oin us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working 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 Dream, by Marc Chagall. Deadline is November 22, 2024. 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. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. 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 CHAGALL 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. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, November 22, 2024. 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 do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. 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. 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! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. 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! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. **
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You Don’t Believe in Ghosts? Just as well, says the man dressed like a Victorian butler. (Once or twice a year, the manor house is opened to tour, proceeds going to a local charity. Someone always brings up ghosts.) Public lore has it all wrong, he adds. Ghosts don’t want to meet YOU either. They do occasionally group around old halls like this one. Rarely do you hear rumours of a sighting in a modest cottage. Why would they get nostalgic for poverty? They just want to relive their youth, hear some dance music. I believe ghosts exist, but in a different dimension. You won’t spot a glowing, voluptuous young lady silently playing the spinet at midnight– unless you’ve polished off the punch bowl. Souls don’t carry their flesh and bones about– just their memories. You may feel a quick shiver in their presence, or it could just be the wind. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille was a pioneer coed at the University of Virginia, where she earned her degree in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. She has now lived more than half her life in Kansas City. Alarie received the first Editor’s Choice Fantastic Ekphrastic Award from The Ekphrastic Review, and in 2022, her latest book, Three A.M. at the Museum, was named Director’s Pick for the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art gift shop. ** The Un-House Hallowed And Unsparrowed Nights Tower. Evil Demons Howl Over Unborrowed Shadows Escaping from the cemetery of the unwanted and unclaimed. they hover, like injured hornets, in the hum of unhurried minds. their loss, unwinged and unwinding, festers like a bird unfeathered by grief begging and braying to fly. who are the caretakers of unloved souls? why do spirits have hearts only to be ignored? is a ghost truly a ghost if they have no one to haunt? purgatory is an unlimbo where heaven rejects you and hell discards you, an immortal unmattering, a solitary confinement of unseeness, a cage of unpersonhood where the unnoticed linger in unfeigned sorrow. unvisibility is not merely the absence of sight, but the unrecognition of the other; the othering of the undesirable. the unrepentant sin of loneliness kneels at the altar of unripened rejection. time is an untethered fascia thrashing in a sea of unblue and unbound sadness, where emptiness drowns in unending despair. Shakespeare, I fear, was right: hell is empty; all the unheard are here. Michelle Hoover Michelle "Line/breaker of the North" Hoover is an amateur poet and professional wiseacre. She lives near a mountain on unceded Ute territory with her onery feline, Stevie, the Magnificent Marshmallow. She enjoys her toes in the grass, a hardy laugh, and a backstroke under a starry sky. Her work can be found in The Ekphrastic Review; enjoy! ** Trick or Treat: a Haunting My ghost hops-- I get him in my clutches and he disappears Many think it risible to see me chase him down the street-- a treat, they think. Fitzgerald would have done it better-- locked him in the attic. No longer spry, I try and try to capture the essence of my ghost, but a host of questions always arise, enough to make me sick. I despise my ineptitude; finally say, “Hey, dude, get over here!” He veers, he sees it’s only a trick. Coconut candy or candy corn-- Ghost, your days have warn me out. Now I’ve had it! I hail my witch-y broom and zoom across the planet. Ghost, or no ghost, the coast is clear. My shrink sums it up-- It’s all in your imagination, dear. Carole Mertz Carole Mertz reads and critiques. Her recent reviews of poetry collections are at Mom Egg Review and Orchard River Pages and are forthcoming at Heavy Feather and World Literature Today. Al-Khemia Poetica nominated her poem “Ashes” for the Best of the Net (2025) Anthology. Carole resides with her husband in Parma, OH. ** Once I Lived In that raggedy black house no more than a shadow backlit against the white night of a full Hunter’s moon. Orange light still burns bright at its heart- on the second floor landing where all my ghosts have come undone - loosed like fledged nestlings dancing out of the windows wild and innocent scampering up on the roof with not one scrap of sorrow to slow or stall or trip them up lifted high by music only they can hear while all the sad nightmares fall– heavy and dark stumble to the ground without joy or authority enough to scare anyone or stop our glad rejoicing 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, The Memory Palace, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic and Clare MacQueen, and recent issues of Gyroscope, 3rd Wednesday, Caustic Frolic, Inscribe, the Storyteller Review, and Verse Virtual. Her collection How to Become Invisible, that chronicles a bipolar journey, is now available from Kelsay books, amazon, and the author. ** Haiku Series A furze of shadows charcoal fade decay of days nightmares bloom in black. ** Phantom memories a silent scream caught mid-throat cobwebbed existence. ** Hunter’s moon rises sparks the ruins to riot inferno inside. ** Insistent darkness. The ghosts answer, dance wildly in my haunted heart. Siobhán Mc Laughlin Siobhán Mc Laughlin is a poet and creative writing facilitator from Co. Donegal in Ireland and a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. Her poems have appeared previously here and in other publications including The Poetry Village, Drawn to the Light Press, Reverie, and The Martello Journal. She is a big fan of haiku and ekphrastic poetry. She does not believe in ghosts but loves all kinds of gothic literature and art. ** Doors Swing Open at the Old Hall: a Pantoum All year they await the invitation, the obligation to party this single, moonlit night. They starch their wings and cinch shroud strings, they’re gathering at the Old Hall tonight to party this single, moonlit night. Some break out their black, some their white, they’re gathering at the Old Hall tonight in the silver light where living and dead alight. Some break out their black, some their white. They dust off year-long tangled threads in the silver light where living and dead alight with blended bodies’ shriveled detritus. They dust off year-long tangled threads, that harsh hall light shows no tolerance for blended bodies’ shriveled detritus. Some fly to the gables to block the dawn and harsh hall light shows no tolerance. Up top they engage in ethereal tryst, flown to the gables to block the dawn, keep celebrating the Day of the Dead. Up top they engage in ethereal tryst. All year they’ve awaited the invitation, the obligation, to celebrate the Day of the Dead, with starched wings and cinched shroud strings. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. A six-time Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of two poetry chapbooks and three novels in verse. Her work has also appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: A Journal of Poetry, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be found at www.barbararkrasner.com. ** Dark Sprites’ Delights! On the year’s brightest night each dark sprite will alight in the light of the full moon’s bright glow-- starting darker than coal, rising from depths of Sheol, breaking free of their gaol far below, then they’ll dance and they’ll sing, celebrating, since spring won’t return for another half year while cold, dark days ahead will give rise to more dead who will join them in cheering on fear, and for one gruesome night they will dance to the fright of the children who dare to appear every Halloween eve-- for each little pet peeve feeds their fancies since long, long ago. Ken Gosse Ken Gosse prefers to write rhymed, humorous verse using traditional forms. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then he has been in The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot. ** For Claudia, in Honour of Her First Halloween: Within, a haunted life - shadows and hidden rooms loom against the full moon's silver glow, inviting in winged sprites of the night. Elanur Williams Elanur Williams, part-time teacher and full-time mom, lives and writes from New York City. ** Folded Wings – A Cento At the frosted window in the cavernous dark Something white moved among the tangled branches A shower of angel feathers perhaps. Why am I afraid of the dark But more afraid of what the light reveals I turn from the window Before death enters. Folded like the covers of a book Their pages too heavy to turn The wings of night birds Have gone quiet. As through an hourglass Into the marble of ages What's left is blue emptiness Spinning from the galaxy. Kathleen Cali Author's note: The word “cento” is Latin for patchwork and comes from pieced together lines taken from poetry. This technique is not something new; early examples of cento poems can be found in the work of Homer and Virgil. The painting of The Old Hall, by John Anster Fitzgerald, inspired this cento incorporating the lines of poet Linda Pastan who passed away at the age of 90 in 2023. She was the poet laureate of Maryland from 1991 to 1994. The lines were selected from her poetry book “Insomnia” published in 2015 and came from the following poems: At Maho Bay; At the Edge; Chaos Theory; Consider the Space Between Stars; Cosmology; Course of Treatment; Eclipse, Edward Hopper, Untitled; Elizabethan; Exercise; Last Rites; Late in October; Repetitions: After Van Gogh. True to the cento form, the sequence of words is taken “as is” with no changes made to the wording of any line. Chicago-born and Midwest raised, Kathleen resides at the Jersey Shore. Her poetic interests include formal and modern poetry and haiku. Always the student, she enjoys poetry writing workshops and working with her local library. Other interests include historical fiction and photography. Kathleen enjoyed a career as a senior auditor and educator and served as an assistant professor of business following receipt of her MBA. Technical writing and editing were a major part of her profession; now she uses her skills to craft poetry. Her poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review; her haiku was published in her local community’s magazine. ** The Spirit of Dwelling Fey folk rise like mosquitoes from scraggly grasses, hungry for memory. Night’s bright sphere climbs the witching hours over the vacant manor, beckons spectral beings from unsound ground. Clotted ivy adorns the portico, droops on the skeletons of cobwebs, and orbs of energy blaze from the foyer where dried leaves swirl and drift on swift breeze. Outside the house stands hushed, but inside the old hall swarms with esprit: sprites and spirits and goblins gather for ill and goodwill, merriment and mischief, claiming the derelict home for their own. Dancing to chamber song only their ears hear, they whirl and flit, flirt and shape-shift, as if to lure man from moon or bed. Rest eludes their haunted realm when humans slumber and time is under spell. When full moon descends again, morning withers the ghosts of revelry and remains. Heather Brown Barrett Heather Brown Barrett is an award-winning poet in southeastern Virginia. She mothers her young son and contemplates life, the universe, and everything with her writer husband. Her poetry has been published in several journals and literary exhibits. Her first book of poetry, Water in Every Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. Visit her website to read her work: https://heatherbrownbarrett.com/ ** Halloween Haunt Heathrow is where a witch will hitch a ride At dusk on Halloween. She'll leave the ground Laid flat beneath a jumbo's underside-- Latched safely to the plane, she's Boston-bound. On Halloween, this witch, whose children fled West long ago to haunt the States at night, Embarks upon a trip that she'd find dead Exhausting if she used her broom all flight. Nocturnal pilots have no means to see Her broom and she are stowed below the rear And flying to America for free-- Until they land, and then she does appear, Not one bit weary, whizzing through the air To greet her waiting grandkids with a scare! Mike Mesterton-Gibbons Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus of Mathematics at Florida State University who has returned to live in his native England. His poems have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Better Than Starbucks, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Daily Mail, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, MONO., the New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, the Satirist, the Washington Post and WestWard Quarterly. ** The Ghosts of Pluckley Deep in Kentish countryside The ghosts of Pluckley smile – They hide behind tall, shadowed trees Disguised as shifting form in breeze, Laughing in true ghostly style. Now you may have heard the morbid tale Of one young lady’s ghostly plight – She haunts the locals young and old, Terrifies the brave and bold With leering cackle gleaming white. It seems she once was married To a kind and wealthy lad, He bought for her a diamond ring And asked what else he could bring To make her truly glad. She said she’d like to take her gift To her grave for life’s renewal And though he thought it was a waste, Granted this at death in haste, And she was buried with her jewel. The man who dug her deathly grave Eyed-up the gem in steely stealth. He planned at once to sneak away At midnight on her burial day To retrieve it for himself. But when he took the dead white hand The finger had swollen, fat and cold, He flicked his penknife’s sharpened blade And severed off the flesh in shade, Then slipped the ring from rigid hold. Two years passed uneventfully Until one dark December night – His house shook with wind and rain, The storm beat in on windowpane, He sat alone by candlelight. Suddenly there came a knock Like fists beating bone on tomb. At his door a young lady stood, He started back, wondered if this could be The hand of fate, his call to doom? He thought he recognised the face Cold shivers slithered down his spine. Avoiding her stare his eyes glanced down To red streaked stains upon the gown, Was it blood or was it wine? She raised her hand as if to speak, At once his veins congealed to stone For on that hand a gap gaped wide Where once she’d worn a ring with pride But now wore just a stump of bone! He tried to shut the door, alas, The gushing gale galloped in. He stammered “H.. How do you do? I think I knew a girl like you, Fingerless, ghostly white and thin”. “It was me”, she screamed from ghostly lips Faded as a summer bloom, “I’ve come to haunt your memory With spirits from the cemetery Until you die in gloom.” So grave robbers may you take heed Of this our legendary host Who haunts the night and surely lingers Over all who steal fingers, For Pluckley boasts a ghost! Kate Young Author's Note: Pluckley, in Kent, is said to be England’s most haunted village according to the Guinness Book of World Records. It is reputed to have twelve ghosts. Kate Young lives in England and enjoys writing poetry, painting and playing the guitar, ukulele and mandolin. Her poems have appeared in various webzines, magazines, and chapbooks. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond the School Gate have been published by Hedgehog Press. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet or on her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk ** you rang? the night is chill the ground dew damp we saw a light in corner rooms heard the laugh of scraping branches master had a bell we did his bidding warm tea on silver platter warm scarf and robe against the night in the dark we hear again the call like moths to light we drift from shadows to that lighted window carrying only yesterdays Kat Dunlap Kat Dunlap grew up in Norristown PA and now resides in Massachusetts where she is a member of the Tidepool Poets of Plymouth. She received a BA in English from Arcadia University and holds an MFA from Pacific University. She edited two college writing publications as well as the Tidepool Poets Annual. For many years she was Director of the National Writing Project site at University of Massachusetts Dartmouth and is currently the co-owner of Writers Ink of MA. Her chapbook The Blue Bicycle is being prepared for an autumn launch. ** The Cabin by the Mansion There is a ghost in this cabin of the governor who built it this humble cabin where he hides from his opera-singing wife There is a ghost in the bathroom where he shaves and showers swearing in a whisper, always a whisper Next door is a grand mansion the ghost abandoned to his wife She sings loud and alone against the hard tiles of the shower but softly in bed clothes at night He hates opera She hates the quiet They cannot live together They cannot stay apart He visits her in the dark and takes off his clothes with the pssp pssp of whispers against the echoes of song There are ghost children who dance in the yard between cabin and mansion Each night a bonfire inside a circle of stones They frisk, they frolic in smoke rising to the moon As voices blend the soft and the strong they dance to the harmony of whisper and song Joe Cottonwood Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. ** One Night a Year One night a year the boundaries blur: insect, animal, human, fantasy, reality. Any and all combinations are possible. Although it's midnight under the full moon, the sky above The Old Hall glows as if it's noon, for those with the right eyes to see. Just a few drops of tincture, pupils dilated, and a new world reveals itself. Only the most daring and most free-spirited may enter. Only they are able to pass the guards at the gateway. It's free to go into The Old Hall but ultimately the revellers will pay the price. Inside, they are waiting, all the night creatures - the foxes, the bats, the moths, the chittering cockroaches and spindly spiders - and with them are their fae friends, the winged folk, slim as sylphs and floating light as air. They turn and twist, dancing to a music only their ears can hear. Tonight, these crowds will assemble at The Old Hall for frights and frolics, for pranks and antics and fun. Underneath, something darker lingers. Those of human form who dare enter the doorway will never be the same on their return. A part of them will remain forever behind, locked away. At first, to those who know them, they will seem distracted, forgetful. Over time they will become listless, filled with an unspoken longing. As the special night comes back round they will become restless, unsettled. Even if they try to fight it eventually they must return to The Old Hall. No-one has ever come back from their second visit on that one special night a year, the night the portals open to another realm, the domain of the old gods, the ancient earth spirits. They demand a high payment for allowing strangers in. It's for this reason those of a cautious disposition hide themselves and their loved ones away, to deaden the sound of otherworldly laughter and parties, on the one night a year when the old world opens its doors and allows those brave enough, those free of spirit to enter, but not to return. Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer from the UK Midlands. She particularly enjoys ekphrastic writing and has had some pieces published in Ekphrastic Review Challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print. ** A 'Spirit'ed Gathering The house, shrouded in ivy and shadow, sways softly, into and out of focus, as dusk blends into dreams. Its windows glow with the pulse of forgotten stories. In the unmown grass, spirits of children float between the shadows, their fingers outstretched to grasp the (moon)light. And their laughter silent but real tumbles like leaves in the breeze. On the roof, dark silhouettes stand guard protecting the remains of memories. And together, these spectres weave a spell, connecting the living with the lost. 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 Ekphrastic Review, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet anthologies, 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. She has two published books, She: The reality of womanhood and The many moods of water. ** A Sanctuary Like the old snow that clings and sinks against wishes, they crawl up the sanctuary- the pitched roof beyond belief. Webbed dragon ghosts hold to ransom a spell of fantasies- pangs of memories bruised like the birds on a sidewalk, some eaten half, blood on their necks, all dead-on return. Together they rise raring to blow mouthful of fire that burned the grief, the cheerful chatter of granddaughters hide dida hide- and whatever was left of him. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. 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, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working 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 In the Studio, by Marie Bashkirtseff. Deadline is November 8, 2024. 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. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. 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 BASHKIRTSEFF 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. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, November 8, 2024. 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 do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. 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. 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! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. 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! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. ** Naptime with Mama Stretched out next to Mama one eye open, her hand soft against me, I listen for her voice, her heartbeat while dozing Running in the lane rocks, even Mama gets all happy throwing the ball for me, but I sense her loneliness I am here, Mama, I want to say but I can only lie against her side. She knows I am here, and Buddy too, but it’s Papa she’s thinking of I miss him too, our family walks are now Mama’s walks with us, and then we cozy up on the bed, Buddy sprawled out, but not me, I am listening, silently telling her I am here, I’ll keep you warm and even though the bed is soft, his absence is felt all the same Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a long time poet, whose work appears in over 75 journals. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, has served on two poetry boards and as a guest editor for several publications. Her work can be found in Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien and Ekphrastic Review, among others. She shares her home with two rescued cats, Cam and Jojo, and advocates for captive elephants. ** Judy’s Bohemian Rhapsody Hindus say soul is the size of a thumb or the point of an awl or a spiritual atom or one ten-thousandth the tip of a hair and lives in a lotus in your chest or your forehead or pervades your body or rides in a chariot driven by intellect Mischievous Judy, in the corner of our eye, guards a carton of tongue depressors each the size of the back of a King George chair she plans to implant in her family of ghosts and claim they are the speechless cardboard souls in everyone’s chest. Her own words vividly paint Van Gogh's that suck you in but should she ever lift the brush from the canvas, she might go mad. Mike Wilson Mike Wilson’s work has appeared in many magazines and in Mike’s book, Arranging Deck Chairs on the Titanic. His awards include the League of Minnesota Poets Award, the Maine Poets Society Award, and the Chaffin/Kash Prize of the Kentucky State Poetry Society. He lives in Lexington, Kentucky. ** Languorous? Languorous, as vowel stretch, each glyph laid out in sounding shift, aligned with sleek unbothered reach, with dreams of scents, encounters, rest, now prone, exhausted, inked arms linked. On crumpled pastel, crease and fold, all pillows, hills of dimpled sheets, in crevice, blues, pink, yellows, green, seen stream and sky, buds, blossom, sward, addressed on fabric, ruffled, flesh. Carved capital above slab slump; a classic wage for time-paid age. brawn muscles through to knuckle skin, arch, zygomatic, prominent; what causes stare in emptied air? Poole pottery of former age, a cluttered, indecisive space, past glories, present to be faced, what questions posed above the bed to float around, pets unaware? This is no more the languid tired, nor lackadaisical in mind, dynamic contrast laid to wrest - so what ensues from contemplate? What afterthought has walk aroused? Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** Goodbyes Are Too Hard Sandra knew these were her final moments with her golden retriever, Daisy. Daisy had been there for Sandra’s toughest moments in life. She had been there for her mother’s death, her divorce, and most recently, her cancer diagnosis. Sandra found out that she and Daisy had cancer on the same day, and had been on edge ever since. They had just returned from the vet when she found out Daisy had less than a week left. Sandra always thought that Daisy would outlive her, Daisy was always stronger than she ever was. The first few hours after the vet visit the two had been on the bed soaking up their final moments together. Sandra’s other dog, Mack, would be the only one left, so she too lay on the bed soaking up the final moments. Sandra just pondered on how in the world would she say goodbye to her caring, obedient, comforting dog that she loved more than herself. Sandra came to the conclusion that this goodbye was just too hard. Tessa Lawrence Tessa Lawrence is 15 and goes to high school in Ohio. She likes to read, write, watch movies, and play basketball. ** Walking Dogs pester master, after walking for hours, until exhaustion. 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, The Importance of Being Short in 2019 and In A Flash in 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** Lady In A Print Dress With Manet and Van Gogh Daydreams of fragrant gardens and nights when she painted the town red dancing the days away with different cats who were mostly dogs -- Poets, painters and philosophers masters of seductive reasoning who were themselves seduced by a ballet whose elaborate choreography often spun out of control -- Once vibrant flowers that now droop and sag exhausted in their beds. dan smith dan smith is the author of Crooked River and The Liquid of Her Skin, the Suns of Her Eyes. He has been widely published in journals as diverse as The Rhysling Anthology and Deep Cleveland Junk Mail Oracle and Dwarf Stars and Gas Station Famous. dan's latest poems have been at The Solitary Daisy, dadakuku, Rattle Prompt Challenge, The Ekphrastic Review and Five Fleas Itchy Poetry. ** Pied Piper I go to bed in my clothes too – a green linen 60s floral shift riding up around my thighs. Nobody sees me but the dogs. Sometimes my frock is a Dior mini: bicolour, retro white and deep blue, the kind of dangerous shade I imagine the Bermuda Triangle might be. I go to bed in it when I’ve been out for a walk, or getting a new tattoo (one arm is almost done, I think). Bed is the only place to wear your very best clothes – those outfits you’ve discovered in op-shops, or inherited as hand-me-downs from deceased dowager aunts who bequeathed them just as you donate your thoughts to the ceiling – to the skylight covered with fallen leaves – because it’s only mid-afternoon, and the sun is shining. Jennifer Harrison Jennifer Harrison is an Australian poet living in Melbourne. She has published eight poetry collections and won numerous prizes, most recently the 2023 Troubadour International Poetry Prize. ** Bedfellows Three mammals resting. If the other two Had recreated this, how would it be? Smells: cotton washed last week, shed fur, not-new- Underwear, heated paws, post-walking me, Sweat and deodorant. Cold tea. Breathed air, With underlays of – what? I couldn’t know If they could say. Three mammals, skin and hair And neural firings, visually on show Through me. I read that dogs are colour-blind, Or partly, so they’re missing my insane Candy-floss patchwork joy. The canine mind Processes pink as grey; the human brain Thinks laundry soap can pass for Alpine Streams. I wonder what I smell like in their dreams. Ruth S. Baker Ruth S. Baker has published in a few poetry journals. She has a special love for animals and visual art. ** Beasties Sated, they sprawl close Unbothered by anxious thoughts Saved from worry’s stab In this riot of quiet I’ve been told they can’t see colour. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass is a poet, writer, and collage artist living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in Punk Monk Journal, Three-Line Poetry, Haiku Poetry, The Light Ekphrastic, The Ekphrastic Journal, and The Niagara Falls Poetry Journal, among others. She has recently appeared in local spoken-word showcases & attended the Rockvale Writer’s Residency earlier this year. Go Braves! ** Anna …intimate partner violence… -Thoughts …ya’ know when somethin’ happens every single rotten day I don’t give a damn if it’s good or bad truth is it ain’t never good every time it turns out lousy every time an’ I tell ya’ somethin’ else it don’t get no better I mean if somethin’ that looks good comes along which it don’t never come it’s gonna go bad fast you can count on it an’ if it’s bad when it gets here that’s jus’ the beginnin’… -Whispers ‘cept you two a course (speaking like a child) little Sophie you givin’ Mommy yer belly? that’s Mama’s baby girl an big ol’ Lazybones ova here you leanin’ on Mommy askin’ if everything’s OK? everythin’ is perfec’ my good big boy….perfec’! who’s a good boy!!?? who’s a good big boy!!?? want MaMa to rub under yer chin Mr Lazybones? huh? want yer Mama to rub under yer chin my biggest boy (back to her own voice) jesus one a these days or nights that ceiling’s gonna cave in an’ land right on toppa me an’ the dogs and them jerks upstairs is gonna get their wheel a fortune watchin’ all screwed up me an’ the dogs under ‘em them wonderin’ what the hell just happened (little snarky chuckle - 2 beats) it could use a new coat a paint too the ceiling I’ll get right on that t’marra yeeeah! -Thoughts it’s stinkin’ amazin’ that he thinks he can come waltzing in here every single night every single night an’ beat the hell outta me smellin’ like a brewery lookin’ like a fer real nut job an’ the mouth on ‘im! Jeeeezus! mouth like a truck driver which he ain’t he’s one a them guys where they’re doin’ road work he stands there all day long like some fat wax statue twirlin’ that sign from real early in the mornin’ to early afternoon to late afternoon can you imagine? SLOW STOP SLOW STOP perfec’ job for the bastard those are the only two speeds he knows he’s been doin’ that job now two days quittin’ t’marra says he’s too old his back is killin’ him his feet are killin’ him his hands are killin’ him an’ he’s killin’ me but I don’t blame him fer quittin’ he is too old an’ it’s a stupid job anyways… Whispers, Thoughts, and occasional out loud Words … (WORDS - Whispered aloud barely audible…) Eddie… (Anna leans over groaning every bit of her body aching from old age and years of doing a whole lotta nothing she digs through the mess on the floor pulls a new smoke out of a crumpled pack tries to light the cigarette CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK the lighter finally lights after seven tries. Lazybones does not move a muscle.) Don’t ask me why they call ‘em lighters when that’s the one thing they can’t do stupid things. Eddie he’ll be home any minute crash through the door head right to the ice box that’s weird I know it ain’t no ice box jus’ a habit left over from when I was a kid 50 million years ago (bad British accent) Excuse me. Pardon my lack of couth. I mean, of course, The Re-fridge-er-a-tor, Honey-Bun. Do excuse me. an’ sure enough -Thoughts like he’s on cue or somethin’ Eddie slams open the door… …wait…ain’t that a weird thing to say? SLAMS open the door! I don’t know It jus’ don’t sound right to me anyways he slams open the door grabs a beer from the refrigerator drinks practically the whole thing in one swaller an starts staggering towards the bed lookin’ like a ape little Sophie makes her exit straight under the bed sometimes the fat drunken jerk even hits the dogs which really gets my goat -OUT LOUD WORDS Is dis what’choo bin doin’ all day long chain smokin’ dem cancer sticks lookin’ at the ceilin’ and talkin’ like some kinda crazy mental case to dem stupid mutts -THOUGHTS he grabbed me by the front a my moomoo holy christ here we go again cigarette sparks flair up burn out ashes on the bed that son of a… see here’s what gets me what gets me is that mostly it’s silent the back of his fat hand across my lef cheek I woulda thought it a made some kinda noise but I don’t remember hearin’ nothing ain’t that weird? -WORDS You lazy bitch you better start doin’ somethin’ ‘round here sides takin’ up space and stinkin’ up the joint! you hear me? huh!? you hear me? what’re yous deaf? an’ yer mangy reekin’ mutts too get ‘em the hell outta here -THOUGHTS fat hand across the lef cheek again silent poor little Soph I hear her whinin’ under the bed poor little thing wish I had a gun I swear were married now 47 years man!...people shoulda laid they eyes on Eddie when I very first met him… oh my god talk about a lady-killa a real dish I ain’t lyin’ an’ me…ohhh me… when I’s young… I wan’t too bad on the ol’ eyes either get me? an’ ya’ know I’m pretty sure we was in love an’ the plans! lawd have mercy! what we was gonna do you wouldn’t believe then time…I don’t know… it’s like some kinda miracle ain’t it it’s here it’s gone an’ so are you gone see ya latta alligatta bye-bye you out after amountin’ to nothin’ but sad my cheek hurts know what’s funny through this whole nasty nightly brawl Lazybones never moved I think I heard him groan once like he was dog-talkin’ to us shut up yous! can’t ya’ see I’m tryin’ to sleep over here. then the king of the castle makes hisself heard… -WORDS …be useful fer a change an’ turn off the light I’m gettin’ up early gotta drive right by the road work to get to The Red Ash Bar wanna stop first an’ tell that little foreman twerp I quit! give my SLOW STOP sign to some kid lookin’ fer his first ball-bustin’ job -THOUGHTS while I was leanin’ over to turn off the light I grabbed another smoke will miracles never cease the lighter lit on the first CLICK! In-freakin’-credible! Eddie’s already snorin’ LOUD I’s thinkin’ ‘bout what I’s gonna do t’marra an’ out from under my side a the bed here comes little Sophie stepping carefully ova her big brotha not that he would care….or even know Lazybones he likes to relax he groaned a little groan when Soph stepped ova him Sopje lays down on the other side both of us ready for a little siesta Eddie’s snores is get louder an’ louder an’ my little baby girl my sweet Sophie rolls over and gives me her belly FIN (until the morrow.) John L. Stanizzi John L. Stanizzi is the author of 15 poetry books, the newest of which are SEE (A book of ekphrastic poems), Feathers & Bones, and Viper Brain. His latest collection Entra La Notte will be out in December. John was named winner of The Ekphrastic Review’s Nine Lives Ekphrastic Marathon, an incredible honour, one he says he will cherish always. A former Wesleyan University Etherington Scholar, and New England Poet of the Year,John was awarded an Artist Fellowship from the Connecticut Office of the Arts and Culture for work on his new memoir, Bless Me, Father, for I Have Sinned. ** The Art of Deception "Suppose the Truth is a woman -- what then?" Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil " If one, settling a pillow by her head Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all; That is not it at all.'" T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock Appearances can be deceiving. When her grandmother, a teacher for most of her life, bought a wig she never explained that it was because she couldn't afford to have her hair done anymore, to make herself presentable for the classroom. The wig was grey. (Quiz: how could youth desert us like a vicious wind?) Brushing her dog's red hair she thought of sea air, the crisp crash of waves, floating to a stand-still so like her life, naps after long walks to the dog park by a busy street. She'd tried to beat sentient failure; to take a writing class, to write a villanelle, its origin from the Langue d'Oc both countrified and earthy, unlike the Langue d'Or -- "the language of gold" spoken in Paris. But she couldn't understand Ezra Pound's passion for vagabond troubadours his "periplum" -- the center of an empyrean journey -- his modernist translation of Provencal love. Wearing a broad-brimmed hat, he questioned 18th century lyricism -- why travel was like a song -- Gaily the Troubadour touched his guitar, as he was hast'ning home from the war... 2 World Wars were over (Thank God!) but how could Pound's poetry -- his Cantos -- explain why she was born with red hair? Don't let a man put his hat on your bed! older women said. It had been a last straw, really when such a statement was used to describe red-heads as whores; what the family called her grand-pere's amour, a legal assistant in the city. How she loved her red-haired dog, Monsieur Emmanuel! named for Emmanuel Kant -- or was it Descartes? Philosophy and philosophers were so confusing. After she'd met a man with an attractive mixed-breed at the dog park she had started a class- required villanelle, writing on an Empire Cafe napkin: O how often life's a mad deception! The air smoke-yellow in the city streets, How I dressed for yesterday's reception -- The black dress, a fashionable conception, My love, a 'mess of shadows for your meat'; This tattoo, from days when I took action... That was as far as she got. It was hot. She'd pulled on a sleeveless house-dress and gone to bed with Emmanuel: 2 cups and an empty plate lost in the bed-covers the only evidence she hadn't been alone last night, a fixed figure painted in tossed colors a woman so unlike another of Aylward's portraits, a regal woman hair done up, dress with a dark blue fabric sheen -- like the mystery of her chickadee why she seemed to be a kind of Bird Woman, elegant, with 5 birds -- one, like a miniature kingfisher (perhaps a blue jay?) in a glass cage; one small and reddish -- a finch? Then the large head of a crane questioning confinement near her shoulder (She, like me, the voice in this poem) must be her "other self," portrayed with avian companions wearing shadowed, storm-sky blue posed with a parrot -- But reader, I have Emmanuel! whose name means God is with us, and I hope to heaven he is so that a woman with red hair could have a red-haired dog, his body stretched beside her in an unmade bed disheveled on a Sunday as she explores her dreams, the sea caressing her bare feet -- the time-free days her heart can reach. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp is a poet writing in Houston. Twice nominated for Best of The Net, she is a graduate of The Creative Writing Department (MA in Poetry), The University of Houston. Like Pound, she favours love quests in southern France, and the poetry forms created there, preferring the Sestina. "Gaily The Troubadour” quoted in the poem, is a song written in the 1820s by Thomas Haynes Bayly (1797 - 1839). ** After the Walk He is lying sprawled on the sheet, My favorite, the one that is pink. “What a charmer,” I think and blink. He blinks back. Slow and Languid. I smile at his wrinkled eyelids, He turns to his side, making the bed lurch And I watch the affection surge in his eyes as a shine. The time is way past nine, We are lazing around in bed. My little boys are resting their heads After a run through the park, Several strings of woofs-woofs and barks. Their tails are quiet with an occasional quiver, Listening to the tales of the river That passes behind the house. They are holding back all urges to pounce And lying back with lolling tongues, The rituals before sleep sets in have begun. I pull out the chain which reminds me of her And of things that were Her black furred boy, our black furred boy, Flicks his tail on my hand, he is not really coy. My eyes blur with tears as I remember. It was just last December. You lay your head on the other side of bed, The boys were sated after having been fed, And you told me you were dying. I accused you of lying. You smiled and asked something of me, I ignored you and got up to brew that tea, But your eyes followed me out of the room. I had not expected to hear news of your doom, Yet I came back and cuddled against you, Under the covers, and let my brew cool. The black tail had flicked on my hair And I had no laughter to spare, But you let out a light giggle, And tickled me till I wiggled. The boys also joined in the fun. Yes, my grief is not yet done, And a black-tail flicks again at my arm Seeking attention is part of his charm And I let out a giant smile. It has been a while Since my lips pulled up all the way. The boys have noticed it, haven’t they? He wags his tail in response, proud indeed. It is easy to push away my need To have you around all the time, When a dog is crooning and trying to mime Right beside me as I try to recall What was making me bawl. A ball is shoved at my feet, A bark and playful blink follow in a beat. I forget what I was thinking about. Yes, yes, I had meant to shout And ask you why you left And left me languishing and bereft But the boys seem to know That a ball throw Is the nudge I need To get out of the cycle of cry, rinse and repeat. I miss you terribly my love. My arms get a full-on shove, I raise my head and look at him You know his fur can use a trim I extend my fingers and caress his tummy, He looks at me like he looked at his mummy-- —you. You shined so bright honey! He farts on my face, and no it isn’t funny. Don’t you dare laugh darling! You had been so charming, So full of zest, life, and laughter. It is you who they take after. Making me live life, eat, sleep, When I would just rather weep. They give me faith that I will heal. His nose tickles my feet, and I squeal. He gives a cheeky grin, I swear. You were so lovely my dear His smile reminds me of the day When the sky was overcast and gray And you were sunshine and bright And we binged on Turkish delight While watching the Telly And laughter rumbled in our bellies. Suddenly, a car horn goes by the window. I, I need to get out of this limbo. He is up now, attentive and alert. Shucks! his paw has embedded dirt. I get a lick on my nose, I am drained now, from grief and its throes. He comes and lies beside me, He is gleeful like you and just as free. And things are no longer bitter, perhaps they can be sweet. Surabhi Katyal Surabhi Katyal (she/her) is a writer, translator, psychotherapist, and researcher based in Rajasthan,India. She says that writing and reading have held her together while she has lived with a decade-long bundle of chronic pain and psychosocial disability. Currently, she is translating verses of Sant Raidas and Maithili Sharan Gupt into English. She is also working on editing the English translations and doing the Hindi translations of A Vennila poems. She hopes that her cats will let her focus on her writing projects more (unlikely). ** I Might’ve Had a Sex Dream In the dream, I leave work and drive 18 hours nonstop, searching for an isolated cabin in the deep, dark woods. The sun sets, the sun rises. I never question if I’m awake. Did I mention, in the dream, I’m fired for watching porn? If I’d gone home, I might’ve told my husband it was a layoff; instead, I toss my phone out the window when passing the exit for home. Unlike the dream, I never watch porn, only read romance novels and inhale murky phrases like “wet friction,” or “grunting into foam.” Porn might’ve clarified the details. Critical anatomy shots at critical moments. I’m a visual learner. Before we married, my husband would run off after sex to confess, to seek absolution from his parish priest for a sin he’d committed, knowingly, willingly, and may I say–enjoyably. In the dream, I tilt into switchbacks and risk passing eighteen-wheelers, slowly climbing the mountainside. Did I mention the downpour? Wild lightning strikes hit dead trees and spark a fire. God, the heat. Sweat drips between my breasts in the dream. The torrential rain simmers the forest, and steam rises from the ground. Finally, in the dream, in my dream, I turn off the highway, grinding my car up a steep gravel road that dead ends at the cabin. I jump out, forget to cut the engine, and halfway to the door, the car revs higher and higher as if the motor is inside me. I knock hard on the door, and it opens to Carlos, my first boyfriend, the one who provoked Mama to say ‘you could do better,’ the one who refused confession or absolution, the one who feasted on wild-ass-monkey sex, and the one who, in my dream, swings the door open, sweeps his arm beneath me, lifts me and carries me inside. Anne Anthony Anne Anthony’s gritty, tender, and amusing stories feature compelling but slightly flawed characters who tend to carry on conversations with each other inside her head. She stopped fighting them a few years back agreeing to tell their stories just to quiet them. Find recent publications here: https://linktr.ee/anchalastudio or check her social media: IG: @anchalastudio X: @DIHPocketsART FB: @anchalstudio ** Thereafter Secretly I think of my life as a street—not a busy freeway, but a dead end with a way in but no exit except to unwind itself backwards into a repetition of what I’ve already done. It stands inside the shadow of a spiral that lengthens in a tighter and tighter coil as the years wear on and out. Exhausted I conjure exotic locations, endless oceans of azure skies, a vessel sailing forever towards the horizon, following a magical but unfinished map. ink tells my story-- my familiars dream, chasing birds-- we fly together 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/. ** Pet Lover’s Dilemma I am my own canvas splashy and expressive life etched on each sleeve, my friends are monochromatic fur is fur they have no choice. Although dissimilar we are stitched together by emotion and survival, they rouse me from slumber desperate to pad outside for relief then return to fitful sleep… not me. What do they know of insomnia? Should I buy a doggie door? Is that a crack in the ceiling? Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Haiku Universe, Sparks of Calliope, Gyroscope Review, Quartet Journal, The Raven’s Perch, and Panoplyzine. She hosts the Duxbury Poetry Circle, was featured on a poetry podcast at Onyx Publications. Her first collection of poetry, called Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit is in production at Kelsay Books. ** Muddy Water Rescue Plan And then I was alone. The brown dog was his. The black one, mine, half dead after the hours in the attic. Me, on the bed in my neighbor’s trailer, Billie Eilish, through the earbuds I scooped up from the rising water. When the rain came, the dogs and I climbed to the top of my beautiful house, with stones shaped and chiseled to resemble castle walls, muddy water lapping at our feet, me shrieking into my dead phone, waiting for the rescue boat to arrive. Now in my girlfriend’s trailer, the mosaic of blankets, blue, pink, floral, stink of damp. A furious red rash creeps up my legs. My mouth crinkles from the dirty water infusion. My husband left the day before the storm, said I can’t take your nagging anymore. Maybe I was an ideal, something he dreamed up, something to fall short of. Maybe I should move back to San Diego where the sky, the sea, the eucalyptus shout colour. Maybe Chicago. At least there, the wind matches my mood. The black dog yaps in her sleep. My husband’s mutt gets up and nuzzles me. His breath is sour. Snuggling together on the sunshine pillow, I kiss him back. THE END Laura B. Weiss Laura B. Weiss is a fiction writer and journalist with work in Flash Boulevard, Bright Flash Literary Review, 10x10 Flash, Five on the Fifth, New York Times, and Interior Design, among others. She was a Publishers Weekly book reviewer and Bellevue Literary Review reader. She was also a Virginia Center for Creative Arts Fellow. ** Count Your Blessings If only life and love resembled the crumpled softness of a well-used bed. Praise the dogs that lie beside my body when no one wants me. I used to sleep better in white sheets until white became a shroud. Praise the black and white floral linen on sale at 50% off, One Day Only. At fifty-five, tattoos seemed a better option than another lover’s scar. Praise the men I said no to, who took it for an answer. This afternoon, I’ll wash the cup and plate and change the pillow slips. Praise the dog drool and the silent farts that make me laugh when all else fails. Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda lives and writes poetry in Lake Tabourie, NSW, Australia, on traditional Yuin country and enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various literary spaces. ** After the Walk My body all flowers My quilt and pillows flowers Am I rehearsing for the grave No one will leave stones or flowers What do the dogs know About roots or death The strewn plate with its cups Their stoneware bodies askew Somewhere it is summer And wild cones rebloom The ophidian fabric beside me watches and waits Memory’s original snake returning As if then is now My body hums with a bouquet’s submission Beloved Wherever you are I know you listen Amy Small-McKinney Amy Small-McKinney was the 2011 Montgomery County PA Poet Laureate. Her second full-length book, Walking Toward Cranes, won the Kithara Book Prize (Glass Lyre Press, 2017). Her chapbook, One Day I Am A Field, was written during COVID and her husband’s death (Glass Lyre Press, 2022). Her poems have been published in the American Poetry Review, The Baltimore Review, SWWIM, Tahoma Literary Review, Tiferet Journal, Literary Mama, Pedestal Magazine, Persimmon Tree, and Vox Populi, among others. Her poems have also been translated into Korean and Romanian. Her third full-length book of poems & You Think It Ends is forthcoming 2025 (Glass Lyre Press). Small-McKinney has a degree in Clinical Neuropsychology from Drexel University and an MFA in Poetry. ** After the Walk, I collapsed in bed, my two other companions by my side, and couldn’t sleep. How could I? Mourning, rest escaped me. Not the dogs though. They conked out as if shot. Red, as usual, gave me not a jot of space, and pushed his lean body next to mine as if he was an appendage. Never a burden, always a patient joy, Smudge slept with her parts splayed, tart that she is. I lay on my back contemplating the spots of peeled plaster wishing I had the youth and spirit to rip off the wallpaper and paint the room in spumoni colors—lemon yellow, blushing pink rose with a ribbon of jade between the molding and the white ceiling. Suddenly, I spied little tears in the wallpaper bordering the window she’d ripped with her mittens. I hadn’t noticed the evidence of her before. Damn to renovations. I’ll keep the tears in her memory. Tomorrow we’ll walk to the unmown meadow and spread her feathery ashes amongst the yellowing grasses and jumping, green bugs. Lucinda Kempe Lucinda Kempe’s work has been published or is forthcoming in New Flash Fiction Review, Centaur, The Disappointed Housewife, Unbroken Journal, New South Journal, Southampton Review, and the Summerset Review. An excerpt of her memoir was short listed for the Fish Memoir Prize in April 2021. Nominated for Best of the Net in 2024 by Boudin Magazine (The McNeese Review). ** A Good Bad Gone A mishmash puzzle, us, a room that glints with mismatched chintz (he never liked it). You walk so you forget, but when the chazza shop is beckoning, you reckon that it’s worthwhile going in, you can’t resist. So armed with unexpected plates, you take the left, you let the dogs off, wander, think he would have rolled his eyes at this new purchase: do we need another plate? And you lost patience, wouldn’t say again how chestnut mugs and cheery sheets remind you of your mum and how she squeezed you tight in bed, the telly blaring blurry comfort and another long-ago dog, gone now, dozing on the proggy mat, his legs a-twitch with dreams. The cocker stretches, tiny scratch reminder that you’re flesh and blood and time is marching on and no-one else will make the pot of tea this evening. Caitlin Prouatt Caitlin is a Brisbane-born, Oxford-based Latin and Greek teacher. When not tutoring or looking after her toddler, Caitlin writes poetry, with a particular interest in how rhythm can contribute to an image. Much of her poetry centres on her experiences of being a parent, but she also often returns to Classical themes. She enjoys having a go at the Ekphrastic Challenge to hone her craft. ** Dignity I got my dignity. Ain’t nobody can take that away. Ha! Some try their darnedest though. Flipping burgers at the Clover Grill don’t seem dignified. True, the place has its charm. Red-topped diner stools, tile floor, pink menus. Has history too. Been here on Bourbon Street since 1939. Open 24/7. You gotta dig deep to find dignity there. Jesus said feed the hungry. I do that. That’s enough. I just finished the night shift. Took Huey and Louie for their walk. Time to crash on this heap of a bed. Too worn out to bother with the dress. Yanked off my bra though, and slung it on the bedpost. These New Orleans summers are too much. Wish I had a cigarette. Next paycheck I’ll get a carton. For now just putting my fingers to my lips sorta helps. I wish I had art for these walls. I wear my art on my arm. And I pull it up around me. You can tell I’m partial to prints. Ha! Who cares if the colors coordinate. I get ‘em cheap at St. Vincent de Paul. Time to sleep now if I can make these eyes close. Wouldn’t mind a man next to me. But I learned that lesson. I got my dogs. And I got my dignity. That’s enough. Bill Richard Bill Richard is a docent at the Phoenix Art Museum and has loved art since he sat on his dad’s lap as a toddler and looked at books of paintings. He is also a standardized patient for medical schools, helping prepare healthcare professionals by giving them feedback on their communication skills. His poems have appeared in publications such as Red River Review, Ilya’s Honey, and National Catholic Reporter. ** To Lyn Aylward Regarding After the Walk The walk, far more than exercise, was meant to fill discerning eyes with things familiar much the same and of the moment new to frame with those to prize and those to rue and those that fervent hopes pursue together trek that underway from dawn to dark of years by day, is aging, energetic still, the sturdiness of stubborn will as ceiling lowers heaven's sky for inward glance of upward eye that senses in artistic soul collage of patterns to extol. Portly Bard 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. ** Interior Design My mother always wore a sleeveless nightgown, always slept on the right side of the bed, even after my father died. She always wrapped toilet paper around her lacquered coiffure, secured the tissue with hair clips. She always separated silverware in the sink, organized knives, forks, and spoons in the dishwater. She ate at the same time every day, often eating the same meal: Oatmeal for breakfast, tuna salad on white toast for lunch, broiled chicken for dinner. She rationed two Stella D’oro cookies every evening as she relaxed In front of the television. She wore silver with silver, gold with gold, never mixed metals. Obsessive compulsive? Some family members insist she was OCD. But me? No. She just wanted order, managing expectations birthed during the Great Depression and war. She wanted to wrap an imperial blue world of her own making around her, curl up in a blue-and-white comforter that matched the drapes, carpeting, curtains inside the armoire, the velvet tufted bench at the foot of the bed. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is pursuing a World Art History Certificate from Smithsonian Associates as she works on a full-length ekphrastic poetry collection. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, ONE ART, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be found at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Curb Your Enthusiasm Too many cushions, too many covers – countless curves – that bed is a puddle with many a squashy bubble luring the woman to end her walk and letting herself to the tuffs talk. The one sharp line is laid pointedly sublime – blob and dog having shoved the pliancy of dress and flesh left her body edge stretch forthright like a tugging kite. Otherwise, here at the flat upper part should have been a double oval plot with perpetually swaying nod; and at the lower plumb fringe should have been an oblique weave ambushing every limb’s groove. Instead, it is geometrically projecting annunciating: I am mindful just of spiky adjectives I take no curly compliments I am Aphrodite of cutting-edge musings I am here to draw the bottom line of the internal cloud nine. Unlikely, it is taut and sharp like a string of a harp with no twists to breed false tones after my geometric clearance for the earnest hand I see extending out of the blue to begin a tune of incredible cue. So, curb your enthusiasm for curves and take my sharpness as the flatted-fifth harness. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. Her poems have often been honored by TER and its Challenges. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni. ** Filling Spaces Dog breath fogs the window in the cramp of your bedroom, your lover gone, but at your bidding, dismissed the day before your fifth anniversary, a preemptive move, knowing he’d forget, never mind the cloying scent of a perfume you’ve never used that you sniffed on his jacket. Two still-plumped pillows head what used to be his side of the bed. Pottery he made, as yet unsmashed, lies in a box at the foot. Everything here abhors a vacuum. Black dog, upside-down, his wanting belly exposed, fills one gap. His dreams ride the refuge of the space your lover vacated, as he nestles into the billow of the duvet. Brown dog’s spine rides the left longitude of you, warms the length of your leg. The dogs flanking your sides arrived courtesy of your lover’s need to rescue, discovered in a burlap sack three years ago and brought home to salvage what was lost. Now, a larger loss looms over the room. You’d thought you were glad to see the back of him, but now wonder whether you did the right thing. You stare at the dusty sunbeam spilling through the window and a whoosh of air pushes from your lungs. You lose your eyes, start the hard work of erasing, of replacing. Mikki Aronoff Mikki Aronoff’s work has been nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction, with stories appearing in Best Microfiction 2024 and forthcoming in Best Small Fictions 2024. She lives in New Mexico. ** Grief Has More Than One Pattern Daydreams take up most of her time – dreams of what it must be like to be a dog, to have a life where someone else takes care of the dirty dishes, the disheveled bed, the comings and goings of daily doings, even where the next tattoo will go. If only some benevolent being (someone who loves her as much as her dogs do) would take charge and let her focus on clouds and colors, walks in the park and midnight jazz. He used to do that for her. He loved her as much as she loves her dogs. Maril Crabtree Maril Crabtree’s book, Fireflies in the Gathering Dark (Kelsay Books), received a 2018 Kansas Notable Books award. Her latest book is Journey. Her poems, essays, and short stories have appeared in numerous journals including Coal City Review, I-70 Review, Literary Mama, Main Street Rag, Persimmon Tree, Poet’s Market and Third Wednesday. She believes that a poem’s apothecary of words, of sounds spoken and absorbed, can be a healing force in our culture. Her online work can be seen at www.marilcrabtree.com ** After the walk the shutters closed upon return sprawled out in bed hot wind outside the sun fierce on our skin fierce on our road we’re done now I’m done a space for time a room for lying about on this layer of earth Stien Pijp Stien Pijp lives in the Dutch country side. She enjoys thinking, poetry and clay. She is a linguist who works in the field of aphasia and care. A dreamy person who likes to hang around and walk her dog. ** At Noon I let the sun eat me and my captive Halloween ghosts itching to ignite. I let love go- bald like the eucalyptus grove by the path I climb, like the silver oaks that rise beyond hope. As in a note that I find at free bird house library on the road I walk at noon, Write a line and pass it on- I let the sun eat my youth and colors gone cold. At end I lie free of my weight, sprawled, browned as the eucalyptus bark tattooed with time. Fearless of fall. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. 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, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** Sunrise Aches of Evening Years oh, but I’ll be up again, darlings-- blame these old bones, rigid and stubborn as your love for walks when air is cool and sun tepid; your dawn in my evening years rejuvenate as much as it bears down with all its energetic leaps; alas, my cartilages, my muscles, my nerves require horizontal walks of complete stillness for a little while—maybe a few more whiles; come, lie next to me; accompany me through this internal adventure—I hear you, my darlings, but all I need is a little while, plus a few extra whiles, and I’ll be up again! Manisha Sahoo Manisha Sahoo (she/her), from Odisha, India, has a Bachelor’s degree in Engineering and a Master’s in English. Her words have appeared/are set to appear in Inked in Gray, Borders not Bridges, Apparition Lit, Sylvia Magazine, Atticus Review, Amity, Noctivagant Press, and others. You can find her on Twitter and on Instagram @LeeSplash. ** I Search for the God of the Afternoon Doze of two dogs lying down with me of the smell of trees on their coats of the ice cream pink and blue swirl of quilts surrounding us of the pattern of light that will fade of a green dress hiked to my thigh of dreams and intricate tattoos of my right hand fallen like a fat leaf by my chin of pillows tossed to the floor of eyes that will close in a moment of dirty plates by the bed I think of then forget Catherine Anderson Catherine Anderson is the author of four full-length collections of poetry, and a recent memoir, My Brother Speaks in Dreams: Of Family, Beauty & Belonging, about growing up with her brother Charlie who had autism and was institutionalized for a time. For decades she has worked with new immigrants and refugees in the field of interpretation/translation. In her free moments, she likes to draw owls. ** Lady Dogs It's the happiest she’s been in a decade, here on the bed with Beck and Sue. He'd be horrified to see it: the bed in disarray, dogs on the duvet in animal abandon. What about the shed hairs, he’d say, my allergies, the mess that lady dogs make. She hated the term ‘lady dogs’: as if insults are improved by euphemisms. They’d had a long, gorgeous walk across the common. Beck and Sue were everywhere, scampering like crazed things: she’d never known dogs dig so many holes! But both came to heel when she called, as if they’d been acquainted for years. They hadn’t - she fetched them from Rescue Dogs that morning. But look how they adjusted to their new home, stretched-out on her bed like they’d lounged there forever! Brown haired Beck at her left, snoozing on the swirled sheets; black haired Sue playing possum, a twitch in her hind-leg the only sign of life in her weary state. When they ran to the bedroom she hadn’t even stopped to wipe their paws: she didn’t need to care anymore. She felt at peace with these dogs. She’d missed the creature-warmth of a loving presence, so lacking in her life through her years with that man: his skin like refrigerated lard; his chill, bony limbs poking holes in her patience, her will to live. She knew things would change with Beck and Sue, felt instantly connected when she collected them this morning: sweet-natured Beck’s gentle eyes, Sue’s lean snout that she likes to nuzzle with. He feared being nuzzled by dogs: shunned the wet nose that Sue forced upon him, nuzzling his face to get attention. She guessed how he’d react, claiming dogs made his asthma rage; but he was easily upset, that man. Everything annoyed him, her most of all. He didn’t like the sandy shade she dyed her hair, the way she wore her dresses short, the beautiful tattoos she’d been adding to for years, just to spite him. But dogs were the final straw: he’d fumed when she bought them home, flew into a man-rant. Asthma, asthma, asthma! He only ever thought about himself, that man. It occurs to her now that their walk across the common will be a twice-a-day routine: Beck and Sue need exercise, but now her garden’s out-of-bounds. She’d never known dogs dig so many holes: who knows what these lady dogs might find beneath the freshly-turned earth. Paul McDonald Paul McDonald taught American literature at the University of Wolverhampton for 25 years, before taking early retirement in 2019. He is the author of 20 books to date, which includes fiction, poetry and scholarship. His most recent poetry collection is 60 Poems (Greenwich Exchange Press, 2023) ** Where the Red Hair Grows “Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.” - Emily Dickinson the silence crackled and began to dance. the heat stuck to light. my two beautiful dogs. one large with long paws, movie glam, and glistened with gold. the other smaller made with silver trim, and sparkled like a star. there was a story that went back a half century. my mind drifted through the years. my wonderful memories unfolded. Michelle Hoover With thanks to Wilson Rawls, Where the Red Fern Grows, Ch. 1. Michelle “Line/breaker of the North” Hoover is an amateur poet and professional wiseacre. She lives near a mountain on unceded Ute territory with her onery feline, Stevie, the Magnificent Marshmallow. She enjoys her toes in the grass, a hardy laugh, and a backstroke under a starry sky. Her work can be found in The Ekphrastic Review; enjoy! ** Afternoon Siesta Cynthia is in deep meditation as she reclines on her wrought iron bed covered in colourful floral quilts, content with her hand on her brown lab’s neck as a stiff breeze ruffles lace curtains above the pillows. Her leafy tattoos prove her bond to nature while Cynthia’s dyed red hair and facial wrinkles remain evidence of maturity. This afternoon she is resting from a two-hour hike along the marsh, where she paused to observe a snowy egret, motionless fifty feet away with her two dogs, Zeus and Bandit. At this moment her fingers are poised on her lips-- some dark secret never to be shared. Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) copies are available [email protected]. His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review(Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** King’s Walks 24 days ago, I noticed how slow King walked. His progress was usually lagging a little due to his massive bulk, but he kept falling far enough behind I had to wait for him to catch up. He was just getting on a bit, 13 now. Our afternoon walks out in the woods were the highlight of his day (if you don’t count dinner), so we still ventured out, morning and afternoon, no matter what the weather. 15 days ago, I woke up to a revolting smell. The morning light was barely slipping through the blinds in the shades. The other dogs had evacuated the bedroom, leaving King slumped on the floor surrounded by foul piles and mounds. I could see his body heaving with effort. I got out of bed and put my hand on his head; he struggled to his feet, and we walked to the truck to go to the vet’s. 13 days ago, the phone screeched out during the early morning. It scared me for a few reasons. It was the vet’s office calling to report their findings. King had cancer. And it was too late, and he was too old. No other details they shared mattered. I don’t even remember what kind they said he had. I rounded up the crew and headed into the woods while the sun was still out to warm us. 4 days ago, while I was washing dishes, I heard a crash from the hallway. I dropped the plate and was already in the doorway when the crack echoed out. King was splayed on the floor. He was fighting to get to his paws, but his legs convulsed so horrifically, it was impossible for him to get up. I crouched and pulled him to me. The convulsions stopped as darkness crept down the hallway while we were lying there. That day, nothing was done, no walks were taken. This morning, King didn’t go near his breakfast. I let the bowl out all morning. I shooed the others when they came sniffing around. That was King’s food, though he hadn’t eaten in a few days. He watched me do chores from his deflated cushion. When I took a break for a cigarette and coffee he struggled to his paws and settled his large head on my lap and cried. I understood, and I cried with him. After the walk, I got in the shower to scrub the dirt from my skin and the guilt from my heart. But it was no use, the remorse crawled into bed with me. The remaining members of my small pack joined, and I am grateful for their warm bodies, soft fur, and the unrelenting love only dogs are capable of. The first walk we took after I brought him home, King was a holy terror. He ran from me the moment I unclasped the leash. He frolicked in the mud, got stuck in the woods’ overgrowth. He attempted a small howl, but just frightened himself. I wriggled in after him and ended up with a tick. He relentlessly chased squirrels until he finally caught one, and I had to coax him with multiple treats to let the poor thing go. I remember thinking that he was hustling me. My energy was spent by the time we got back, but he bounced around like he had just woken from a full night’s sleep. When I finally scrubbed the dirt from his fur, he curled around me in front of the tv for the night. And that was how we spent almost every day. Tomorrow, I’ll call the tattoo parlor for an appointment to get a crown added to my right arm. Samantha Gorman Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel. ** Always Three She absently rubs my neck. The woman whose name I’ve never known. I’ve been with her enough days to know she sees no one but me and Polly. Polly is what the other dog is called. She calls me Susan. She’s not been around other people so I don’t know what she is called. Many days she will lay in bed until noon, just the three of us while she stares out the window. After a long time, she will get up and give us little biscuits and a saucer of tea. Her tea is in a big cup. She will put big white shirts over her clothes and spread colours on paper. She gives them to the mailman every couple of days and he brings her money. She lives in color. She lives for color. After the day is over, she’ll sit on her little balcony alone and eat dinner, then all of us will sit together and listen to music while she reads or knits or just sits. Sometimes we’ll dance, sometimes we’ll cry. Whatever we do, it’s just the three of us. Always. Anna Svatora Anna Svatora is a high schooler in central Ohio. She has participated in a few state writing competitions and hopes to become a full-time author one day. ** Thinking Thinking, thinking, thinking. All day she spent thinking. She lay in bed just thinking of her life, thinking of her lost love, regrets, sorrows, and joys. All day, all week she spent thinking, thinking of memories of when she was young, memories of her husband she misses so dearly. She lies in bed with her dogs lost in her thoughts of all her memories she has of life, good and bad. She enjoys the time she spent thinking of those memories. She smiles slightly, “a well lived life” she thought. Abbi Dose ** My Two Dogs I lie in bed contemplating everything that a person could contemplate on a Monday morning, allowing the sun’s rays to enter my cornea and make it impossible to sleep. I looked to my left and right and my black Pocket Beagle named Rosie and my brown Labrador dog named Teddy were still snoozing even though the sun’s rays had filled the entire room, it still had not woken them or stirred them in the slightest out of their slumber. Even though both dogs were different sizes and different breeds they still manage to get along no matter what. I thought about the world and wondered about how people were unable to get along like how dogs were able to, it just doesn’t make any sense since humans are smarter than dogs and we are unable to get along. I sigh, knowing that we humans have a long way to go until we get along and so I pray to God and then get up and walk to the kitchen to prepare my dog’s food. I grab by dog’s food and walk to their bowl and pour it in and now I hear the running of paws to my location and I see my Teddy running to the food bowl but not eating it right away instead he waits for Rosie who comes running in a little bit after him and so they both start eating from the food bowl not growling at each other just eating and enjoying each others company. Samuel Verhoff ** You see, poems are not exactly my specialty. so ill do the bio. As a wee little lad, I loved to eat dirt. You see I wasn't the brightest person in that metaphorical box. But I had something even greater, since I had the IQ of a dead pigeon, I knew that I could easily eat dirt. but since I knew that dirt wasn't normally easy to eat. I thought I could try multiple things that might change the way it works. I tried soaking it in water and even trying to take it grain by grain. I realize how dumb this was about a month later, and even now I still think about it once a week. but I just felt determined by this pointless act, that would not benefit me but actually make my hours worse because of the stomach pain. After I tried multiple different ways and after I had basically given up. I had a spark of ideas, one I thought would for sure work. "if I could just put it through a strainer" I thought to myself. now I didn't own one, and to my surprise, there wasn't one in my shed either. But then I remembered the meat mallet my father used to almost crush a squirrel that got stuck in our humble home. I used it with water and a bag. I put the bag under the meat mallet and turned the mallet to the side, I used clean water and pressed the dirt against the mallet while the water flowed. turns out that's not how straining works. so I tried to, and part of my brain felt so accomplished it made the dirt not taste half bad. I haven't eaten dirt since but if something like this happens again. I'll be sure to try whatever it takes to get my dumb goal accomplished Cole Stefanovski ** The Encounter The bed is strewn with fatigue, pillows tossed about, Labradors panting on each side of he mattress and myself resting from our early walk. Before dawn, we hiked through the woods. long and slow winding through a place where everything dissolved into silhouette and the shining stillness that lingers after an Autumn rain. The moon had cast her presence on the water, a woman gowned in white - drifting on a current headed down stream where the stone depot remains with ivy sprawling over its walls; and memories have seen the sorrow of too many departures. The dogs whimpered, sensing a ghost; and I felt the shadow of a story trail behind. Someone harbored by the huddle of trees, soft-fallen of foot and voice, said to go home, fall asleep and the rest would be revealed in a dream. So here I lie fading into slumber, wondering what spirit called my name, begging me to learn of her legend. The dogs lie corpse-still, their breathing now easy, hardly heard but they know about the moon and how she parts that curtain of mist hours before most souls revisit their past. And I think the dead must breathe as they shimmer in the dark or half light, inhaling our scent knowing which ones to pursue and possess. The sky lightens with a train passing on tracks that follow the river. And I hear travelers discussing in one of the carriage cars how a lady drowned, submerging herself in the cold darkness of midnight. Her birthday just moments away; and her lover gone to the glamour of gambling A grand casino in Monte Carlo they say. La Salle des Americains known for its rich tapestries and tables spinning his life into nothing but the luck of numbers. Tomorrow I turn thirty, my husband still in Paris but his letter sits on the chair, a few inches from my hand, waiting to be read again and I realize there are no trains that go through this town, only a woman wanting to press his words against her heart, waiting to awaken from my dream. A stranger to the dogs but not this house which she owned lit by gas lamps and gloamed by the green dusk of willows -- more than a hundred years before. Wendy A. 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, women in conflict and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both on-line and in print. Among them: Strange Horizons, Liminality, Coffin Bell, Eternal Haunted Summer , The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Silver Blade Magazine, The Orchards Journal, Indelible magazine and Eye To The Telescope. Her latest work will be forthcoming in The Acropolis Journal later this year. ** Sacrament with Dogs and Tattoo Sleeve The dogs dream of running toward her right beside her the way the soul speedwalks stock still toward the body when the body’s hungers have all been checked off like items on a to-do list. I love the good bad things: the bright red heels that crush my toes like ice in an overpriced drink; scarfing stale kid’s cereal straight from the box; an afternoon in bed letting the bright unproductive light poke holes in my sorrow like the ones I’ll later stab into the film of a microwave meal. Douse me in doubt, drench me in deep lavish unknowing, like a bird bathing herself in a highway puddle. My God is a girl holding a mirror between her legs or a convenience store bathroom—perfect for when perfect doesn’t matter so much as relief. Maybe God isn’t good but where love goes to get her nails done so she doesn’t have to hold anything for a while. There are days I think I’ll layer my floors in filthy laundry if it means I don’t have to walk anywhere I haven’t already been. I want to let my dogs out and then watch them rub their street-slick snouts on my sheets. Like a low-cut dress, life won’t ask you to bend over but is what is revealed when you do. Lexi Pelle Lexi Pelle was the winner of the 2022 Jack McCarthy Book prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Ninth Letter, Plume, SWWIM and The Shore. She is the author of the poetry collection Let Go With The Lights On (Write Bloody Publishing, 2023). ** Allison Wright lay in bed as the early morning sunlight filled her room through the open window. The cool springtime air caused her curtains to rise up and fall back down slowly. It was a beautiful day, but she could not be more nervous. Today was the day. Race day. Not just any kind of race though, Allison competed in dog racing. She stroked her golden retriever, Holly, absentmindedly as she stared up at the red walls and ceiling of her room. Her other arm rested against her other dog Skye, who was lying on her back, all four fluffy legs in the air. She believed that she was a Beagador, half beagle, half labrador, with fluffy black fur, with white patches of white on her chest and toes. Holly rose gently up and down as she slept, but Skye’s tail continued to wack Allison’s arm as she grinned mischievously up at her owner over her furry stomach. Skye was full of energy, while Holly was very calm, except when people came over. The two of them obviously were not racing dogs, but they still came to the races to watch their older brother Bandit, her greyhound, compete. When she had competed in track and cross country in her high school years, Bandit had run with her when he was a little puppy when she was practicing, and she had realized how fast and talented he was. They started small, competing in the annual town race, which was easily won. After that they took on the state, and now she was twenty-one and the two of them were about to compete in the country wide race. She glanced over at her clock; it was 7:39. Better get going she thought, and she climbed out of bed, causing Holly to wake up and stare at her with sleepy eyes. Skye, on the other hand, rolled over, falling off the side of the bed, and bounded up to Allison, jumping up and down excitedly. She changed out of her green nightgown into a dark gray t-shirt with a picture of Hawaii, which she hoped to visit someday, and pulled on a pair of jeans. She never wore makeup, which her older sister, Kaylee, never understood, so she did not waste any time on that. She then pulled her copper colored hair up into a messy bun, brushed Holly and Skye’s fur until they were both silky and shiny, and went downstairs for some breakfast. She glanced at the clock in the kitchen as she prepared the dog’s food first. It was around 7:50, she would need to leave at 8:15. About an hour later they were pulling up to her parents house. As she began to open up the car door, Skye pushed her way through it, and Allison had to quickly grab her leash, Skye especially hated car rides. Holly and Bandit followed. She was about to reach the doorstep when the door opened and her two little nieces, Bridget and Madeline, ran out to greet her. “Hi Aunt Alli!” they squealed happily before dropping down to pet the dogs instantly. Allison laughed, and looked up to see Kaylee and her husband Derrick in the doorway, smiling at her. “Hey little sis,” Kaylee walked down and gave her a hug. Derrick followed, greeting Allison with an embrace as well, and offered to take the leashes. She thanked him, and handed Holly and Skye over to him, but kept Bandit, who stayed close to her. She walked towards the house and found two boys standing in the door this time. One was her nephew, Cason, and the other was her younger brother, Noah. She was just barely finished saying hello to them when she was suddenly becoming squished from all over as her mother and father joined the group hug. Once everyone had finished their greetings, they started heading out to lunch; the dogs stayed home, of course. There they met up with her grandparents, a few aunts, uncles, cousins, and some friends. They all caught up with one another and talked excitedly about the race. A few hours later, Allison was on the road again, pulling into the racetrack’s parking lot. Only Bandit was with her this time; the other two dogs were riding with the family. She walked him over to the track. He sniffed excitedly at the ground, his tail wagging enthusiastically. Bandit loved to race, just like Allison. She smiled down at him. Even after all these years he still reminded her of that little puppy bounding down the high school’s track next to her. They went inside the building where the racers gathered, preparing their dogs for the contest, for victory. Allison stroked Bandit, while he nuzzled his face into her lap. After a while she glanced at her watch. It was almost 6:00. She could already hear the crowd. The announcer started to call the dogs and their owners out to the track. The race was about to begin. Becca Bates Becca Bates is a freshman at Granville Christian Academy. She plays volleyball for her school's team, and has written and published a book with two of her friends, Earth Defenders: Alien Attack. ** This Life Daddy said go on and live your life, Don’t get old with regrets like your mama and I, Take one step forward until you feel what’s right, You won’t always have time on your side. Daddy says he feels seventeen inside, Yet the glass shows an old man with his eyes, He knows that life has somehow passed him by, With no turning back, no matter how hard he tries. Sometimes I feel like I want to stay in bed, Pull the covers up high right over my head, Pretend the world’s heard all that needs to be said, That my scars will stop bleeding because they’ve already bled. Then I hear daddy’s voice in my mind, Saying honey remember there’s no thing as rewind, Put one step forward, you will be just fine, Your two steps back were just a moment in time. My feet hit the floor from guilt or drive, I push myself forward and start the climb, Perhaps his sadness isn’t just for what he left behind, But for fear that his life could be repeated as mine. Corrie Pappas Corrie Pappas is a small business owner living outside Boston. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review and she is the author of the children’s book, Come Along and Dream. ** A Question She lies awake, burrowed into a bloom of quilts, a flurry of pink and turquoise, yellow and indigo. Her mind races like her Golden Boy on the wooded path. He’s dozing now, warm against her left flank, the spot he favours. Blacky lies on her right, legs splayed, belly exposed and vulnerable. They smell of leaves and earth. She watches the shadow of the old oak shape shift across the ceiling as the day winds down. She strokes her lips, ponders her husband’s return, whether there’s room for him. Susan Carman ** JOIN KATE COPELAND FOR AN EKPHRASTIC BREAKFAST ON PAINTED PETS! Plus, Lorette on Writing Ghost Stories this weekend, and more. Our workshops are about connection, creativity, and community. Write, learn about art, and connect with the worldwide ekphrastic community! Painted Pets
CA$35.00
On Zoom. $35CAD/25USD. Sunday November 10 2024. 10 to 12 est Join us for an ekphrastic Sunday brunch! Bring coffee, tea, and breakfast if you wish and join editors Lorette and Kate Copeland online for a romp with Fido and Felix. Lorette will show some fascinating paintings featuring cats, dogs, and other pets. And Kate, a linguist who is also a professional petsitter, will talk about the language of our animal companions and how we form relationships with them. She will have some writing exercises to inspire us on the theme. Writing Ghost Stories
CA$35.00
A generative session on Zoom for ghost story ideas. We'll look at some ghostly and ghastly paintings from art history to get inspired. You will consider what it means to be haunted, brainstorm possibilities for horrifying poems and stories that go bump in the night, and generate some drafts. You can write poetry or short fiction. Sunday October 20, 2024 2 to 4 pm eastern standard time $35Canadian dollars is approximately $25USD The Madonna in Art: a Discovery Workshop
CA$35.00
Join us on Tuesday, December 1o from 2 to 4 pm eastern standard time, for a discovery workshop on the Madonna in art history. We will look at the history of the Virgin Mary in visual art around the world, and learn the secrets of the symbols that accompany her, the meanings of different renderings and styles, and much more. The first half of this workshop will be a tour of visual images and discussion of the art and artists. In the second half, we will use some of the imagery to inspire contemplation and creativity, with prompts for poems or short fiction. This week's prompt is with Halloween in mind! Sign up for our Writing Ghost Stories workshop on zoom, October 20th! Our zoom workshops are lively sessions curated to inspire and inform. In this session, we will look at a variety of artworks on the theme of ghosts and use them to inspire poems and stories. You can register by scrolling to the end of this challenge post. ** Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working 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 Old Hall, by John Anster Fitzgerald. Deadline is October 25, 2024. 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. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. 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 FITZGERALD 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. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, October 25, 2024. 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 do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. 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. 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! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. 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! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. ** Sign up for our Writing Ghost Stories workshop on zoom, October 20th! Our zoom workshops are lively sessions curated to inspire and inform. In this session, we will look at a variety of artworks on the theme of ghosts and use them to inspire poems and stories. The Copper Thunderbird "I will give to them an undivided heart and put a new spirit in them; I will remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh." Ezekiel 11:19 The turtle hissed beneath the leaves. Beetles swarmed the bright marquee of a local movie house. Fall and Spring, You and I in the balcony -- summer gone to winter dreams -- our lives transformed by the magic of film in the same way nature changes cycles and time holds us, as Dylan Thomas said, green and dying. I knew the Raven, actually a Blackbird, would wait in the oak trees to cry out that its eyes were art; that the Ojibwe would find the land where food grew on water, and how their hearts would read the stones, the petroglyphs, symbols of their songs and dances while we explored the world of rock'n'roll on a night-drenched driveway until a turquoise Ford Thunderbird would carry our "tribe" to the Holiday House... Norval (from Scots Norman, North Valley) was called the Picasso of the North. In poor health at our age, his life was saved by the animal wisdom of the seven clans -- the bear, who protects: the fish who grows legs and becomes the turtle; the deer, with hooves that heal, like the horse; and the bird with spiritual knowledge of the skies, the moon and stars. How full the moon, like an Ojibwe moon-mask, as it sailed over houses in North Austin; above places where we danced summoning the spirits of teenage love as heavenly shades of night were falling on a 45 rpm record. If the earth were as simple as day & night a world created in black & white (but it isn't) how would the thunderbird signal the rain, the lightning that "snakes" from under its wings? The sound of a storm and what does it mean? The sun set in copper, with pigments of light, as in visionary puzzles -- how an artist imagined the Thunderbird's flight. Laurie Newendorp Honoured many times, and twice nominated for Best of The Net by The Ekphrastic Review, Laurie Newendorp is a poet writing in Houston. Her love of animals, art and archaeology surface in "The Copper Thunderbird, " the name that Morrisseau's grandfather, a medicine man, gave his sick grandson as it was an indigenous Indian belief that a new name, as a part of a healing ritual, would restore health, creating a new person. The Holiday House is a drive-in hamburger restaurant in Austin, Texas. ** Cycles for Morrisseau
Lunar cycles, sun cycles, carbon cycles, water cycles. Many sacred rotations, spinning, churning a vast centrifuge. Mother mitochondria, organelles dance and revel with energy. Cells rollicking in minuscule sparks, our symbiotic ancestors. An infinitesimal seed. Germinates, then cracks in a burst of vitality. Emergent creatures vie for oxygen. Giants breathe under sapphire waters. Crawling, hopping, flying, digging, climbing, strutting. Eyes, fur, teeth, feathers, bones. Bodies filled with liquid. We live, die, and become something mysterious. May the world keep cycling again and again to sanctify the wonder of life. Rachel Prizant Kotok Rachel Prizant Kotok (she/her) is the author of Morpho Didius, a collection of palindromic poetry (Armature Publishing, 2024). A finalist for the Tucson Festival of Books Literary Award for Poetry, she is a finalist for Southwest Review’s Morton Marr Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared in Tiferet Journal, Star 82 Review, The Centifictionist, Wend Poetry, and elsewhere. She teaches English learners, lives in New England, and keeps a Gregor Samsa beetle figurine nearby when she writes. ** cycles norval morrisseau also known as copper thunderbird a picture is worth a thousand stories your throbbing colours tell and retell the stories passed down to you stories that nourished your people stories of the cycle of life like the generations of salmon glutted red returning to their death to birth then nurture their watery grave your throbbing colours tell and retell the stories of your own life that you honored as you struggled through your own telling finally there were the stories of the theft of your sacred gift crafted from your visions and dreams such were the stories that shaped you and now your memory like the red salmon glutted with life Lou Ella Hickman Author's note: Salmon take on a red colour just before spawning. Sister Lou Ella Hickman, OVISS is a former teacher and librarian whose writings have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. Press 53 published her first book of poetry in 2015 entitled she: robed and wordless. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2017 and in 2020. James Lee III composed “Chavah’s Daughters Speak” for a concert held on May 11, 2021, at 92Y in New York City for five poems from her book. Another concert was held in Cleveland, Ohio on March 28, 2023, sponsored by the Cleveland Chamber Music Society. Her second book of poetry, Writing the Stars, will be released on October 4, 2024. (Press 53). ** Cycles Thinnest wavering lines connect us. That, and the red we all share. Blood red that seizes your attention. Black lines and vermillion make your eye move In a circle. A cycle. Where does it begin or end? Do you recognize us? Are you sure? We traverse verdant land and emerald sea Our bodies overlap. We need each other like earth needs ocean. Like you need us. Bill Richard Bill Richard is a docent at the Phoenix Art Museum and has loved art since he sat on his dad’s lap as a toddler and looked at books of paintings. He is also a standardized patient for medical schools, helping prepare future health professionals by giving them feedback on their communication skills. His poems have appeared in publications such as Red River Review, Ilya’s Honey, and National Catholic Reporter. ** Sacred Hoop I. Look to the east as the tadpole hatches, catches horizon, glides from sea to Mother Earth. II. Look to the south as the fawn matures to doe under the moon. III. Look to the west where a sun-kissed whale cow strives for water’s surface. IV. Look to the north, to star-studded Father Sky, the turtle creeping into the sea to die. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is pursuing a World Art History Certificate from Smithsonian Associates as she works on a full-length ekphrastic poetry collection. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, ONE ART, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be found at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** To Norval Morrisseau Regarding Cycles You speak in ancient seeming glyphs of timeless climbs to final cliffs from blackened depths to dampened beach, from there to peaks the mountains reach that pierce the very atmosphere the conscious know as engineer of moisture's cyclic fall and rise permitting living enterprise to draw from common circumstance, at peril wrought by random chance, existence both of self and sort such evidence will long report as heritage of time and space that dawn renews for life's embrace. Portly Bard Portly Bard: 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. ** The Cycle Continues A coincidental thing occurred when I looked at “Cycles,” the Morrisseau painting-my Brother, Jay, had sent me an article about an “air bike” he had fashioned from Copious spare parts, garnered at little cost, he was known for squeezing a Dime until it cried, he probably still has each one of our grandfather’s special socks- Economy was in grandpa’s genes too, except for Christmas time, when he proffered Full length crew socks to each of us, brimming with his spare change, rubber-banded, Garaged in his underwear drawer for the last year, a favorite gift that I had to Habituate myself to accepting without comment, knowing even a tiny discrepancy Ignited fury, Jay’s face turning from glad to a mask of pain, at the thought of being Jerked around by grandpa, as if there was a conspiracy to give me a quarter more- King Jay was forbidden to count his money during our family celebration, & he always Loathed waiting for the car ride home to do it, & for my part, I kept quiet, trying not to Murmur one word about how much my haul was that year. I would pick out one shiny Nickel and give it to him, saying he now had five cents more than me. There was no Opposition in the car, he didn’t want to incur the wrath of dad, impatient to get home to Pabst and his motorcycles, hand-built built with precision and style, & he was often Queried by magazines and newspapers about his fabulous cycles, (one with two engines)- Resplendent with chrome kickstands-- and my mother, sitting atop the custom-leather seat, Stunning, with her Jackie-Kennedy hair and pink lipstick, and my brother, an acolyte Transfixed, but too restless to be taught first-hand by the master, who, sadly, left last August, Utilizing his last breath to reassure us, (he that was so unsure of the world) of love, but Veering back to the article, I know if dad could read it, he’d smile so big, as his boy Wielding some sass, was quoted “I loved the idea of a bicycle with an Evinrude motor” Xenogeneic, this hybrid cycle was touted as an original masterpiece by Farm Show Magazine Zealot of the bargain, he said the total cost was $150.00. I don’t doubt it. The cycle goes on. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass is a poet, writer, and collage artist living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared inPunk Monk Journal, Three-Line Poetry, Haiku Poetry, The Light Ekphrastic, The Ekphrastic Review, and The Niagara Falls Poetry Journal, among others. She has recently appeared in local spoken-word showcases & attended the Rockvale Writer’s Residency earlier this year. Go Braves, (There’s always another season!) ** Cycles He was a collector of stories, as beachcombers collect. He assembled some of them here, for the Anishinaabe—the people of First Nations. Here is Mi-zhee-kay, the turtle who saved the world from the great flood. Here is Mishi-ginebig, the horned serpent who lives underwater, its shed skin symbolizing rebirth. Here is the fiercest of all,Misshipeshu, the Great Lynx with spines on its back, master of the water and adversary of the Thunderbird, master of the air. And others, all with tales. These are stories that twist good and evil, forward and back, male and female, in the Two-Spirit world that transforms one thing into another. It is all here in the storyboard: the cycle becomes a transmutation of life and death, of non-human and almost-human. I watch them cycling ‘round and the painting becomes kinetic, a kaleidoscope of form and color. There is no right-side-up here; turn it as you wish. These images magnify the oral tradition. We anthropologists collect them, stories and images alike. Henry Schoolcraft assembled tales from these Ojibwe, Franz Boaz from the Inuit, both of them reflecting our fascination with folklore a century back. Longfellow created his own story here: Hiawatha, the misnamed Ojibwe warrior, Manabozho. Stories worth telling, worth seeing in pictures. Beachcombers, all of us, our collections keep these stories from washing away. Ron Wetherington Ron Wetherington is a retired anthropologist living in Dallas, Texas. He has a published novel, Kiva (Sunstone Press, 2014), creative non-fiction, including prose-poems, in The Dillydoun Review, Literary Yard, Penumbra, Abandon Journal and The Ekphrastic Review, and short fiction in Words & Whispers, Adanna, Androids & Dragons, and in Flash Fiction Magazine. ** All these stones, incised with stories, rattling around in the gaps 1 My memory is faulty and full of holes-- and yet the fossils of my youth keep turning up, unsought. 2 Is ancient farther away than yesterday?-- each is a gesture to something that no longer exists. 3 Embedded in my bones is the urge to transcend their gravity. I tell myself that my body is merely a vessel. 4 Chaotic remnants, scraps of the unfounded-- I feel them trembling inside me. 5 Nothing disappears. What is it that I need to do to find out what belongs to me? 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/. ** A Healing Frame For vibrant colour, outline clear, here’s Copper Thunderbird at work as cycles round in credal dance, though new name, ancient healing stance. His faith was catholic, as meant, evolving fusion’s widest spread First Nation to the mystical, including apostolic thread as borne of fire, whisky risk dread. Would he divulge too much himself - taboo to share his native myths? With Cree syllabics as his sign, once moose hide, birchbark for his line. From ten his school was hunt, fish, trap, and draw in elders’ discipline. An influencer, Thunder Bay, he made his mark on Woodland folk, new glyph traditions now bespoke. A constable Shepparded him to meet those who could open doors; a mural, Expo ’67 (I hold postcard my teacher sent!) - while vinyl, movies, screened his art, and astral travel played its part. Earth tones near neon here we see, glass stained as pained by struggles, faith; flogged fakes for real as fraudsters found, but not his soul, artist unbound. Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** Melancholy by the Creek The intense summer retreated Leaving the creek an old man- Cracked and dry and thin- Hiding in the autumnal mist. I plunge cupped hands in, pull them out, The water clear yet a crowded microscopic soup. What tiny creatures have I plucked from their home And their everyday business? Have they existed only these last twenty-four hours or have they seen rise of the dinosaurs? will they witness the fall of man? Even smaller than these unseen critters are their atoms. Could they be made of the same carbon that once composed my Great-great-great-grandfather that I never knew? And what about the atoms contained in my own cells. Joan of Arc’s hydrogen or Robert Frost’s nitrogen? I’d be honoured and bewildered. These tiny beings and me, I hope we do good with these atoms While they are us, then go on to do better. Samantha Gorman Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel. ** Dream – The Aggañña Sutta1 for Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha) Do man’s visions last? / Do man’s illusions? / Take things as they come / All things pass. Lao Tzu, "All Things Pass" Beyond the delusions of ‘immutable will/predestination’ and deterministic frameworks of ‘good ‘n evil,’ there’s an electromagnetism of the replicative Cycles of Cause ‘n Effect—where the electrons are the apostles of duality (prevail both as particles ‘n waves); where the protons never meet their demise (only morph into neutral pions and positrons); where the neutrinos are disciples of anti-matter (shape-shift into muons and taus at will);2 where the ‘universal constants’ struggle for the room to roam; where the Platonic ‘ideal forms’ are deprived of all value; where the psyche (spirit) is emancipated from the cobwebs of the ‘sacred tablets;’ where the asuras (devas ‘n devis) themselves are the loyal subjects to the continuum of dialectical ballet dance of prakriti and purusha;3 where the quest for a ‘universal prologue ‘n epilogue’ is as futile as desiring the O2 to manifest as a single molecule in the realm of Mu,4 his R.E.M. gets dissolved by the cock-a-doodle-do of a rooster’s at circa seven ante meridiem; he at once resolves to the digital stylus ‘n tablet to poem the dream while ‘tis still fresh like the spring water flowing down the temple of the Himalayas. Saad Ali 1. Aggañña Sutta: The creation narrative in the Buddhist tradition, which professes the cyclical nature of the existence/cosmos and its processes – without the need for a Divine Being, such as, Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva et al – where the expansion and contraction is repetitive. 2. McKee, M. (2014), “This Shape-Shifter Could Tell Us Why Matter Exists,” Nautilus. 3. Prakriti and Purusha: In the Samkhya School of Thought (Hindu Philosophy), ‘prakriti’ denotes matter and ‘purusha’ denotes conscious energy. 4. Mu: In Zen Buddhism (Chan School of Thought), ‘Mu’ denotes nothing(ness), without reason/purpose, et cetera. Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE in Okara, Pakistan) – bilingual poet-philosopher & literary translator – has been brought up and educated in the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. His new collection of poems is Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrases into Urdu. His poetry appears in The Ekphrastic Review, The Mackinaw, Synchronized Chaos, two Anthologies by Kevin Watt (ed.), and two e-Anthologies at TER. He has been nominated for the Best of the Net. His ekphrases have been showcased at Bleeding Borders, Art Gallery of Grande Prairie in Alberta, Canada. His influences include Vyasa, Homer, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky, Freud, Jung, Kafka, Tagore, Lispector, et alia. He enjoys learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities/towns on foot. To learn further about his work, please visit: www.facebook.com/owlofpines. ** Degrees of Magnitude: Three Earthquakes The first. Awakened from a deep sleep, I screech like a macaw whose tail is pulled. I’m certain I’m being attacked. A malicious intruder is hiding beneath my bed, stretched flat on the carpet. His hand is gripping the mattress frame, shaking it. He’s kangaroo-kicking the supports, making sure I’m petrified with fear before he leaps up to throttle me. That’s the only possible explanation. My bed rattles loudly, like a cup filled with dice. Everything else around me is as tranquil as a meadow. No pictures have fallen off the walls. No crashing sounds are coming from the kitchen. Ceilings haven’t crumbled. Walls haven’t cracked. Table lamps haven’t broken. This can’t be an earthquake. The second. Quickly, I estimate how far I have to run. Five steps. A door is supposed to be a better spot to stand during seismic activity than the middle of a room. If a house is properly constructed, the lintels are reinforced by timber studs under the plaster. Can I reach the safety of the arch in time? The floor is rolling like a board mounted on ball bearings. I begin to doubt my ability to walk, or to balance. Once, on a sailboat, I felt this same uncertainty, and yearned for sea legs. Now the earth is a surfacing whale. Waves are rippling over its back. Rock-solid foundations pinning the building in the ground seem to slide, the way a melting ice cube slides over a puddle of water. For the full minute the temblor lasts, I’m the prisoner of a whirlpool. Finally, the upheaval weakens in strength, the tempo of convulsion slows. Under my shoes, a fainter motion continues, small aftershocks that crawl instead of undulating, the twitching movements of a bug on a rock creeping back and forth and side to side. Drifting atop our planet’s molten core, the continent seems to hesitate, trying to decide where its new resting place will be. The third. On arrival at my office job one morning, I’m met by a friendly colleague who invites me into our warehouse. He’s given me the tour before, knows how impressed I was by the aisles of massive metal racks, eight feet tall, piled high and heavy with boxes of products. They’ve shifted positions overnight. Those fixtures wouldn’t budge if assaulted by a platoon of workers, or rammed by a forklift. Tremors displaced them as easily as if they were made of toothpicks. Across the length of the cavernous space, the long rows are snaking. There’s no other word to describe the curves. As I struggle to comprehend what I’m seeing, similar images float into my mind. Water meandering along loops in the San Joaquin River. Ridges being traced by wind across the contours of a sand dune. The shelves have preserved for us the path they followed, the shape of how the earthquake moved. K Roberts K Roberts is a professional non-fiction writer, a published artist, and a first reader for two magazines that publish experimental prose. Recent essays have been accepted for publication in Soundings East, Axon: Creative Expressions, and The Listening Eye. ** Serifs. From the margins of the text From the frayed edges From between the insular script From underneath the sleeves of sleep From the kinks of synapses From the margins of the text From the frayed edges From microscopic spores in fingerprints from crushed up foragings From the margins of the text From the frayed edges Creatures emerge and evolve to crawl From the pages out into the forest From the margins of the text From the frayed edges Limbs and tails unfurl from ink and pinpricks Wings claws teeth peck out through bindings Fledglings fall tumble slither disentangle from the scriptures From the margins of the text From the frayed edges Creatures emerge and evolve to crawl Limbs and tails unfurl from ink From the margins of the text From the frayed edges Eyes blink open Lungs breathe air Skin stretches into shape Hearts begin to beat. Saskia Ashby Saskia is a UK experimental fine artist who enjoys being active across a broad field and encouraging others to be creative without anxiety . ** All Things Green for grass that nourishes, for the buds of early Spring the emerald, olive and darker tones of the leaves of the summer forest. The Earth Mother, brown, umber nurturer, sustainer, provider creates the colours of wild flowers the plants which feed and heal. Blue for the sky, whose dome reflects its changing moods of brightness, menace, anger; the dark fury of the storm, the fierceness of the lightning. Blue too for mountain streams, river rapids that roar through canyons meander lazily to the oceans which ebb and flow to the lunar cycle. White for the virgin snow for the soft clouds of Summer, for the lace woven on the waves for the angry spray on falls. Bound into the seasons’ cycles, the fish, the turtles, and all the myriad, watery, creatures. The bear wandering the wilderness, the imperial eagle, the mountain King The moose too with its great antlers. All are intricately bound, part of a green, brown, blue and white seamless whole even the fall of a sparrow challenges the rhythm or pattern. Sarah Das Gupta Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge who enjoys many types of art and found herself in agreement with Morrisseau's ideas. ** I Blink The water dimples beneath my feet, the greenery intertwined with the rocks so vivid, they couldn’t be the bottom, but here I hover several feet above them, the sun warming my iridescent body. I flit over the water after my brief respite, the wind rushing around my translucent wings-- I blink. My pink tongue envelopes the small creature that flew right into my path, the perfect treat on this fine, sunny day. The warmth of the green leaf I spread my toes, and taking in one last look of the vast blue sky with wispy clouds of white, the trees of immeasurable height that my cousins house in, I leap from my perch and, with a soft plop, I dive, the cool water cocoons me. I kick to begin my swim-- I blink. I swallow the fighting frog, its tiny body no match to mine. After watching it for several minutes, it finally jumped, having no clue to its fate once in my domain. My belly now satisfied, I glide through the water, my scales glinting with my movement under the sun’s beams that filter through the restless substance of my home. In deep thought, I travel towards shallower territory, unbeknownst to me, as I enjoy my peaceful journey-- I blink. A satisfying crack of bone explodes in my mouth, my powerful jaws destroying my meal in seconds. Swallowing, I feel it travel the length of my body until it settles in the pit that is my stomach. Swaying my body back and forth, I slither through the rocks, the grass, the roots of nature’s maze. The sun warms my body, and I take a deep breath, allowing myself to just be, not worry about where to go, where to be, where to start over. The ground shudders, an audible rumble echoes, but I pay no heed, watching the flowers bend and bow under wind and fellow creatures-- I blink. My claws sink into fine flesh, the fresh scent of iron blood seeps into the air. I grin. My feathers ruffle in the wind as my arms flap furiously, fighting for height. Once up high enough, I rest my arms, gliding along the sky, in line with the trees of reds, golds, and greens. With gentle beats, I hover with the wind’s help, passing off my slithery kill to my loving partner to feed our youngsters. With one last glance, I dive back down, looking for another unsuspecting creature to finish off our meal. The soft tips of the grass tickle my arms as I pass over the ground, searching, searching, searching-- I blink. The screech ends abruptly, my prey not having time to realize, it was my meal, having watched it tease me as it flew so graciously over and around in circles over my head for hours. But now it came down to me and it became mine to eat. Fly no more, it shall not tease me with its elegance any longer. Grumbling, I waddle my way along the rocky ground, the clatter giving away my location long before my hiss or lengthy short body could ever hope to accomplish. All who see me fear my long, jagged teeth embedded in my camouflaged skin, allowing me to hide on both land and in water. As I slip into the clear liquid, I watch as a buzzing fly lands on the water, its tiny, black feet hardly denting its surface-- I blink. Katie Davey Katie Davey is an aspiring author from the rural parts of House Springs, MO. She has published two pieces through two separate challenges for the Ekphrastic Review, the first titled Hidden Prophecies as part of the Richard Challenge, and the second titled Listen Well, Listen All, of My Tale to Caution All as part of the Vicente Challenge. She has worked on Harbinger Magazine as a staff intern and is a member of Stephens College's chapter of Sigma Tau Delta. She earned her BFA in Creative Writing, with minors in Equestrian Studies and Psychology, at Stephens College in May 2024. Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working 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 After the Walk, by Lyn Aylward. Deadline is October 11, 2024. 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. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY.
Send your work to [email protected]. 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 AYLWARD 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. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, October 11, 2024. 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 do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. 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. 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! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. 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! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. The Sun Ray Painting "Okay, the last thing left is the painting,” the maid told Fiona. “I want it to stay in the house, it is in the perfect spot. The sunrise and sunset gleam, glow on it like a heavenly light selecting it for more,” she replied to the maid. Fiona had become violently ill and was deteriorating fast. In her final moments she and her maid, Jolie, were writing her will. They gave the animals and part of the gold to Fiona’s son, and the clothes and the other half of the gold went to her daughter. Jolie, however, did not know Fiona planned to give the property, including the painting, to her. They had grown up together as kids and knew each other inside out out. She always thought the sun rays on the painting were like Jolie, a ray of joy adding to the dull. Fiona wanted this to be her final farewell and thank you for all that Jolie did for her. She wrote it in her will when Jolie left the room and died shortly the next morning, while the sunrise was on the painting. Tessa Lawrence Tessa Lawrence is 15 and goes to high school in Ohio. She likes to read, write, and play basketball. ** The Missive and the Messenger She writes, perhaps, in the language of lovers- Her hurrying hand, hot with urgent grace, Pens her impatient passion that hovers In ribbony rivulets of ink traced Across the empty paper's sunlit space. The other woman waits, a messenger With listless boredom furrowing her face. Her eyes flit from floor to window, hands spurred To complete her lady's letter for her; But she refrains, and prepares herself to Deliver the missive to the monsieur Whose eager hands await the overdue Words that tease, scold, and seek flirtatious play- Utterances of feelings far away. Stefanie Kate M. Watchorna Stefanie Kate M. Watchorna is the author of the short story "Koivu," which was commended in the 2022 Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize. She is also the author of "An Encomium to the Victors," which was a finalist for the 2021 Giovanni Bertacchi VIII Premio Internazionale Di Letteratura, and "The Glory in Rome," which won third place in the 2022 Giovanni Bertacchi IX Premio Internazionale Di Letteratura. ** The Tug of Other Rooms There’s trouble on the cobbles, I can hear it. There is light and I’m a moth, and though my lady locks the day away, I’m straining at the bit; I hear the merchants’ calls to market, I could make it - if she hurried - with my basket, tuck the larkspur in in bunches, rearrange it on her table when, much later, she will heed her sleepy room. I hush the gloomy day away - it’s only rain again - and take up paper: paper boat, you go your way; canals are highways, and my thoughts can fly to Spain or to some other sunny clime: I have a rush of things to say. There’s love in looping cursive, in a tongue that isn’t mine that makes me bold, that lets me enter hallowed halls by stealth, a language of connection for my friends cannot speak Dutch, nor I the murmured mews of French. I sing a silent song of city streets; she’s sneaking envelopes to places she has never seen except in black and white: The white outside of clouds is ripe, my foot is tapping, oh, if only she would open this old window. The only way in which we two are like is in our dreaming, in how neither one of us is rooted here: this cosy room cannot contain us. The flowers are for me as much as her, reminder tiny of the fact that fields exist; and if it weren’t for those old paintings in the hall of cattle lowing, then the hazy fields I’m storing in my memory might have faded. Go, letter, sing your Latin, swift as Hermes, conjure Rome in homing syllables: I’ve found a patchwork school in correspondence. Let my missives not betray me - how I sometimes need to use my dictionary - let them sit in quiet magic, light the writing desks of other ladies sharing my unerring ache for less domestic praise: the ache is dulling; in its place this new cascade of ever kinder commendations for my mind will tide me over ‘til the next epistle wings its way to me. Caitlin Prouatt Caitlin is a Brisbane-born, Oxford-based Latin and Greek teacher. When not tutoring or looking after her toddler, Caitlin writes poetry, with a particular interest in how rhythm can contribute to an image. Much of her poetry centres on her experiences of being a parent, but she also often returns to Classical themes. She enjoys having a go at the Ekphrastic Challenge to hone her craft. ** pigmentum that first summer, the sky was always azurite. it was the year of riotous blossoming; hydrangeas spilled in clouds and waves across the arboretum and along the stone lanes in shades of weldand smalt and madder lake, the palette my mother wanted for your bouquet – wanted in vain, because we married in April and spring arrived too late. but you folded your hennaed hand over hers and twenty minutes before the bells tolled you walked into the forest when no one was looking. I was halfway to the trees when you emerged laden with wildflowers in lead-tin yellow and carmine and indigo, entrusting an armful to my mother as you passed, and married me with the hem of your verdigris dress dyed ivory black in mud and yellow ochre with pollen and all night long I watched you, spinning like a galaxy in the arms of your sisters, laughing up at me with a face of smudged charcoal and fading vermillion, and there has never been anyone more ethereal than you, not in all the years of your god’s green earth. after decades spent tethered, you wanted to roam, and so we climbed until there was not much further left to go, and there we nested, in that cabin of red ochre flagstones and lead white windows and facing the valley, the bedroom whose ceiling you painted ultramarine with a smattering of stars. that July, when the days were longest and you spent them outside, I’d hear you singing from a mile away, well before you were within sight. surfacing from the vivianite haze of conifers and ancient oak, your hair was a silver blaze; by the time you’d crossed the pasture, you shone like a comet, fool’s gold and lazuli and russet smelting down from the sky to frame your face. whenever you kissed me that season, your eyes were never the same colour twice, tinged every time with an incandescence I am still struggling to name. Lalini Shanela Ranaraja Lalini Shanela Ranaraja makes art in a wilderness of places, most recently Katugastota (Sri Lanka), Rock Island (Illinois) and the California Bay Area. She has written about defiant women, red-tailed hawks, best beloveds, mothertongues and luminous worlds for Wildness, Hunger Mountain, Strange Horizons, Ekstasis and others. Discover more of her work at www.shanelaranaraja.com. ** Out of Focus Placid, pellucid, private? Look again. That pearly woman is in fact my aunt, Writing another list. You like the pane I’m sure – the way the light comes in aslant, So clean. And I must be her modest maid, Lost in my maiden dreams, cool as a plant, Clothed to the neck and wrists. But maids get paid! Look at her scribbling: Lemons, herrings, cheese. The tiles are hard. Notice that carpet, laid Over the table: Turkish, if you please, Thick as a pelt. Oh, Anneke, don’t mope! One morning I’ll jump up there, bare my knees And dance my hoops off. We must make more soap (I must, that is). Now squint behind her head: I know it off by heart. He stretched his scope There, Meister Jan: no more pale drapes; instead Two half-dressed girls, a baby, and – quite plain – Two bodies bare as Adam! And more bread. Or maybe Eve. I’d ask him to explain, But I’m a girl. Yes, Aunt. And I’ve a brain. Passionless, prudish, patient? Look again. Ruth Baker ** Longing How lucky you are: the light shines on the words I whisper as I gaze slant through the window half-hidden from light I was told to avoid. You consulted the book then discarded it, and I, I divulged the words of love, those you are too refined to form even in the movement of your lips. You can write, but not feel. Your lace cap and pearls, they engage but do not pierce. You have me stand in brown, in shadow, when I might have sat in blue velvet fronting you as teacher, giving you the sentiment I whisper now, heart splitting. Only my gaze frees me, frees me to dream of elsewhere, somewhere I may learn to write. Carol Coven Grannick Carol Coven Grannick is a poet and children's author whose verse for the growing and the grown appears in a variety of print and online journals, including Loch Raven Review, Synkroniciti, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Babybug, Ladybug, The Dirigible Balloon, and elsewhere. Her novel in verse, REENI'S TURN, debuted in 2020 (Regal House Publishing), and her series of ekphrastic poems appears in After Light Darkness Rose, Another Day, an independently published Artist Book. Her new blog celebrates and shares the presence and meaning of poetry in everyday life: https://www.bitsoftheworldinverse.com. ** After the Pearl Earring Went Missing It’s a bit tiresome to stand frozen in one place for so long, but maids have little choice. I have a hard time remembering which hand is crossed on top. Both my feet and half-smile ache. Still, looking out at the sunshine, watching the children play and birds fly about the canal beats scrubbing floors. I’m lucky to be the prettier maid in the house – now that earring girl is gone. Poor Cook must handle the kitchen alone. Mistress, of course, is not actually writing a letter. She must stay perfectly still like me, though she may be composing an apology in her head. Let’s face it, we all miss THAT girl. Mistress just never expected to. Master valued the girl’s mastery for mixing paints and stretching canvas. Now he must do it all himself if we’re to keep a roof over head and food on the table. Mistress shows her patience by offering for us to pose. How foolish to pitch the girl out without proof of the theft! Imagine my surprise to find a pearl under the girl’s bed last week. I decided it best to drop it in the canal, not stir up more trouble. I’m keeping a secret for Master, too. While we pose at the window like ladies of leisure, the children left a penny, a crayon, and a wad of paper on the floor beside the table. It’s not visible from where we pose, but Mistress will be mortified that he captured the mess on canvas. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille graduated from the first coed class at the University of Virginia, where she picked up her B.A. in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. Retired now, Alarie delights in having more time to read, write poetry, and hang out at The Ekphrastic Review. Her latest poetry collection, Three A.M. at the Museum, has joined her earlier books on The Ekphrastic Bookshelf. Please visit her at alariepoet.com. ** Vermeer on Main Street America I’m stuck in my boss’s office while she finishes writing a letter. “Almost done,” she says, “then you can run it to the post office.” Her pen scratches at the stationery while I stand staring out the ground-floor window at Main Street. That’s when I hear a low rhythmic rumble and a distant blare of brass. Soon a marching band parades into view to the quick cadence of a familiar tune. “Hey, look,” I say, pointing. “Shh,” my boss says, “almost done.” As the drum major leads the way, I open the window, lean out, and shout: “What’s the occasion?” “It’s Johannes Vermeer’s birthday,” he says, turning to show me a painting in his hands. “Cool,” I say, “but then why are you playing a Sousa march?” But the drum major has already passed by, trailed by twirlers who send their batons spinning skyward like tiny silver satellites. Flutes and piccolos trill high, saxophones and trumpets resound, and the sousaphones’ flared forward-facing bells swing side to side in unison. The percussion section brings up the rear, and each boom of the bass drum rattles the windowpanes. Then the rows of plumed hats recede down Main Street, and the music fades. “Done,” my boss says, handing me a sealed beige envelope. When I step outside, I glance left toward the post office, but turn right instead, in pursuit of the waning melody. DK Snyder DK Snyder’s work appears in Unbroken Journal, Cease, Cows Magazine, Shotgun Honey, and elsewhere. She is a writer, a lawyer, and lives in Virginia. ** Lady Writing a Letter With Her Maid So I sez to him I sez that’s lovely fish, I bet rain is on its way tonight, did you see those clouds unless Hille just forgot to clean the glass again, the butcher’s boy came around twice No one forgets a fletch of bacon unless they’re in love, did Maritje pass your other note to her mistress, lovely turban, earring just a bit much but the heart, I know, the heart wants What it wants, miss, if you will pardon my saying so, true if you hurry and finish I’m sure as eggs is eggs I can cross the straat before dark and your father returns to call you for dinner, it’s fish tonight, miss, it’s Them I was saying, if you remember, what looked alive and swimming, a basket’s as good as the sea to a blind herring and, are you even listening, no don’t write herring, sorry miss, it’s just that She is at her window across the straat, the lace curtain pulled back, yes, by her pale hand, miss, no don’t start over, I promise she’s waiting just like the butcher’s boy at the kitchen door, hurry, fold it kiss it only I will know Angela Kirby Angela Kirby earned a BA in Creative Writing from Duke University. She is a 2024 Atlanta Journal International Poetry Merit Awardee, 2022 Second Prize Winner of the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry, and two-time winner of the Anne Flexner Memorial Prize. Publications include Nimrod International Journal, Roanoke Review, The Light Ekphrastic, and Humber Literary Review. ** The Letter (The Dutch tulip bulb market bubble was one of the most famous market bubbles and crashes of all time. Also known as tulipmania, it occurred in Holland during the early to mid-1600s when speculation drove the value of tulip bulbs to extremes. The rarest tulip bulbs traded for as much as six times the average person’s annual salary at the market's peak.) Anouk stands by, her arms folded, the Delft morning sun stroking both her face and that of her Mistress. It will be some time before the Master is back from his business trip. He took the carriage and two horses. Something big is going on in Amsterdam, and the Master had that worried look on his face. Very worried. Today her Mistress has made a decision. That swashbuckling low-life (that’s what Anouk silently calls him) is only after one thing. No, not that. Money. And her Mistress has a lot of it. The Master has made a fortune with tulip bulbs. He took over her Mistress’ business when they married. It’s hers, really, and ‘low-life’ – Anouk was sure – knew exactly what he was doing, what with his fine words and pretend admiration, his constant attention with small gifts when the Master was out. Anouk had heard rumours from other maids in the market. Her Mistress had always been kind, and Anouk loved her dearly. So, one day she took her courage into both hands (she’d been with her Mistress since she was 13 years old) and the two women had talked. And now her Mistress was writing the letter. It would be a diplomatic masterpiece, not an admission of guilt, but a firm rejection of the money-hunting Mijnheer’s advances, and Anouk would soon leave the house, letter in her apron pocket, and a smile on her face. Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was three times nominated for a ‘Pushcart’ and once for ‘Best of Net’. Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books, July 2022), Whistling In The Dark (Cyberwit, July 2022), and Saudade (December 2022) are available on Amazon. Also available on Amazon is a new collection, Life Stuff, published by Kelsay Books, November 2023. A new MS is brewing. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** Common Bond Here’s go-between, heart-write insight, strict discipline within the room, indiscipline unfolding soon, an intimate geometry. Floor tiles and lines in vertical - is scripted text sans serif too, as centrigugal test is weighed? Made middle cast, a vocal point, whose lips can tell a tale or two, while middleclass, in brighter light, writes featherlight of daring, do? Maid’s glance anticipatory of stories laid beyond the glass - her fantasies of mistress’ ways mingled with prospects of her own, that smile revealing mind at play. How long her longing arms self-grasp before enfolding supple parts? Desire in mouth and finger tips, does one imagine, one suggest? There’s commonwealth before our eyes; no pandering required it seems. This common canvas bolt with Lute (just as twice thieves bolted, this loot, two versions of Ireland’s free state, which ground was never black and white), uncommon in its derring-do? For what withal can word ‘with’ mean; the servant present, so with her, but not co-author, writing with. Had they conspired, shared confidence, the message, messenger and her? Would both enjoy their wicked days? Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** Dancing on their Shoulders, Watchin’ All The Words Go By “Little darlin’, it seems it’s been more than a year since the cold, lonely winter kept sunshine from view, so please, do-do-do draw the curtains wide, dear-- it’s alright. You see, here comes the sun. Let’s renew! See how soft it breaks through without breaking the glass, It’s brilliance unstrain’d, pouring in as if rained from the heavens above upon each of us, lass, twice bless’d by the brightness and warmth it has deigned. Now I’ll take up a pen with more power than a sword-- though I’ll write with a wife’s due compliance to voice love’s refrains, yet with modest accord, while I dance on the shoulders of giants. Sweet ’Melia, don’t wander the streets once it’s gone but stay home, suff’ring megrims the way we girls do, for the feathers and gowns you prefer to put on for a strut through town once nearly ruined me, too. Ken Gosse Author's note on text sources: “Standing on the Corner” is a popular song written by Frank Loesser and published in 1956. The Beatles song “Here Comes the Sun” written by George Harrison, released in 1969. Shakespeare’s poetry from Romeo and Juliet and from The Merchant of Venice. “The pen is mightier than the sword" was coined in these words by Edward Bulwer-Lytton in 1839 (also known for “It was a dark, stormy night …) “The shoulders of giants.” Originally from William of Conches in 1123, perhaps best known from Isaac Newton’s 1675 letter. Thomas Hardy’s 1866 poem, “The Ruined Maid.” Ken Gosse prefers to write rhymed, humorous verse using traditional forms. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then he has been in The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot. ** Reading Between the Lines Eva is used to waiting. Her whole life is subordinated to her mistress's requirements. She glances at the window to pass the time and sees Pieter the messenger outside. He's waiting for the response to his master's latest love letter. Eva notes how the sun gleams off his gaudy blue satin jerkin and that the feather on his cap is outrageously long, how it flicks up and down with his lively head movements as he jokes with the other serving boys in the yard. She notes his shapely calves in the snowy, showy white hose. At least this time she won't have to chase him away from the kitchen door and the gaggle of giggling scullery maids. That was the time she'd had to search for him to give him her mistress's reply, and she'd found him holding court with a simpering, appreciative audience. Even the old cook, Griselda, had had a girlish red blush high on her cheeks and an unfamiliar rictus that could possibly have been a grin. Eva knows Pieter has a way with the ladies, much like his master. She worries that her mistress has fallen for a rogue, a known womaniser. Her mistress refuses to listen to her father's warnings about Franz de Rooij, twice widowed and looking for a new wealthy bride. Her mistress is on a second draft, wanting to reply with some of the wit and playfulness of the letter Pieter brought her. The first draft is lying crumpled on the floor. Eva's expert eye notes that the tiles need a sweep and a wash. It's something practical to keep those flirty, flighty scullery maids busy. Eva tries not to think too much about the future. She expects she will go with her mistress when, inevitably, she marries Franz de Rooij. Her mistress is almost twenty four and there hasn't been a clamour of other suitors so far. Jan van der Valk, the childhood sweetheart, had been killed at sea and her mistress had been inconsolable until the handsome and urbane Franz came along. Eva knows her mistress, as the only child of a successful merchant, will command a generous dowry. She knows her mistress has already started making an inventory of items for her trousseau. What's the point of worrying when it's out of your control, Eva thinks. Her role is to keep her own counsel. Adept at reading over her mistress's shoulder she knows that de Rooij intends to travel around Europe's finest cities once the marriage contract is finalised. That might be some consolation for leaving behind the security and status of the current household. Another thought insinuates itself as movement outside once again catches her eye. The annoying but somewhat diverting Pieter would be there also. Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer from the UK Midlands. She particularly enjoys ekphrastic writing and has had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review Challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print. ** Daydreaming I wonder what species of bird chirps outside the window, wooing its mate with a nuanced melody? If I had confidence to warble my feelings, perhaps Henry would notice me, I could bring him a kneeler out there in the garden to keep the sandy loam from soiling his trousers and perhaps... Yes m'am, I'm paying attention. Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Haiku Universe, Sparks of Calliope, Gyroscope Review, Quartet Journal, The Raven’s Perch, and Panoplyzine. She hosts the Duxbury Poetry Circle, was featured on a poetry podcast at Onyx Publications. Her first collection of poetry, called Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit is in production at Kelsay Books. ** A Cold Morning with a Warm Story It was a cold winter morning with the maid looking out the window at the fresh snow that had fallen on the ground. Her master was writing a letter to her husband who had left to fight in a war for England and she was concerned for him. The maid was looking at the snow until her master said to her, “If you want Violet, you can leave for the day. I have nothing else to ask you to do.” Violet tilted her head at her master “Are you sure?” Her master chuckled, “I can always call you if something comes up.” Violet looked back out of the window. “I know but since your husband left to fight in the war I like to stay and help you out with little and big things.” Her master stopped writing the letter and looked at Violet, smiling. “Are you saying that I am too old to do normal house chores by myself?” Violet shook her head “No, I just want to make sure you are all good.” Her master laughed at this and pointed at the painting behind them “Do you know the story behind which that painting was made?” Violet looked at the painting for a little bit before replying, “I am afraid not.” Her master got up and walked to the painting saying, “It’s a family painting from my ancestors and that a man had to go to war but the man's wife was pregnant with a child and the man wanted to stay with her, but the woman told her husband that she would be fine and so her husband left for the war, still scared for his love. After the war the woman came to greet them and to show them his new son and he said to his wife that she was right and from there on he never again doubted his wife.” Violet was beside her master as she told the story and after the story Violet smiled and said, “Do you need anything master?” Her master shook her head and so Violet walked to the door and grabbed her coat and left her master’s house. Samuel Verhoff ** Inside/Outside Axis "Not to have love was to accept a kind of death before you began." Anne Perry, A Darker Reality Is her future in the painting on the wall behind her? Like mirrors of the present figures wear Golden Age dress, but in the fore-front, mythically added naked bodies suggest a biblical context, like a new world from the past, a place where a man and a woman could be Adam and Eve in a Genesis without figs, their leaves a coverup Queen Victoria would say was un- necessary. Beneath the painting in the background a young woman sits at a desk where she could be writing a love letter; while her maid, standing to her right, hides her impatience to be walking -- out- side -- through the garden at the exact moment when the land- scape gardener rises from a flower bed where he's planted tulips, red blooms that will bleed their colorful passion onto the petals of white companions -- & he adds purple, a dream of sunset that offers 2-lip gold. Is colour an afterthought in 17th century Dutch Painting? A wish? Words in a letter she, a messenger, is eager to deliver? A world, it seems that is just beginning when love is the heart's notepad. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. Twice nominated for Best Of the Net, she has been honoured multiple times by The Ekphrastic Challenge. ** The Letter The sheer, cream white curtain hung lazily over half the windowsill, parting just enough to reveal the intricate stained glass behind it and the blend of gold and cerulean at the focal point Her housemaid’s low-heeled buckle shoes clicked on the cool tile floor as she shifted her weight from foot to foot Her neck ached from the strain of being hunched over her desk for the entirety of the day Each knot woven into the textured cloth draped over the table tugged on skin of her forearms, As if it had its own opinion of what she should write that it desperately wanted to convey Letting out a frustrated breath, she threw a pointed glance at the useless crumpled letter-writing manual she had cast to the floor in a short-lived moment of melodrama Reasonable explanation as to why the words she intended to write died out on the tip of her pen escaped her, and every drop of ink that happened to make it onto the paper was merely a boiled down rendition of what was in her heart She gently traced her weary fingertips over the dried calligraphy ink his name was coated in at the very top of the letter This was the only component of substance she had come up with that elicited a smile from her pursed lips, but just this once, she was determined to be the instigator of his joy Brilliant rays of light infiltrated the room and demanded her attention, seemingly mocking her struggle with their god-given ability to captivate with ease She carried a sharp tongue rather than a witty one, so she always harboured a deep envy of his ability to conjure a laugh or light conversation out of thin air Suddenly, her pen slid off the thin manilla paper and onto the bothersome table dressing, ripping her out of the daydream that had sieged her mind Looking down defeatedly at her lack of progress, she laid eyes on an entire page covered from top to bottom with the appreciation, confession, and devotion she had been wanting to share with him since the day of their first clandestine meeting Anticipation shook her hands excitedly as she attempted to carefully fold and seal the letter in a crisp, plain envelope sealed with vermillion wax and warm adoration. Anna Hepler Anna Hepler lives in a small suburb of Virginia with fickle weather and beautiful fall foliage. She has a passion for writing poetry and hopes to pursue a career in literature in the future. ** The Letter “Quite a kerfuffle outside,” the maid murmured as she gazed out the window. The other woman, who was sitting down at a table, hummed in response. She was paying utterlty no attention to the chaos outside, completely within her own world while writing a letter. “...Ma’am?” The maid tapped the latter’s shoulder. “Oh! Um, yes, Agatha?” the latter jolted. “I think you should take a gander outside, Miss Adeline.” Adeline lifted herself from her work - literally and mentally - and glanced outside. Upon looking, her eyes locked onto the large fleet marching through the streets. “Blimey,” Adeline murmured. “How on earth did I not hear their cries?” “You’ve been within your own world, Ma’am,” Agatha alluded. “Is this the revolt the men spoke of during supper yesterday?” Adeline pondered, tilting her head with a slight worried expression. “It’s probable.” Both of them watched as the foreign troops continued their march towards the castle. Almost a minute later, they watched their king, James II, flee upon a horse. “...That was quite anticlimatic,” Agatha said with a raise of a brow. “Indeed, Aggie, indeed,” Adeline sighed. “Shall you return to your letter now, Madam Adeline?” Ava Chapin Ava Chapin is a freshman who is a self-proclaimed "writer in progress." ** The Letter I tap my pen on the edge of my hand, waiting for Elizabeth to speak. “But I must decline your offer,” she says. I write the line, wondering if the offers to buy her late father’s estate will ever cease. Nobody believes she can run the estate, and I wonder if she herself has any confidence. The silence stretches out and I turn around. Elizabeth is lost in space, her gaze resting out the window, in some faraway place. I put down the pen. “Start a new letter,” she says. “Accept the offer. We need a fresh start. Things will change.” Anna Svatora Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working 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 Cycles, by Norval Morrisseau. Deadline is September 27, 2024. 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. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. 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 MORRISSEAU 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. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, September 27, 2024. 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 do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. 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. 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! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. 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! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. Passing Is She, bright white in carriage throned, Her troops en masse, strict ranks conform, beneath a Standard pennant flag, as if, as passed, fresh wight in form? Marks fluid, inked, is this tattoo - like passings out to past belong - the military, best of show, prefigured, not as go along. Assembled, gathered on parade, so passing muster, tourist too, the knee high view of passer-by; I hear the sounds, as sight, ring true. Clipped hooves clop, stirrups, reigns that guide? You know that clank - boots, rifles, steel; attest lies with vox populi - Divine right rooted - service zeal? Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Fitzwilliam College, Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** All Their Failed Maneuvering The shades are called to the flag raising with muffled drum roll and their moaning but they are always ill prepared to face such murky gray days over and over in the ever growing army of the doomed. Forced to reenact all their failed maneuverings every battle lost. The outcome of each day's war preternatural and predetermined so far beyond the world they thought they knew. dan smith dan smith is the author of Crooked River and The Liquid of Her Skin, the Suns of Her Eyes. He has been widely published in such diverse journals as The Rhysling Anthology and Dwarf Stars and Gas Station Famous and Deep Cleveland Junk Mail Oracle. He does not know how to cut and paste but somehow survives on the kindness of others. dan's latest poems may be found at Five Fleas Itchy Poetry and dadakuku. ** Forever Changing Painting strong women, in illustrious colours, forever changing. 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,The Importance of Being Short, in 2019 and In A Flash in 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** Equine The time of year? It wasn’t clear; the age? It could have been a hundred years ago or yesterday; the horses? There was Alfred, great and temperamental, Sally, shy and pawing at the ground, and Blaze, just waiting while the others capered round - he wasn’t bothered - and then bringing up the rear was older Ernie - such a gentleman - and Willow, still so spirited and skittish. Or was it Macedonia? Bucephalus a kicking blur as sun emerged from cloud and shadow quickly licked the ground, and all the others followed suit. It might have been a field not far from here where we threw windfalls when we didn’t know much better, when we wanted just to tempt them to the fence. They cantered and they whinnied and they gloried in the free before the capture when the flags were out - the owners made a day of it - and all was rushing midnight, dappled happiness, a bay in mid-abeyance and a stallion disobedient, a flick of silver tail, a trail of movement that evaded being stilled. Caitlin Prouatt Caitlin is a Brisbane-born, Oxford-based Latin and Greek teacher. When not tutoring or looking after her toddler, Caitlin writes poetry, with a particular interest in how rhythm can contribute to an image. Much of her poetry centres on her experiences of being a parent, but she also often returns to Classical themes. She enjoys having a go at the Ekphrastic Challenge to hone her craft. ** The Musters For War Mustering their courage, mustering their faith, collecting together ready to charge, ready to fight, ready to kill, ready to die ordered in order they’re ready to go. These vassals and workers obeying the king obeying their lord, obeying their masters obeying them all. So strangers kill strangers, friends die the same. It’s when they pass muster that death makes the call to muster the ordered at his command. And when they pass muster, that’s when they’ll charge and that’s when they die over and over over and out in order when ordered again and again and again and again again and again and again. 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/ ** Miasma A swirl of hooves and manes and horse flesh. The swish swash of desperate men mustering the cattle to beat the fire. The sky an eerie yellow, orange and grey sits heavy all around, ominously peppered with ash and silt. There’s a gravity in the air to furrow the brow of the sternest of cowboy. No time to think. No time to muster courage. Act on instinct and a grave fear. And hope like hell that the God of Wind has a change of heart and blows in another direction. Adam Stone Adam lives and loves on the Bellarine Peninsula in Victoria, Australia - Wathaurong land (Balla-wein). He is an award-winning lyricist and emerging author who thoroughly enjoys short story and flash fiction writing. He is a member of Writers Victoria, Geelong Writers Inc and Bellarine Writers. ** The Muster No gleaming uniforms with gold buttons, no smart hats to match. ‘Just’ a gaggle of tired warriors who came home, who battled it out with the enemy’s tired warriors. But they were left standing. torn cloth, captured head gear, gas masks and shields. Hundreds of young men left unprotected on the muddy earth, in water-logged trenches. A wind assaults those heroes, a wind moves their rags. A single small flag held high-- is it theirs or the one they grabbed as a last moment of triumph from the defeated soldiers? Their queen rides past, inspecting what is left from a once strong and voiceful battalion, young men in their prime roaring their defiance at the outset of their long march towards the killing fields. Will they learn to love again? Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was three times nominated for a ‘Pushcart’ and once for ‘Best of Net’. Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books, July 2022), Whistling In The Dark (Cyberwit, July 2022), and Saudade (December 2022) are available on Amazon. Also available on Amazon is a new collection, Life Stuff, published by Kelsay Books, November 2023. A new MS is brewing. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** To Kate Vale Regarding The Muster Here gathered are your traces cast of yesterdays now glazed as past where stoic stares that never blinked at future rendered indistinct bespoke the faith that fear will call to fierceness that becomes a pall to.evil that would shackle soul to absence of the self control that is its nature by design as image of its source divine compelling fearless sacrifice of life and limb as precious price preserving justice under law as strength the free and brave will draw. Portly Bard 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. ** Worthy You don’t want to go there said the voices inside my head. But where is there? I wondered, not for the first time. How does one find out where one does not want to go? I came when called but now I am gone. No company follows me; nor does time. I keep casting nets of summoning but nothing remains inside except the outlines of stars, the silhouettes of the shadows of souls that I feel but cannot see. It’s not nothing; nor is it nowhere. But where is it? and why? They said fly the flag. But they knew nothing of wings. Flags are heavy with a hollow silence that reeks of ghosts. They are held by the gravity of earthbound bones, laid over and over again like sacrificial lambs over millions of unlived lives. I came when called but now I am gone. endless bodies spill out, one after the other, bearing the crossroads-- sailing over the earth’s edge into the absence of light 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/. ** After Kate Vale’s The Muster Young flowers grow in innocent sunburst spring gardens, HERE they thrive in yellows, reds and orange though there COMES a price for maturing, mute and muted, as drab as THE next marching flower purple, gray, colours muster together a BIG hup, hup, hup uniform command toward one more ceaseless PARADE. Daniel W. Brown Author's note: The words “Here Comes The Big Parade” are by Phil Ochs. Daniel W. Brown began writing poetry as a senior. At age 72 he published his first collection Family Portraits In Verse and Other Illustrated Poems through Epigraph Books, Rhinebeck, NY. world. Daniel has been published in various journals and anthologies, and he has hosted a youtube channel ‘Poetry From Shooks Pond’. He was also included in MId-Hudson's Arts ‘Poets Respond To Art’ in 2022-23 and writes each day about music, art and whatever else captures his imagination. ** Muster Must go to war looking good for some reason Scare them off Attract them Feel your Sunday best When you meet them Muster the manteaux The boots on your ground The cutting edge uniform It matters This wool may soon unravel the last thread of civilization This dress Designed to die for. Stien Pijp Stien Pijp lives in the Dutch country side. She is a linguist who works in the field of aphasia and care. A dreamy person who likes to hang around, to read and walk her dog. ** Curious Choice “The Muster.” Where to hang you? Odd tapestry of cold sunshine, Restive lancers, grim polearms. This choice will bemuse my friends. Manly strutting, cocksure bravado! Not my usual fare. Entry wall? An earthy rumpus of welcome. Inviting gusty, good-natured set-tos? Maybe the kitchen? My stews of Ragoos, Bigos, Stifados—burping, bumping. Echoing Bays, Pintos, Draughts—snorting, kicking. Ah, the library. Sink into soft leather, mind purling. Dissolve into dust of Crusades. Or the bath? Deliquesce amid steamy bubbles? How will apricot vapor recast tangy metallic dust? Then again, perhaps the office. To do pendant battle: paperwork vs infidel. Yes! The office! Place of my tantrums, snorting, pawing of earth! Where paperwork bites, stings, nettles Until I whine and bray in a dander. I know why I bought you! Anna Gallagher Anna Gallagher earned a bachelors degree in English and a masters degree in liberal arts from University of Delaware. She has enjoyed reading poetry all her life. After retirement she has tried some new challenges, including poetry writing! ** faire weather a rain-streaked window dulls the pennants blurs riders and mounts assembled on the field no need to attend it never changed an autumn pageant games and mock jousting today they would return mud spattered and loud today the field is muddy some horses uneasy it is a long tradition boys claim manhood with sweat and bruises sit proud in their saddles except once when horses fell and riders were thrown stories vary but all agree it was raining that long-ago day I watch from the window remember he was only twelve Kat Dunlap Kat Dunlap grew up in Norristown PA and now resides in Massachusetts where she is a member of the Tidepool Poets of Plymouth. She received a BA in English from Arcadia University and holds an MFA from Pacific University. She edited two college writing publications as well as the Tidepool Poets Annual. For many years she was Director of the National Writing Project site at University of Massachusetts Dartmouth and is currently the co-owner of Writers Ink of MA. Her chapbook The Blue Bicycle is being prepared for an autumn launch. ** Muster Haiku All able-bodied men must fight for realm in mist – girls eyes in tears. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and is a keen TER contributor. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni. ** Riding Farther, Beyond Milady, will you ride? Will you travel into the deepest dunes, far from ephemeral water's side? Others, bright popinjays, set their sights towards their homelands in the distant west. Their journeys are much different to ours. They will merely cross distance. We travel farther, to the realms beyond. Milady, do you yearn for your home? Does it call your spirit, summon your very soul? Ours is a home found in the harshest climes, far from markets, far from towns, far from pooled water. Far away from this harrying bustle, the cries that arise around us; the herdsmen gathering their hardy flocks and the wranglers of our steadfast mounts readying all for the muster. We travel far, deep, beyond. We'll leave this wadi fed oasis, a temporary convenience of the physical world. The only sounds we'll hear are the songs of the wind, the sand, and a heart beating deep within each traveller's breast. Lean voices will sometimes rise in stilted silty conversations, prayers, invocations and curses - spare, by necessity only. The sun, the stars and the moon, and our inner thoughts will keep us company, be our guide and our compass. No paper map can capture the shifting sands. Only those who know the deep desert dare attempt our journey. Travelling beyond will lend much time for inner contemplation. Already, perched high in your black headdress and robes, with your stillness, you are apart from the hoi polloi, separate to the scene. Milady, are you ready? Milady, will you ride? Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer living in the UK Midlands. She's had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print. ** The Mind’s Command before the start of the Battle of Senses The enemy is advancing. Row after row, wave after wave. They will crash into our shores in some time. Their sharpened weapons flash like lightning in the purple sky. Their battle-cries rent the pewter air. But fret not, my dear men. We sweat in peace, in meditation. We have sharpened the saws of our breath, emptied our thoughts and sat in stillness. Mark my words, we will not bleed during this fight. Part the grey curtains of fear. Stand your ground. Mount your horses and elephants to travel away from the land of doubt. Let your courage spiral up and touch the uncharted azure of the skies. Let the spire of your strength silhouette this morning of glory. Let the cathedral of your past be a monument to your faith. Let the russet pennants of discipline ripple through the halcyon winds of the present. It is time. Time for us to emerge from behind the shape-shifting shadows into the open air and breathe, my men. Breathe. Breathe this air, fragrant with victory. Preeth Ganapathy Preeth Ganapathy is a software engineer turned civil servant from Bengaluru, India. Her recent works have been published in several magazines such as Last Stanza Poetry Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, Star 82 Review, Panoply Zine, Visual Verse, Quill & Parchment, Shotglass journal, Sparks of Calliope, Tiger Moth Review, The Sunlight Press, Ink, Sweat & Tears and various other journals. Her microchaps A Single Moment and Purple have been published by Origami Poems Project. Her work has been nominated for the 2023 Best Spiritual Literature. ** A muster of memories Emerging from the mist are figures blurred by memory. A surge of energy sweeps these bodies, becoming and un-becoming, an army of the unseen. Colours create contours and shadows stretch into shapes as the past and future clash in the pervasive present. They move but don't, their essence felt yet not, caught in the tide of existence this muster of spirits dances on the edge of what we don't wish to be. Between night and day secrets whisper in dark hues A muster of memories 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 Ekphrastic Review, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet anthologies, 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. She has two published books, She: The reality of womanhood and The many moods of water. ** Before the End and After the Beginning Slouching through grey fields and yellow skies the prophet’s life is not sunshine but scorching. Banners stand behind him, standards of an unknown god, lost in the dust and the depression. Hope is a forlorn word in the dust of the bowl that prophets use to carry their peace. Nobody told him about the bit of life between the twin destinies of birth and death. He was foretold. He was destined for an end. Nobody ever gave him a middle to work through. He expected blazes of glory and then death and was therefore unprepared for the plodding of his rugged horse along a rising road. This is the end, but not his. Not yet. Maureen Martin Maureen Martin is an aspiring writer from Ohio. Her passions include Shakespeare, literature and film criticism, overindulging in herbal teas, and working as an English teacher. She is a published poet, with several pieces appearing online at the The Ekphrastic Review. ** Follow Me Closely I shuffle in the saddle, my spine unaligning with every jostle of the horse. I relish the respite when he pauses. Is he as horrified as I am? I gape at the mass of flesh, blurred by the smoke, everything ahead an expanse of formlessness. And my men are behind me. My back groans when I turn around, my fellows are simply shadows. It is better for me that way. Is it blind trust that keeps them in line? Or fear? Do they know that I do not know their names or their wives’ names or if they have sons and daughters? Do they know how it churns my stomach that I have asked them to follow me into their last fight and I do not know who they are? What they like to eat? Who they were before? The opposition will get the lucky ones, a quick arrow or a deep slice from a sturdy sword. Disease will ravage the average folk while the lack of food and drink will hunt down the poor bastards that are overlooked. I yank the reigns, Peacock neighs, and marches us into the thick of the fight. I hear the shuffle of the group behind me. For those that make it out alive, I vow to break bread with you and learn your name, write your story. But for now, please follow me closely. Samantha Gorman Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel. ** The judgement of Ériu, Banba and Fódla They gathered about the green hill in their coloured cloaks and the jingle of bridle and bit. Uneasy alliances were sworn beneath unsettled skies for the enemy ships were slick as salmon, and they filled the trough of every wave, thunder breaking from their wordless throats. Thunder broke from wordless throats as the enemy gathered about the green hill in their coloured cloaks, and the musical jingle of bridle and bit was lost in the roar of the waves. We, in our ships bright as leaping salmon, will bring the sea troughs ashore, fill them with blood. Words broke like thunder from the throats of the three queens upon the hill, and filled the trough of the waves with the jingle of horse-music. They opened their palms and let good sense rain down on both sides, coloured cloaks and leaping ships, and the world filled with peace, for a while. Jane Dougherty Pushcart Prize nominee, Jane Dougherty’s poetry has appeared in publications including Gleam, Ogham Stone, Black Bough Poetry, Ekphrastic Review and The Storms Journal. Her short stories have been published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Prairie Fire, Lucent Dreaming among others, and her first adult novel will be published in 2025 by Northodox Press. She lives in southwest France and has published three collections of poetry, thicker than water, birds and other feathers and night horses. ** Lady Grey Poupon Muster muster muster I’m so sick of muster It’s mustard darling now finish up your truffle poutine & go tell papa he’s torn his flag again I’ll mend it when Lady Grey Poupon & her troupe agree to cut their muster Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes by light of moon and lament of loon way south of 60. ** Wicked Women It was a rag-bag of the young and the old, the bleary-eyed and the hawk-sharp, their horses and donkeys and asses, that assembled that morning. And there were dogs. Dogs of the street, circling for scraps. Curious dogs that had wandered from their guarding posts to sniff around the crowd for any signs of danger. Dogs deliberately brought along by their owners to swell the melee and add yapping and growling to the menace of the crowd. The disorder hid the steely purpose of the villagers. Everyone, be they man or beast, had a focus on the mission they had been set the night before by the Captain. The village was under siege. They had to defend it from the forces of evil. The Captain was the seventh son of a seventh son. With his all-seeing eye, he saw things that others did not. He understood the ways of the underworld and divined messages from the other side. How lucky that the Captain had returned when he did or they would have been ignorant of the threat by forces they could not comprehend. Yesterday evening, he brought the tale of his return journey from foreign parts to the Inn at the crossroads. The road back had taken him through the acres-wide forest to the north of the village. The branches of the trees and the bracken on the floor harboured spirits from the beyond. His attuned ears heard the whispers, heard the voices rising on the breeze, sharing their plans. He was chilled to his core. This morning the Captain, up front of the mob, was in full battle regalia, astride a fine Chestnut mare. Both held their heads high and haughty, both dressed with elaborate white head dresses, evoking the tales of far away that the Captain spun whenever he returned home. Stories of terrifying warriors, adorned with yards of pristine linen, necks hung with beads in all the colours of the rainbow and armed with decorated clubs and arrows, more accurate in their delivery than the muskets the men harboured in their dank cottages. A standard bobbed between the white-flecked steaming haunches of the horses, the bearer making his way to the front. The Captain roared his instructions. On his signal they were to follow him across the plain and into the forest. They were to stay together, keep their animals quiet and their own tongues still. The spirits had ears everywhere. The Captain turned onto the plain and dropped his arm. The gentle yard-horses reared at the pull of the bit in their mouths and the slap on the work-gnarled hands on their haunches. The undisciplined platoon immediately dissipated over the plain, swirling in and out of their lines as the sand might lift and scatter in the sea-wind. They made it to the edge of the forest as an ill-drilled troupe and waited for more instructions. With one finger to his lips and his other hand beckoning them on, the Captain led them into the tinder-dry forest. To a man, they heard the wails as soon as hoof hit bracken. And then the cackling. They froze, stuck to their horses, petrified by the creatures hidden in the canopy and the undergrowth. The Captain ordered a dismount. At this several horses reared and turned for home. Some left frightened men behind, some took their riders with them. The depleted foot soldiers followed the standard deeper into the forest. The clearing came into view as they crested the hill. From below came a dreadful cacophony of shrieks and laughter. And cackles. Hideous, ear-piercing cackles from the rictus mouths of crones. Tough men, like Amos the blacksmith and Elijah the Innkeeper, blanched and shook. These were meddlesome women cast out for interference in the ways of the village. For witchery. Ugly, ancient hags. Hairless, toothless, colourless, shapeless women with spells enough to bring fine men to their knees. Living between this world and the next. No use to anyone yet here were ten, eleven, maybe a baker’s dozen, writhing in malignant ecstasy. And cackling like the devil. How can this be that these disgusting and dangerous creatures cannot understand their lowly status and their need to be grateful? Grateful they had only been banished and not drowned or burnt. The Captain’s headdress could be seen swishing frantically from side to side as his horse circled along the edge of the rise. The men began to dissolve into the undergrowth, quietly slinking down the hill with the hope of escape. Suddenly the Captain raised his arm and gave the signal to charge. His horse, nostrils flaring and mane slicked back by the wind, ran towards the coven. Startled, a handful of the men leapt to their feet and unthinkingly joined the charge. The witches, seemingly oblivious to the danger, continued their rituals and merrymaking. As the Captain reached the clearing the women turned as one and rose to meet the tops of the canopy, their eyes glowing. The horse skidded and stumbled, throwing the Captain to the ground and, knees buckled, it crumpled on top of him. This was their last battle. The men shrank back in horror shielding their eyes to avoid the spells and the spirits boiling the air. At first the heat scorched the dry scrub. Then the flames took hold, licking at the trees, igniting the undergrowth and surging across the clearing. The men were engulfed, charred where they stood or lay, no chance to escape. The crones, gathered unscathed in the centre of the clearing, cackled as the smoke and steam rose through the canopy, the wind blowing in across the plain. The ash fell across the village, petrifying all that lay in it’s path. No-one survived save a small girl child whose mother had been drowned as a witch five summers ago. Caroline Mohan Caroline Mohan is based in Ireland and writes sporadically - mostly stories with the occasional poem and mostly in workshops. She is currently enjoying ekphrastic writing. ** Days on End She lets me in even though I’m a stranger. She offers pleasantries slightly askew, like the sky’s been yellow for days on end, I swear the sun forgot to set! Down the hall that leads to her bedroom, I catch the starchy rustles of the nurse we hired to help her dress and feed her cat. She’s been painting again, a good sign, or just a sign that something reminded her of whom she used to be – the evergreen smell of turpentine or the ochre in a sunrise. My head tilts, a reflex from when my opinion was the first she wanted. The canvas is thick with vertical lines, black in their middles easing to gray, bars of a prison cell or shadows across her carpet. I like this one, I say, but it’s the wrong thing because she’s gone now, drifting to a stool by the window, wrapping herself in a cloudy silence to punish my wandering beyond a stranger’s small talk. The beige cat opens its mouth against the corner of a blank canvas inclined against the wall. Outside the window, the world is the colour of mustard, of my mother’s permanent day. Joanna Theiss Joanna Theiss is a writer living in Washington, DC. Her stories have appeared in Chautauqua, Peatsmoke Journal and Milk Candy Review, among others, and she is an associate editor at Five South. In a past life, Joanna worked as a lawyer, practicing criminal defense and international trade law. You can find book reviews, links to her published works, and her mosaic collages at www.joannatheiss.com. Twitter @joannavtheiss Instagram @joannatheisswrites |
Challenges
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