the reader to a new level of understanding. It has been a privilege to read so many very fine submissions. Thank you for putting your trust in me. And thank you Lorette for honouring my painting and inviting me to be its guest editor. It's been a wonderful experience. Wishing you all fulfilment in continued creativity. I look forward to reading more of your work on The Ekphrastic Review. Anita Jawary ** The Rush Comes First Colours blur, Cheeks blush, Passions stir, First crush. Tongue ties, Heart leaps, Pulse flies, First heat. Mind blown, Skin aflame, Desire alone, First game. Private grin, Songs above, Hope within, First love. Corrie Pappas Corrie Pappas is a small business owner living in New England. She is the author of the children’s book, Come Along and Dream, and has been writing poetry since childhood. ** A Feminist Sijo Sequence About That Time My Mother Drove Up I-59 North and I-65 North During the Superstorm of 1993 (A.K.A. The Storm of the Century, The No Name Storm, or The Grand Daddy of ‘Em All) I. One of my absolute favourite memories of my mother, a subtly stubborn woman - unassuming, steadfast, and true - was that year she drove us home from New Orleans in a freak blizzard. II. The American South, you see, is ill-equipped for snow, so there were no plows and no salt trucks, just panicked residents, all of them slipping and sliding or pulling over in terror. III. Even the yankee truckers couldn’t hack it and pulled to the side. Not my mother. With my father and brother crying and cursing, begging her to stop, she continued northbound, relentlessly. IV. You see my mother loved to drive - almost as much as she loved me and definitely a great deal more than she loved my father - and in retrospect, we both always loved a good challenge. V. A mischievous first grader, I reveled in the chaos; in the fat, white flakes twirling and swirling, dancing endlessly; and in the distinctively blue atmosphere, heavy on the air. VI. Mostly, I reveled in my mother's courage; in her persistence; in her obvious power, which seemed so very remarkable, burning red hot in the cold against a background of blue and white. Rose Menyon Heflin Originally from rural, southern Kentucky, Rose Menyon Heflin is a writer and artist living in Madison, Wisconsin. Her poetry, which has appeared in numerous journals spanning four continents, won a Merit Award from Arts for All Wisconsin in both 2021 and 2022, and one of her poems was choreographed and performed by a local dance troupe. Additionally, she had an ekphrastic creative nonfiction piece featured in the Chazen Museum of Art’s Companion Species exhibit. Among other venues, her recent and forthcoming poetry publications include Deep South Magazine, Defunkt Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Fireflies’ Light, Hare’s Paw Literary Journal, Isotrope, Moss Piglet Zine, Of Rust and Glass, Pamplemousse, Poemeleon, Red Weather Literary Magazine, San Antonio Review, and Xinachtli Journal (Journal X). ** Renewed Belief Perhaps the song that serves love best indeed is flower dried and pressed, or image it becomes as art abstracted by the beating heart of journey made to sweet refrain of moment opened blooms remain -- committed, sharing selfless soul enabling sum of greater whole... ...the color rising up in fields assuring more enduring yields by seed dispersed and loss decayed to be foundation gently laid... ...as sacrifice of season brief that sings to life's renewed belief. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** Synesthete Sforzando: there’s an explosion of sound in this painting. Fortissimo in the timpani strokes of your angular wash brush. You don’t love quietly. Subito, stark, bold, thick, echoes are your chosen tonal notes, white paint, inflected with lighter blues, flecked with gold. Then deeper blue, limned with black, adagio. This symphony is diminuendo towards the edges of your image. For all the concussive force, here is a grave passion. Action of a lone arctic fox diving into snow. A necessary joy. A staccato heart, hinting at red, cadenza. Emphatically pesante. Shadows arcing, a maestro flicking marcato. Yet, you call it a song, when it’s an orchestra of percussive palette knife strikes to wintering hearts, around an impassive face, eyeing the pianissimo hush, banked away until the stringendo of spring’s rushing thaw. Rebecca Dempsey Rebecca Dempsey’s recent works have been featured in Eclectica Magazine, Provenance Journal, and Flash Frontier. Rebecca lives in Melbourne, and can be found at WritingBec.com. She has been known to doodle, and play with pen, water colour and pencil. ** Out Of The Blue Blue skies splashed white to hide the horizon. And then, out of the blue, you. I knew you from the back, you said, the cut of your hair, your old blue dress. and I wanted to see your face again. I wanted to abate the sadness. So no blue moods on this bright blue day where the future is as hidden as the horizon. We’ll go together now, for now, I said. After all, everything ends in tears one way or another, so let’s take our now time and chance the rest. Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com///www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ ** I Will Sing to My Newborn Cirrus clouds vortex, red-flecked wings and water foam like small bodies, the current momentous. Sand pricks my skin like needles. I wait to see what is more viscous. Gulf coast birds point like poured milk. My new soul will be a song. A room of framed waves. My voice bleaches in day blue. I love a mouth in quiet white. John Milkereit John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer and has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals including Naugatuck River Review,Panoply, San Pedro River Review, and The Ekphrastic Review. His next full-length collection of poems, A Comfortable Place with Fire, will be published by Lamar University Literary Press in 2023. ** How Fierce I Am a song of love for my son They never ask how fierce I am, armored in feathers, talons sharpened to points, my vigilance a whirl of white ice, violent movement as I break open the whole sky in a flock of fury; how I am blue bruises on their peripheral, an afterimage that leaves them frozen, a stone in their hands. Angel or bird, wrath or love? They never ask. My son, I am your protector, and how fierce I am. Heather Brown Barrett Heather Brown Barrett is a poet and member of Hampton Roads Writers. She lives in Virginia with her writer husband and their young son. Her poetry has been published by The Ekphrastic Review, AvantAppal(achia), Defenestration, Superpresent Magazine, Backwards Trajectory, and by SEZ Publishing. She has work forthcoming in OyeDrum Magazine and Yellow Arrow Journal. ** Brushstrokes Writhing Over Shifting Spaces Were you set on chasing clouds as one erases sorrows by marking white dents with feathers' ethereal whiteness against the celestial canopy? Or were you just reacting against the quiet passivity of the blue canvas the way we struggle facing the blank page, searching for words heavy with meaning? While I try, chin resting on my clenched fist like Rodin's perplexed thinker, to make sense of the accumulated shadows that await deciphering, you soar up high into a liminal space that merges ocean eddies with cumulus clouds in such a way that makes me wonder if we are watching from above or beneath that area of weightlessness you depict with featherlike brushstrokes writhing over shifting spaces, forming encrypted letters or a musical score, leading the way to align thoughts instilled in me by your palette, transmuting pigments into alphabet. Hedy Habra Hedy Habra is a poet, artist and essayist. She is the author of three poetry collections from Press 53, most recently, The Taste of the Earth (2019), Winner of the Silver Nautilus Book Award and Honorable Mention for the Eric Hoffer Book Award; Tea in Heliopolis Winner of the Best Book Award and Under Brushstrokes, which was a Finalist for the Best Book Award and the International Book Award. Her story collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American Book Award’s Honorable Mention and was Finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. A seventeen-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and recipient of the Nazim Hikmet Award, her multilingual work appears in numerous journals and anthologies. https://www.hedyhabra.com/ ** Bearing the Loss Forever young shy, fair skin, reflective I dream of her sitting on a cloud surrounded by hues of blue certainly one will match her eyes Sitting on a cloud quilting patterns of cerulean and cornflower watching over us as our lives roll by like clouds changing shape to bear the loss. Lois Perch Villemaire Lois Perch Villemaire resides in Annapolis, MD where she is inspired by the charm of a colonial town and the glorious Chesapeake Bay. After retirement from a career in local government, she concentrated on her love of writing. Dabbling in family research led to memoir and creative nonfiction. Her prose and poetry have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies such as Ekphrastic Review, Flora Fiction, and One Art: A Journal of Poetry. Lois was a finalist in the 2021 Prime Number Magazine Award for Poetry. She enjoys yoga practice, amateur photography, and raising African violets. ** At the Beach Hut As the blue sea flashed gold like Lapis Lazuli stone, and waves clapped and chattered like children paddling in the foam, as clouds soared, gull-white and feathered across the sky, we sat on the steps, eating ice-cream, your leg resting against my thigh. Mims Sully Mims Sully is from Sussex, England. Her poems have been published in numerous magazines both in print and online including Prole, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Obsessed with Pipework, Strix, Visual Verse, Trouvaille Review and Popshot. She is currently putting together a pamphlet of poems about dementia inspired by her experience of looking after her mother. ** Cloud Paint: This is the summer you spend on your back like Michelangelo painting a ceiling, your reaching hands useless and divine as you take a sculptor's thumb to the clouds, name-painting the sky. It is endless and transient. It is all a matter of perspective. It is the coming and going of things and when they come, let them come – the organs, the angels, the searching kiss and when they go, let them go and try not to miss them, and let them remind you that no ceiling exists. Alice Lily Alice Lily is a Welsh-speaking poet, artist and lawyer living in South Wales. She has a master's degree specialising in the history of literature from Edinburgh University. You can find her on instagram @alice___lily. ** A Good Writing Day They are familiar as the house you live in, or the smell of your lover's skin. George R.R. Martin on ideas The day begins with a day beginning the week and his Oxford shirt. The one she gave him for his birthday on the beach. The cotton's blue and white longitude launches him into a place of meditation. An ocean shimmer, a linen sail, the blank shape of himself clinging to its pole -- long strokes of sunlight written on the horizon. And along that horizon, the mind drifts in warm water. He feels his shirt billow. The inhale /exhale of anticipation. The idea so close he can taste its salt-sweet tang (like her lips after stir-fry with lemon) and smell the raw nets flung wide and wavering beneath the glare. A pair of gulls skim the wave with their shadow-dark wings indicating the first catch of the day promises to be good. Several drafts away from the theme in sleek form -- beautiful as an ink-blue marlin. Wendy Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes, and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both on-line and in print. Among them: Silver Blade Magazine, Gingerbread House Lit Magazine, Eternal Haunted Summer, Corvid Queen, Liminality, The Poetry Salzburg Review and Eye To The Telescope.  Vengeance is Sworn, by Francesco Hayez (Italy) 1851 Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is Vengeance is Sworn, by Francesco Hayez. Deadline is May 27, 2022 . You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. ** The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click below to share a five spot through PayPal or credit card. Thank you. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY.
Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include HAYEZ CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, May 27, 2022. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we will no longer send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send Spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. Editor's Note: We had a ridiculous volume of responses to this curious painting. We even had a John Bradley response by someone named...John Bradley! I fell for this strange artwork the moment I first saw it. It was, for me, cute and odd on the surface, in that manner that some folk artworks of the era are, but here the boy's gaze was downright unnerving. I felt so many stories simmer beneath the varnish. Clearly I'm not the only one that sensed a darker vibration bubbling underneath the touching moment, as many of you saw mayhem and murder, too, or at the very least, symbolic reference to the dark heart of humanity. I thank each and every one of you for writing and submitting, whether your work is selected or not. Thank you for participating in this ekphrastic community and the process of discovery of art together. It is a wonderful world of art and poetry, or of ekphrastic flash, that we are building together! love, Lorette  Young Boy Feeding Rabbits, by John Bradley (USA, b. England) 1831 The Putney Road Bunnies for Anna, Maria, Pats & Leo The Putney Road (barely suitable for a two-way traffic) defined the thin border between the Freemen’s Common and Nixon Court. And I would find myself violating the said border at least two to three times a day—since my office was situated at the former vicinity and my residence, at the latter. And across from the Welford Road, the University was situated at a short-short distance of < 500 steps. I couldn’t be more grateful for the location and convenience—since the supermarket, odeon, park, pubs, cemetery, et cetera were all within the reach of < 1,000 steps. At the mouth of Nixon Court, sat one of my favourite pubs, The Dry Dock, in the City of Leicester, UK. The said public house offered everything that I cherished—especially, the beer garden, live music, and fish & chips. I frequented the place with my friends & colleagues—at almost every weekend, it was as if our Mecca. … In the Spring of ’06 C.E., Anna, Maria, Pats, Leo & I found ourselves at the said beer garden for lunch—basically, we had come together to celebrate the Spirit of Easter that Sunday. … Almost midway through the lunch, we found an eager brown hare sitting at the foot of our table. But of course, “aww, so cute!” was a natural response from Anna & Maria. But of course, we fed it a couple of lettuce leaves and a few slices of cucumber. After a few of fulfilling nibbles, we saw it running back to the bush—with a leaf of lettuce clutched in the mouth—across the Putney Road. … “‘Alpha Male,’ most probably! Bringing food to the table & providing for his family!” Pats couldn’t help entertaining us with his peculiar sense of sarcasm. … “But, is hermaphroditism also found in rabbits?” Leo couldn’t help boarding the train of inquisitiveness either. … “Rabbit is not a native animal to this Island, did you know? The Normans had brought the mammal with them to Britain back in the 12th century (Common Era). … There’re only three kinds of rabbits found on the Island i.e. the brown, the mountain, and the Irish. … A healthy pair of rabbits can breed and reproduce a litter (6 kittens, on average) at least 10 times a year. … And no, hermaphroditism is a rarity in the rabbit species,” Anna, who was a Zoology candidate at the School of Biological Sciences, added to our knowledge. … On the said Easter Sunday, I got to feed a rabbit for the very first time in my life, too. Also, I coined the title, The Putney Road Bunnies, for our group—in an effort to live up to my reputation for inventing names. Postscriptum As coincidence would have it, I find myself resurrecting this cherished mémoire—one of my favourite souvenirs—during the Easter festivities, too. And this writing prompt at TER couldn’t be more appropriate (coincidental?). But honestly, to my mind, there’re no ‘coincidences’; instead, in the spiderweb-of-multiverse, which part of the string gets plucked when, and which vibrations resonate with whom is what it is! … ‘Easter’, by the way, doesn’t owe its birth to Christianity, but rather its roots are to be found in the ancient pagan traditions, such as, the ancient Sumerian myth of Damuzi (Tammuz) and his spouse named Inanna (Ishtar). … And then, there’s a matter of the ‘Easter Eggs’ in the very Deoxyribonucleic Acid (DNA) of the homo sapiens, too. … As I’ve always maintained: ‘tis only through deconstructing the myth that we can begin to properly comprehend the origins of things. Saad Ali Saad Ali (b. 1980 C.E. in Okara, Pakistan) has been educated and brought up in the United Kingdom (UK) and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is an (existential) philosopher, poet, and translator. Ali has authored five books of poetry. His latest collection of poetry is called Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. By profession, he is a Lecturer, Consultant, and Trainer/Mentor. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, and Tagore. He is fond of the Persian, Chinese, and Greek cuisines. He likes learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities on foot. To learn more about his work, please visit www.saadalipoetry.com, or his Facebook Author Page at www.facebook.com/owlofpines. ** Boy Feeding Rabbits This Boy who's loved and praised by his mother and father, who's coddled by nannies since he was a baby, the Boy has all he could wish for, save for a pale complexion that made him look like a porcelain doll to be handled with velvet-gloved hands, lest it chips or even, God forbid, breaks into a hundred pieces. And because of this perceived frailty, his mother and father cater to his whims, they built him a Tower filled with thickly carpeted rooms, a room for him to wake up in, breakfast on a platter with goat milk, buttered croissant and garden berries, a room for him to read books, not fairytales as they're too dark and violent for his tender mind, a room for him to play with his toy soldiers, a wooden horse for him to ride on, a room for him to rest, a lounge chair next to the carved mahogany desk with a bottom drawer replete with his favourite sweets and savoury snacks, refreshments at the ring of a bell, a room for him to study with the best tutors money could buy for the Boy, for, despite his delicate body, the Boy’s brilliant mind hungered for knowledge, mathematics, mechanics, chemistry, biology, rhetoric, knowledge like possessions nourished his famished mind. In the morning, the Boy would look out to the horizon from one of the rooms on the top floor, imagining the next thing that would satiate him. For his afternoon pause, he would walk on the sprawling property where his mother and father had curated a menagerie for his entertainment, a panda he would kick away if it came to rub itself against his freshly laundered trousers, a ring-tailed lemur he would chase around, throwing rocks at it to make it shriek, a thoroughbred black horse with a blood line as pure as his he would admire from afar, and a pair of rex rabbits he would feed with a leaf of kale, like today. The Boy would grow tall and strong though he will never get rid of his pale complexion which, in time, will serve him well to masquerade his untamable hunger to rise above others he considers less intelligent, less wealthy, less worthy. He would attend the most prestigious universities, land a coveted internship, partly thanks to his father's name, that turned into a senior role though barely in his twenties. He would found his own company, using his wits, trust funds, and knowledge of mechanics and electronics, he would convince the general populace to fall in love with all he would have built, necessary items that didn't exist before people knew they absolutely, desperately needed them. He would grow his company, eat up smaller businesses, pay minimum wages to his workers to maximize profit, send loads of cash overseas. He would amass a fortune even his mother and father never dreamed of, he would continue creating money from money, fly around the world in billion-dollar jets, and have his face slapped on the cover of famed magazines. He would marry a model, the most beautiful woman he could desire, and discard her when he meets the next more beautiful and younger woman, and the next one etc. He would survive gossips, harassment accusations, tax evasions only to gain more fame, make more money, his fortune a far stronger defense than the stone walls of his childhood Tower. He would go on to shake hands with representatives, officials, delegates in the name of charity and the greater good for the lesser people, he would buy our government, chip at our laws, change our policies, seep into our lives and rule over us with a smirk on his pale face. But for now, the Boy is feeding his pet rabbit. A well-fed animal would make a tastier meal. Christine H. Chen Christine H. Chen is a Hong Kong-born, Madagascar-raised, and Boston-based scientist and writer whose fiction work has been published or forthcoming in Tiny Molecules, Gone Lawn, The Pinch, AAWW’s The Margins, CRAFT Literary, Hobart, among others. Her work won an Honorary prize in the 2020 inaugural year of Boston in 100 Wordsand has been shortlisted in the CRAFT Literary 2021 Flash Fiction contest. She occasionally tweets @ChristineHChen1 ** The Majesty of Cabbage He feeds the two rabbits fresh mint stolen just now from mother’s herb garden. He is bored, wicked bored, and there is nothing else to do, so why not let the rabbits gorge? The painter seems to believe mother will enjoy this dull portrait and brag to guests how her clever son taught the mindless rabbits to obey the painter’s every command through the majesty of cabbage. If only she knew the stillest pose cannot still the wanderings of the brain. How even a tamed rabbit can hear the slow, sleepy breathing of the earth. Can smell the bitter scent of animal glue in the wet paint. John Bradley John Bradley's most recent book is Hotel Montparnasse: Letters to Cesar Vallejo (Dos Madres Press), a verse novel about the afterlife of Vallejo. Currently a poetry editor for Cider House Press, his reviews frequently appear in Rain Taxi. ** Colony He’d run out of people to trust, even himself, a boy moon-pale and skittish, the walls between rooms in their home cut so thin it was like being in a single chamber of circus chaos, calamity and danger, but the rabbits outside, they were trusting sorts, famished for not only food, but any kind of sustenance or attention, and what began as a few spare leaves nibbled down on afternoons turned into a ritual of mutual respect, the boy and these animals, so curious they were with their questions about what it was like to be human and free and so utterly rich without even knowing it, and after some months had passed the boy asked his own questions and the rabbits answered what they could, and when he asked if he could be one of them, the bunnies tittered until they understood he meant it, and the bravest of the colony took the boy’s hand, took him to the opening of the hole out back in the vast meadow, asked, “Can you see yourself down there forever?” and without answering, the boy slid down the hole, his laughter echoing back to them, booming with so much joy that the rabbits began to dance. Len Kuntz Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State and the author of five books, most recently the personal essay collection, THIS IS ME, BEING BRAVE, out now from Everytime Press. You can find more of his writing at http://lenkuntz.blogspot.com ** Coming Coming Closer to My Unvaccinated Lover Rabbit eats cut lettuce like the way a spruce cuts up the pale silk heaven Hold still the grass where I stand out Another rabbit waits like the way the afternoon castles me White-gate mouth shuts the marigold road I walk into fortune’s mouth buttoned to return as the boy not to lose the lettuce I want to feed again tomorrow and tomorrow I want to come closer to you Rabbit doesn’t eat cut lettuce Behind the tower window I’m on the lookout waiting John Milkereit John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer and has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals including Naugatuck River Review,Panoply, San Pedro River Review, and previously in The Ekphrastic Review. His next full-length collection of poems, A Comfortable Place with Fire, will be published in 2023. ** The Puritan I want to be the glum boy feeding rabbits swaths of pine green lettuce. Or is this from a fairy tale-- Rapunzel’s friend, a kid slumped in his black suit, eyes darkened and glistening from lack of sleep? His collar reminds me of a Pilgrim, maybe Hawthorne’s twin. He’s unaware of the dizzying forests that cut through North America. Malcolm X talking of this violent, wild landscape, but that was later: I love you America, though I’m a spoiled brat, though I’m a Goddamn son of a bitch. Sally Cobau Sally Cobau is a writer and teacher from southwest Montana. She's had work published in The Sun, Ekphrastic Review, Room Magazine, Rattle, and other journals. She is a big fan of The Ekphrastic Review, and has a soft spot for the ekphrastic form. ** So Much to Give, So Long to Grieve Jason poses for his tenth birthday photo the suit is three piece and gray like his dad’s His smile is sweet, permanent teeth still large and far apart. He will grow into them. Off to the right side of the frame, a Norway Pine stands taller than the boy, his birth tree. He loves his kitties, helps feed them kibble, but his heart is with Wolf, his Malamute. On weekends, he shares Wolf’s House, lying inside on the clean straw he refreshes every few days. In back of him, the small white house peeks between the trees, two pear trees and a crab apple. One day too soon, the tree will die, and so the boy goes also, a young man. His faithful dog waits on the hill. Jackie Langetieg Jackie Langetieg has published poems in journals and anthologies and won awards, such as WWA’s Jade Ring contest, Bards Chair, and Wisconsin Academy Poem of the Year. She has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She has written six books of poems, most recently, poetry, Snowfall and a memoir, Filling the Cracks with Gold. www.jackiella.wordpress.com ** Young Heathcliff Young Heathcliff, though young and tender of face but dark and gloomy of mind waits for Catherine while feeding the demons of his heart, by portraying a tender stance, at the helpless and ignorant creatures, knowing not, that the hand, that feeds will soon strangle it for mirth because so has he learnt from life since birth. The brewing hatred and turmoil that he hides in his eyes can burn the Wuthering Heights to ashes bus ‘tis Catherine, his only light, that blinds him binding his soul and enshrouding his mind, leaving him as helpless as the creatures he feeds. He knows that her warmth is a trance as Egdar’s beauty and wealth wraps her heart but her love is like smoke, covering his senses one, he cannot hide or deny, hence, he plans of leaving the estate and returning as an established youth to claim what has always been his own; plotting the future, he looks afar, not knowing that the leaf he feeds to the creature has the essence of a poisoned flower. Aditi Kataria Aditi Kataria, age 25, lives in Jaipur, Rajasthan, India. Her poems are scheduled to feature in The Wise Owl (2022). Her poems have also appeared in Visual Verse (Vol 9, Chapter 5), Ink Babies Llc. (Issue 1, 21), Blydyn Square Review (Fall, 21) and The Criterion (Vol 9, 2018). She considers herself as open, approachable, adaptable, curious and optimistic, with art, literature and culture as few of her sundry arenas of interest. ** Toby Our manor looks sturdy enough. Mayhap it fools the traveler from a distance. Walk the path to the front gate, though, and witness the rusted iron, how it groans and sags when pushed. We tread the steps with care, avoid the listing stone, the cracks that gape, and yet make haste to get inside lest some crumbling gargoyle bloody our heads. Yes, sir, I know. You’ve told it oft. We’ve fallen on hard times. Hunger gnaws at my entrails, fogs my brain, stutters my heart too. But please, sir, let me feed my dear, dear rabbits one time more. Let them gaze on me with affection, and I, them, before they be throttled for our repast. CJ Muchhala CJ Muchhala’s work has appeared in anthologies, print and on-line publications and art / poetry installations. She has been nominated for the Best of the Net award and twice for the Pushcart Prize. She lives in Shorewood, Wisconsin. ** The Peril of Feeding Rabbits The boy was an only child, born into an aristocratic family. Being preoccupied with whatever such families were preoccupied with, his parents appeared disinterested in him. He tried to please them but didn't know how. He spent much of his time with his governess, who was responsible for his education, decorum and manners. She was kind enough but humourless. There was little humour in his life. He was lonely except in the company of rabbits. He was sad but didn't know why. The immaculately manicured garden was the domain of the gardener, Mr. Forsyth, who thought the title horticulturalist more befitting his station and experience. The boy was permitted in the garden but warned not to stray from the path, and to visit only when Mr. Forsyth was at lunch, which occurred at precisely the same time every day. The rabbits did not live in the garden (a wise decision on their part). Hopping through the hedge when the boy appeared, they were eager for treats he procured from the vegetable patch outside the kitchen. Cook selected produce frequently so a few spinach leaves were not missed. He loved the rabbits' loopy ears, the way they sometimes stood upright to take food from his hands. He was amused by how they munched and chewed. He would never be permitted to eat like that. One day while happily feeding the rabbits, the boy heard heavy footsteps and grumbling noises. Returning early from lunch, Mr. Forsyth stopped in his tracks on seeing the boy and stared at him in disbelief. Wondering what fate might befall him, the boy looked anxiously at the gardener. The rabbits continued to munch and chew nonchalantly. Roberta McGill Roberta McGill grew up in Ireland where she loved reciting poetry as a child. She immigrated to Canada with her husband and lives in Orillia, Ontario. Her poetry has won several awards at the annual K. Valerie Connor Memorial Celebration, Orillia and has appeared in several anthologies. She is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society. ** The First of Many From the moment James Williams emerged from his mother’s womb, slick with blood and desperation, everyone knew there was something wrong with him. His mother’s hair laid in clumps on the floor, her scalp raw and exposed from his unforgiving grasp. As he got older, his fists grew in unison with his rage. The violent waltz between James and his parents left holes in the sturdy castle walls that could not be fixed. When they tried to feed him his morning porridge, the walls ended up splattered in lumpy mush. His appetite begged for juicy, expensive meats, like an insatiable wolf. By the time he turned ten, he had seen just shy of seven different physicians who all told his mother the same thing, “You shouldn’t worry about a thing, Mrs. Williams. All young boys go through a period of aggression. Plus, there’s nothing wrong with getting plenty of iron!” But Mrs. Williams’ vivid dreams of carnage and massacre left her restless each night. On a late May afternoon, James went outside to play in the garden. His mother could not ignore the ache in her stomach and the thumping inside her chest. She sat at the kitchen table with the taste of metal bombarding her dry tongue. The chamomile tea beside her grew cold before she finally went outside. Smoky skies replaced the spring sun, robbing the courtyard of its usual lively spirit. As she walked the marathon toward the garden, her feet heavy with unease, tiny drizzles cascaded onto her cheeks from above. She turned the tree just before the garden and was greeted with the sweet symphony of her boy’s laughter. Two white rabbits munched quietly by his feet while he fed them bunches of basil. The sinking in her belly shape shifted into flutters of adoration. Mrs. Williams started her way back to the castle when two ear-splitting cracks resonated from the garden. She sprinted back toward the gate, the sinister snickers of her precious angel engulfing her eardrums. With his back facing her, James stood proudly, his hands dripping with crimson and ivory. Mrs. Williams never found their heads. Sarah Mengel Sarah Mengel is an emerging writer from Pennsylvania. She is currently in her junior year of college, majoring in English and minoring in Professional Writing. Her pieces vary in genre, but she enjoys writing poetry, flash fiction, and short stories about many different topics. ** Window View The tower window behind which I stand is rusted shut. Yet there is a pane of glass missing, providing me a narrow view of the scene below. From my vantage point, I can only see my son's back, for he is looking at Mr. Bradley and, I assume, frowning, as is his way. He had wanted no part of this endeavor from the outset when I first broached the idea for the painting and had sighed exasperatedly, oh mother, what a waste of time and money. Which made me laugh, for it sounded so like his father, gone astray these many years. But I insisted, and this morning I laid out his best pearl-buttoned suit with its white cravat, combed his flyaway hair into tidy pomaded waves, and sent him down the spiral staircase to the garden beyond the gate. Lettuce had been plucked by the gardener early that morning, and the rabbits freed from their hutches. I had arranged for a log to be stationed just inside the garden gate, where I had hoped I might sit and watch the proceedings up close, but my son had protested so adamantly I did not force the issue. And so it is I remain up here to look down from afar. One of the rabbits just now raised up on its hind legs to nibble at the food. How dear a scene! But I know my son would not be amused. He is serious by nature and tolerates no frivolity, much like his father in that regard, who had abandoned us to go back to the old world and leave us stranded in this new country with its odd ways. Margaret Ryan Margaret Ryan became interested in ekphrastic writing after taking an Ekphrastic Review workshop online and a university-sponsored art appreciation class. Her poem, Vermeer Reimagined, was recently featured on olliconnects.org, the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute's blog at the University of South Florida. She lives in Florida where she writes and paints. ** They Won't Make Me I know how to do it, but if I say I don’t know, they won’t make me. They will sigh and curse and call me names. But they won’t make me do it. They will shove me, cuff me, pull my hair. But they won’t make me do it. They will say I’m stupid, I’m lazy, I’m no good. They will sigh loudly, shake their heads, raise their arms in despair. But they won’t make me do it. I don’t care. I don’t want to do it. It’s boring. I want them to leave me alone, so that I can play games by myself. I know what they say about me. I know what they want. They want me to be like them, all day, walking, back and forward, their steps an echo through a warren of bustling self-importance. Everybody walking where they ought, with their reasons and their tasks. I don’t like this lacy collar. It itches. The hot prickle of the barbed linen, a dry scratchy hold on my throat. I can hear it every time I move, every time I breath. They want me to feed the rabbits; hot, furry, moving things. They take the rabbits from the hutch; a hobbling, lumpy chase on the lawn, a slow farce. The rabbits huddle together, frightened of the too big space. I watch, but I don’t help them. I’m a boy who is going to be in a painting. Jessica McCarthy Jessica McCarthy is a high school English teacher from Adelaide, South Australia. She has a Master’s Degree in Writing and Literature, specializing in Children’s Literature, and enjoys finding new ways to inspire her students to read widely and write creatively. ** Yon Frederick Yon Frederick has a sly and shifty look. Beware the boy who dons lace collar with no complaint. Would he were a stable boy, fresh from mucking stalls. While Sister reads The Aeneid, under watchful governess eye, yon Frederick slips rhubarb leaves to bunnies most beloved. He will watch with hooded eyes Sister’s rabbits die in agony (a hollow victory, to be sure). Elizabeth Gauffreau Elizabeth Gauffreau has published fiction and poetry in numerous literary magazines, including DASH, Natural Bridge, and Woven Tale Press, in addition to a novel, Telling Sonny, and a poetry collection, Grief Songs: Poems of Love & Remembrance. She lives in Nottingham, New Hampshire. Learn more about her work at http://lizgauffreau.com. ** The Rabbit Whisperer of Oz Stranded beside the yellow brick road, and coming to the end of the soft green leaves torn from the tower walls, the ones the rabbits like best, the ones that allow them to speak for three minutes, the boy listens to their soft urgent voices telling him of the race through the fields of poppies, to the land of chipped china figures, the well filled with ink, their voices fading faster and faster all the way to wordless depths. What will he do when the leaves are too new to harvest? Who will skip all the way up to the gate while he waits for the rabbit's soft words to return? What stories will the travelers sing, so long as they can sing without a diet of leaves? Will their songs fade too, while they grow greener and greener dancing into the distance? Sarah Ann Winn Sarah Ann Winn’s Alma Almanac (Barrow Street, 2017), won the Barrow Street Poetry Prize. She’s also the author of five chapbooks, most recently, Ever After the End Matter (Porkbelly, 2019). Her work has appeared in Five Points, Smartish Pace and Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, and elsewhere. ** Acres of Loneliness Some called me lucky, for I had a castle, a palatial place for a boy to roam. I called it a prison, with its drafts and dark hallways, rooms that formed imagined cells. There were no locks. There were no guards. There was no one. In the distance, I heard children’s laughter, young souls joined to find joy. My sliver of joy, was the animals in the field, creatures with kind tongues. They did not mock me. They did not scold dirty collars. They did not forget dinner. Some were sneaky, as children should be, mouths stealing gloves like leaves. I took their lashes, willing to protect them, shelter that should have been mine. From the ones who vowed to care. From the ones who trained a dutiful master. From the ones who now hide in the trees and weep for their castle has holes. Corrie Pappas Corrie Pappas is a small business owner living in New England. She self-published the children’s book, Come Along and Dream, several years ago and has written poetry since childhood. ** Ghost Boy My husband wanted a child, so I divorced him—left him for a ghost. A real ghost, I’m not being metaphoric. The ghost scared me one Halloween—flew out of the bushes on my walk from the bus stop. Haunted me all the way home. I screamed, then fell in love. It’s surprising how similar being scared is to being in love. Both leave you breathless. And full of oxytocin. You know what else is surprising? Ghost fertility. I did not think birth control would be required. My mother called it a miracle. She was so desperate for a grandchild she did not care that he was half-ghost. I did. The pregnancy was sobering. I was not the kind of woman that mingled with the paranormal. I didn’t even like astrology! The ghost was a mistake. A secret to go to the grave. He begged to marry. To be an active father to his son. I said no. I would raise the boy alone. I never wanted to be a mother, but it was too late, the boy was here. I would give him a good life. The ghost had done enough. The boy was strange. My mother said I was being paranoid. She said he was the same as any other child, but I saw it. There was a quality. He loved rabbits. His first word was rabbit. He must have been a magician in a past life. It didn’t come from me. I am not an animal person. He asked for a rabbit for his first birthday. I said no. Then my mother bought him two. This made me very upset. I cannot care for a child, and pets, I said. They are for the boy, my mother said. He will take care of them. And the boy agreed. He was twelve months old, but mature. An old soul. Like his father, I guess. The ghost was seven hundred and ninety-three years old. I saw his birth date at his gravesite on our first date. A picnic. We ate sandwiches with brie. I told the boy his father was dead. This was not a lie. The ghost flickered the lights to object. Turned the television on when I went to bed. The ghost whispered: It is not something you can hide, you know—the truth of who you are. Don’t even think about haunting this house, I said. I am not like the other children at school, the boy told his rabbits, when he was five. He fed them leaves in the backyard. The white rabbit with the brown patch over his eye chewed on a stem. How so? he said. They are so happy, said the boy. It disgusts me. The other rabbit, also white, but with a black patch over her eye, laughed. I know exactly what you mean, she said. The boy looked at me with disdain. He did not like it when I watched him through the window. I couldn’t help it. I was always staring. Waiting. He should be practicing transparency by now, said the ghost. His face flashed like a hologram in my hallway mirror. I jumped, spilling my tea. He hadn’t been around in a while. He’s five, said the ghost. I was a master of invisibility by four! I waved my hand. No, I said. The boy is a human. The ghost turned my tea cold. You cannot keep me from my son, he said. I put the mug in the microwave. Don’t make me call an exorcist, I said. The boy was miserable. I was a failure of a mother. I tried everything to make him happy. I bought him milkshakes. I filled his room with chocolates and cake. He just complained about the ants. When he turned six, he disinvited the children from his birthday party. Canceled the clown. Would not even open his presents. I give up! I said to my mother, I can’t do this anymore. This boy is not a boy, he’s a demon! He heard me. It was not my intention for him to hear. I’m sorry, I said. The boy disappeared. I called out to the ghost for help, but he didn’t answer. Wouldn’t even respond to the Ouija. I kept the rabbits. I named them Allan and Frida. I fed them leaves in the backyard. He never pandered, I said. Never tried to fit in. Allan nodded in agreement. I ate one of the leaves, just to try it. I tried to make him someone else, and I failed us all. Frida looked to my left. The wind made a rustling sound in the grass. Aileen O’Dowd Aileen O’Dowd lives in Toronto. Her fiction has appeared in the Berkeley Fiction Review, Monkeybicycle, and Flash Fiction Magazine. ** Prodigal Musings They prefer my dew-soaked greens. I prefer the spoils of their fecundity. Let them destroy the exotic plants. They can pillage the gardens, too. I like that. I like to keep the game alive. The gardener exhausts himself: traps and cats and vegetable cages while wild ones dart in every which way. We have wool coats buttoned to the neck A castle erect. My room is empty and cold. They warm together in the dark of their caves. Wrassle in the dirt and dried leaves. These rabbits keep coming and coming, bring cousins and predators in an orgy of play. Let them take from me these tender leaves Let them be brutal in beguiling ways. Emily Fernandez Emily Fernandez is an assistant professor at Pasadena City College where she teaches composition, creative writing, and poetry. She received her MA in English and American Literature from New York University. Her poems and/or art have been published in Pangyrus, The Dewdrop, Angel City Review, and several others. Her poetry chapbook, Procession of Martyrs, was published in 2018. She was selected to be a 2020 Moving Arts MADlab playwright, and her play Cage and Lung was professionally performed online in October 2020. She also enjoys open water swimming, gardening, and photography. She lives in El Sereno. https://emily-fernandez.weebly.com Contact: mle.e.fern@gmail.com ** Absent Prince Wisps of cloud above an embattled tower; behind the window sits, one could wish, Rapunzel, tresses ready to be unfurled; a golden pathway, sans perspective, rises to a shut gate, while all around firs taper skywards. And the prince stands on the lawn absently feeding rabbits, blank faced, as if the artist’s easel in fact supported a barely nascent, yet-to-be light box, its shutter open too long for revelation. Something about this prince, his back turned, undoes adventure, appetite, appeal—no heed does he give to: the critter at his feet, up on its haunches, striving; what’s there to be grasped; a song floating by. Alan Girling Alan Girling writes poetry, mainly. His work has been seen in print, heard on the radio, and viewed in shop windows. Such venues include Panoply, Hobart, The MacGuffin, Smokelong Quarterly, FreeFall, Galleon, Blue Skies, The Ekphrastic Review, CBC Radio and the streets of New Westminster, BC. He is happy to have had poems win or place in local poetry contests and to have had a play produced for the Walking Fish Festival in Vancouver, B.C. ** Winston’s Rabbits Against his father’s advice, young Winston developed a close attachment to his pet rabbits. His father said that he should be out in the fields shooting rabbits rather than petting them. Caring for animals, particularly pets, in the early 19th century was considered “girls work.” According to his strict father, such work was demeaning and unmanly for a boy. But Winston persisted. Risking ostracization, he continued raising and petting rabbits well into his adulthood. Many years later, after graduating from Harvard and becoming the renowned zoologist who developed the first working prosthetic for severed rabbit’s feet, Doctor Winston Lippman told those who gathered at one of his many award acceptance speeches a story that had profoundly altered his life’s trajectory. One evening at the family dinner, he began, he realized that what was being served didn’t look like what had been advertised. “This doesn’t look like chicken,” the boy exclaimed. “It is chicken,” his father retorted, without making eye contact with the boy. “It’s not,” the boy shouted. At that, his father broke into hysterical laughter, and Winston stormed out of the room, knowing that he was leaving behind one of Flopsy’s or Mopsy’s hind legs on his dinner plate. Jim Woessner Jim Woessner works as a visual artist and writer living on the water in Sausalito, California. He has an MFA in Creative Writing from Bennington College. His publishing credits include The Daily Drunk, Flash Fiction Magazine, Close to the Bone, Adelaide Magazine, Potato Soup Journal, The Sea Letter, and others. ** Rhymes and Reasons Oh, where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy, Oh, where have you been, charming Billy? The song ends abruptly. In a sudden reversal, the blue sky turns black, riven with thundering arrows of fire. The tower, struck, cracks and falls burning though the gate, consuming the carefully manicured lawn, the path, the ivy covered walls, the buildings, releasing the demons that have been hidden for generations behind flat painted masks. Everything empties, exposed, cast into ruins. The meticulously curated order turns inside out, becomes a massive upheaval of smoke mirrored as dust. How do you do? And how do you do? And how do you do again? The boy has vanished. Two rabbits hover above the debris, their wings unfolding in the shifting landscape. The vacated space formerly occupied by the tower exhales, released of its burdens. Ancient spirits realign. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig lives and works in New York City. ** The Velveteen Boy (after Margery Williams) When all is moon and shadow, when white moths flutter in velvet blackness, when, for a few scarlet drops of blood, raspberry canes offer fistfuls of fruit, the Boy lives his Real life. Forgotten: bland foods, sponge baths, windows pulled against deadly drafts, mustard gargles for his throat. Loneliness beyond quarantine and convalescence. Vigilant adults. When all is moon and shadow, the Boy flees shorn lawns, gated gardens, steals into forbidden, whispery woods. His rabbits slip their belled collars. He sheds his own stiff lace, regiment of buttons and boots. Such gloriously silky, perilous night air! He tiptoes through thickets where birds dream, sips shivery dew from moonflowers, curls deep into burrows when swooping talons wing past. Trembles at a sudden cut-off scream. In the moonlight, in the long grass, his rabbits dance with the wild hares. The Boy dances, too. Leaps. Spins. A creeping warmth flushes his wan skin, streaks his lank hair with faintest gold. The sky pales. Time to return to his pretend-life. But, the Fairy has promised. Soon, he will be Real “for always.” Mary Rohrer-Dann Mary Rohrer-Dann, author of Taking the Long Way Home, (Kelsay Books 2021), and La Scaffetta (Tempest Productions) also has work in Orca, Clackamas Review, Ekphrastic Review, Philadelphia Stories, Panoply, Third Wednesday. A “graduated” educator, she paints, hikes, gardens, and volunteers at Rising Hope Therapeutic Stables, Big Brothers/Big Sisters, and Ridgelines Language Arts. She hates trying to write a sexy bio.  Song of Love, by Nita Jawary (Australia) contemporary Our challenge prompt this week is by Nita Jawary of Australia. She is one of our readers and writers, as well as a visual artist. We are very excited that Anita is also our guest judge this time! Anita Jawary (Nita Jawary) is a Melbourne writer, artist, poet and a fan of Charles Dickens. She has published in several journals including Be Guided by Art, The Ekphrastic Review, Mockingheart Review, Poetica Review, Jewish Women of Words, Songs of Eretz and has received a commendation certificate from the Society of Women Writers of Tasmania. She has also broadcast her work on Pier-Glass Panel March 2022 and Daily Daven. As an artist Anita has held thirteen solo exhibitions and participated in several group shows. She also works as a docent at the National Gallery of Victoria. Find out more about Anita at www.thedickensianchallenge.com ** Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is Song of Love, by Nita Jawary. Deadline is May 13, 2022 . You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. ** The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click below to share a five spot through PayPal or credit card. Thank you. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include JAWARY CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, May 13, 2022. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we will no longer send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send Spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. |
