​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 Reimagining Hwy 1 Optimized for Public Transit, by Taylor Seamount. Deadline is April 11, 2025. 

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 SEAMOUNT 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, April 11, 2025.

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.

​Core Questions

That lore of Law, set garden piece,
though end of peace in apple arms,
the weapon of male dominance.

Is spillage caused in guilty stance,
an upward glance becoming stare -
how dare she fall foul of such snake?

This tree, a figure in own right,
a rite of passage for the earth,
skeletal trunk, craft part of art.

As bones laid bare, so flesh, but fair -
no cover up for other rib -
indeed that cage, not hidden there.

Pink lady, blush, for self-aware -
but myth recorded, man by men.
Delicious gala, celebrate.

Though smarter when together walk,
so, closer look, at core explored
and question wisdom as received.
 
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
 
**
 
Temptation
 
Succulent apple.
Tempting to woman and man.
A delight and curse.
 
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.
 
**
 
Genesis According to Me
 
The Skeleton looks
too good-humored
to be the devil,
peeking from behind a tree,
eyes more set
on the Woman's genital
and curvy contour
than destroying mankind.
 
The Woman is greedy,
stripping the Tree of its fruits,
and careless,
dropping some of them
for the dog to find,
struggling to carry 
the weight of her pain.
 
Nobody in the Garden
seems powerful enough
to defy their fate,
just lustful and callous,
follies that lead them
to their downfall.
 
Jackie Chou
 
Jackie Chou is a writer from Southern California who has two collections of poetry, The Sorceress andFinding My Heart in Love and Loss, published by Cyberwit. Her poem “Formosa” was a finalist in the Stephen A DiBiase Poetry Prize. Besides writing, she loves to watch Jeopardy.
 
**
 
The Original Temptation
 
a midrash of Adam & Eve today
 
I can no longer sing
of the room, remembered, where
you took me to that bed
naked and barely ashamed,
with excuses sewn to hide
what we and others did
until the dust is dust,
as poems were falling into
flesh, to catch the stars
that smoldered, then burst in flame.
That bed was a burning ground.
The sheet I used as a cover,
you yanked away and laughed,
uncovering the dead.
And rising, we arise.
Hardness and softness mingled,
flowing in combinations
in our travail of pleasure,
moaning and then weeping,
syncopated breathing.
Our limbs are weary in time,
as long as a human life,
and the twilight sky bleeds
over the city's lights
and is dulled in the brown river
that moves and moves forever.
The light through the closed curtains
conducted a shadow play
adapted out of romances
in a vast, accusing quiet.
Outside sounds of traffic,
a plaintive siren calling,
a door slamming we heard
as if from a distant world.
Can we gather the rain,
drop by drop by drop,
or purge the blurred hours,
or forget the words that hurt?
And now in my place of penance
prayer is unconvincing
and just as necessary
to restore that lost road
that leads us all to a garden,
if any garden is left
where I can return the apple.
 
Royal Rhodes
 
Royal Rhodes is a poet who studied religious and biblical literature for many years. His poems on subjects of life, death, and love have been published in numerous literary journals, including: The Ekphrastic Review, Quaci, Last Stanza Poetry, The Montreal Review, and elsewhere.
 
**
 
Pearls Before Swine

These apples are pearls before swine.
Like Gretel discarding breadcrumbs,
Eve has taken to discarding apples.
Ripe and rosy as the day is long.
 
Her arms are heavily laden.
Tired of walking, wanting her sleep
But Eve still has wild orchards.
To visit and go scrumping.
 
Wanting only to dance beneath
Their untainted white blossoms
To reach for the moon and stars
And receive her strength and faith.
 
Hold death in her arms.
Rocked in a cradle
Later to be discarded like garbage
Like an apple core devoured.
 
That is abandoned in a forest.
Like a white butterfly
Born of purity, innocence,
With a seed of something to eternally grow.
 
Following a path back to who knows where
A house made of bread, cake, and sugar.
Running from a stepmother,
A woodcutter or to a God who will not forsake her.
 
Mark Andrew Heathcote
 
Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. His poems have been published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He is from Manchester and resides in the UK. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed.
 
**
 
Death and the Maiden
 
Death seeks the maiden.  He is persistent.  He lurks and hides, for she is lovely.  Exquisite nymph, riotous rich, with life and sex and eggs.  Fully-fleshed, upper realm woman.  Infatuation crushes him.  But also keeps his bones alive.  Gifts him.  Reasons to lurk, reasons to hide.  
 
If only she knew what spells she cast.  What shadows befall her own.  Trailing behind, sensing someone.  When she turns, there is no one.  Her shadow knows but cannot tell.  What spectres covet her essence.  She’ll discover them in time.  When she’s tasted knowledge and become.  Fully-fledged earth woman.  For now, she is oblivious.  Her beauty, a given.  The sun worships her.  Her skin, luminous.  The earth gives her its apples, for one ripe fruit recognizes another.  
 
Death is captivated.  Nothing rattles him more than this fulsome creature.  Nothing makes him seek a soul more than she.  When she bathes in the river, how he aches.  In the ghost of his once-heart, in the burn of his once-loins. 
 
He watches.  She with delicate steps who enters the sunlit waters that glitter and part.  He watches.  She who stretches her arms toward the sun.  Curves and scent and golden bloom.  So much life to his always death. The closest he will ever get.  
 
Nina Nazir
 
Nina Nazir (she/her) is a British Pakistani poet, writer and artist based in Birmingham, UK. She has been widely published online and in print. She is also a Room 204 writing cohort with Writing West Midlands. You can usually find her with her nose in a book or on Instagram: @nina.s.nazir. She blogs regularly at www.sunrarainz.wordpress.com
 
**


Second Thoughts
 
What if I have second thoughts
of the certainty of my nature
or the doubts from the wager
 
What if I look another way
of the past I once lived
or the future she could give
 
What if she cannot see me
of the mess I'm becoming
or the beauty of her uncovering
 
What if I never tell her
of the truths this life holds
or the lies that will unfold
 
What if I leave her in joy
of the bliss of not knowing
or the evil I'll be sowing
 
What if I have second thoughts
 
Brendan Dawson
 
Brendan Dawson - Scholar, Warrior, and Poet…but not always in that order.  Brendan writes from his observations and experiences while traveling, studying, and working abroad. He is currently writing a collection of poetry from his time in the military.
 
**
 
Emirati Paradise
               
Therme Dubai’s islands in the sky
rise above while Eve picks apples
as death and death’s dog look on.
Waterfalls and warm pools
will not bring back God 
nor remembrance
of all things 
good and
gone.
 
Lara Dolphin
 
A native of Pennsylvania, Lara Dolphin is an attorney, nurse, wife and mother of four. Her chapbooks include In Search Of The Wondrous Whole (Alien Buddha Press), Chronicle Of Lost Moments (Dancing Girl Press), and At Last a Valley (Blue Jade Press).  
 
**
 
Loved by Death
 
she stalked the orchard, 
filled with life, 
inadvertently spreading seeds 
as she walked  --
alluring in kindness,
pristine in ignorance, 
brazenly glutenous, 
all things Death could never be, 
so he hid 
within his knowledge, 
behind the Tree of Wisdom, 
ashamed of his continence, 
fearful his visage 
would decay her beauty, 
his obsession obscuring 
anything or anyone but her.
 
Silently, Sarama waits, 
Patiently - hungrily
for Death’s love. 
 
Tony Daly
 
Tony Daly has been writing poetry since angsty days in the early 90s when he found an ancient tome containing his grandmother’s poetry. However, he didn’t start sending his work out to publications until after retiring from the U.S. Air Force Reserves in 2016, which leaves a rather voluminous pile of work still laying dormant, hidden in notebooks, on napkins, in margins of partially read study material, that is constantly reburied under new inspirations. For a list, that probably needs to be updated, of his published work, please visit https://aldaly13.wixsite.com/website or follow him on X @aldaly18. 
 
**
 
Going Nuts
 
Let’s avoid identifying the fruits –
no need to go nuts
into centuries of arguments:
strawberries, apples, figs,
they all merit only a tease.
 
Let’s leave it and welcome
the once in a lifetime luck –
to finally be able to take a look
at the native cage of thy famous rib –
creator of Eve – and ponder
what an auspicious advantage it is
to Adam’s ominous mud-birth!
Beholding thy grasp, we can better adjust
to her art nouveau trance
as by her elated head on that pedestal of fruits
against his mortified countenance.
 
But, for the sake of the argument,
let’s just accept a working hypothesis –
"Eros' fruits of Eden’s provenance."
Indeed, it is a high spot, the sun is smelting
as if it’s on seventh heaven; bouncing off the walls
as if having ants in its pants and unable to hold its horses;
and this, clearly, is happening fast
in this blazing yellow podcast
where Adam is melted to the bone
by the hottest question in heaven –
only his eyes are left to follow her body beam
deadly aware that he is unable to fulfill her dream:
to see, but impossible to touch;
to know, but unable to act;
to sense thy holy impact,
yet incapable to draw a single stroke
on that blank biblical page.
Yes, some may like it hot,
though nobody is perfect,
but suspecting the perfection
around the corner is all that matters
in such biblical tatters.
 
By our corner here
Eve is surely nursing an idea
having fruit-loaded herself to the top
as if to entice the entire mankind,
walking with poise, eyes closed –
it is clear she is in pretend mode
in order to bluff his dog off
and swiftly stuff the Eros’ fruit
in Adam’s agape mouth
grabbing at once his instantly muscled hand
and taking him beyond Eden’s pristine ground!
Heaven on earth, or the other way around –
clues and contrasts echo in the flapping sound.
 
The point is –
to save thy primal hot tenor, because:
what a ridiculous lost skeleton Adam was
before the consummation of her dream fruit
before she cut the passion’s Gordian knot
and rescued the plot –
just what a man needs to come to his senses,
but then to muscle returns for life
to elude the skeleton going nuts
while looking for its rib…
 
Ekaterina Dukas
 
Ekaterina Dukas, MA in philosophy and philology, has studied and taught linguistics and culture at Universities of Sofia, Delhi and London, and authored a book on mediaeval manuscript art for The British Library. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning, and her poems have been honoured frequently by TER and its challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021.
 
**
 
Oranges Were the New Black
 
Adam, back then and alone in Eden’s garden
After Lilith, suggested by some to be the first
Was Eve, who was made from his rib, it’s said
Just one rule to follow, to never pick the fruit
But then tempted by Satan, chose to disobey
In some ways, his representation being iconic
What was at stake was the loss of immortality
And expulsion from Eden, living a new reality
Appearing as a skeleton would be quite ironic
As an assured death was now the price to pay
And nakedness was no longer seen to be cute
So they attempted clothing themselves instead
As for any future life, both accepted the worst
But neither apologized, nor asked for a pardon
 
Howard Osborne
 
Howard has written poetry and short stories, also a novel and several scripts. With poems published online and in print, he is a published author of a non-fiction reference book and several scientific papers many years ago. He is a UK citizen, retired, with interests in writing, music and travel.
 
**
 
Sun, Where Are You Sleeping Tonight?

You appear as twilight of twilight,
mustard folds, origami without paper.
 
Your makeup is dust and imagination.
You plant Earth with goldenrod,
 
but I’ve been mistaken before—perhaps
you seed the planet with corn. 
 
Knowledge is sparse. Leaves seldom
found. I embrace a tree trunk for
 
nourishment that took eons. When Eve 
bursts with a bushel of ruby sweetness,
 
I unfold a bed for growth. Heat 
burns off grass. Bourbon dries up.
 
In this unfolding, I better not destroy
what’s left. Give a rib if asked. Rub
 
brown fur behind the dog’s ear. Later,
alert the garden that I will spade.
 
When castanets murmur
in the background, I want to dance 
 
for flesh. I want to muster back
my soul.
 
John Milkereit
 
John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer. He has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals such as The Comstock Review, Panoply, and previous issues of The Ekphrastic Review. In December 2023, Kelsay Books published his fourth collection of poems entitled, Lost Sonnets for My Unvaccinated Lover.
 
**
 
Hellscape: The Apocalypse Comes To Town
 
The joker drew me in, his eyes
promising nirvana, of a sort.
He strummed the tree, a double bass,
vibrating Walk on the Wild Side,
until ripe, ready apples fell
with crisp abandon to my breast.
I embraced them, an apple pie
on my mind, spiced, a lattice crust,
friends invited for coffee and a slice.
 
Then, surprise, a sonic boom
waved in, a backward thrust
ripped my cheeks to bits.
My feet dissolved, legs
now steady Bunsen burners,
torso jelling molten into plasma,
as I bleach gold, then white.
 
If rubber hands could pluck
a charcoal twig from this tree,
I’d sketch a picture of my pain,
redraw this Teflon-coated hound
who bites my knees, not pacified
by tossing apples caramelised
in the wind, as a cartoon pooch,
no longer my tormentor.
 
Joker laughs and laughs,
and strums his songs.
My atoms keep on cooking.
It just never stops.
 
Emma-Jane Peterson
 
Emma-Jane is the co-author of a book of children’s Bible stories (Parragon) and has written prose and poetry for magazines in the UK and the US.
 
**
 
Far From the Tree
 
The apples were here first--
you think you own them, but no--
they lead, you follow
 
Other fruits, other
people, creatures, bones, roots, trees--
a tangled landscape
 
There are no seasons
here, only a golden glow,
burning with desire
 
Inside you grow wings, look up,
leap into a river of stars
 
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/.
 
**
 
November Harvest
 
Years past, we loved apple-picking in early September,
the farmer handing over a large slatted wooden basket.
U-Pick. 75 cents a pound. The dog dancing, us running
to the stubby rowed trees like we’d never seen fruit.
Tilting my head up, I watched your hands funnel apples into mine,
sweet harvest balanced against my breasts.
But now I’ve left it too late.
Shriveled rot hangs from dormant branches. The dog whines. My hands
are cold.
Was it always this hard, climbing a short metal ladder
in the low afternoon sun, knees aching?
Shading my eyes, I scan the orchard.
There’s nothing to gather here now.
Nothing healthy, nothing whole, to carry home.
 
Janice Scudder
 
Janice Scudder lives in Colorado.
 
**
 
The Tempest
 
Be it the sin
That feeds the hungry-
Be it the woman
Vile or innocent
Bringing down a plenty.
For Be it the forbidden fruit
That abides
Invisible skewed skeleton
Of rising knotted roots
Reaching for the heaven-
The pink magnolia
That lives at 
Any height. 
 
Be it on the ground 
Be it at the end-
Be it the sin
That finds
Them.
 
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. 
 
**
 
Eve-rybody’s Mother
 
Gleaning armloads of fruit, 
head back, joy-wheeling, 
you whirl in turmeric glow.
 
Hell crouches by the tree, 
hounds you, round-eyed, thin-ribbed,
scheming a steal, even a fall, 
 
but you know nothing. That one 
curious bite that you share 
within a heartbeat, spins you 
 
off spineless into the shadows.
O dew why have you turned 
to drought or squall? O weeds!  
 
O mosquitos! O sharp teeth! 
O leather coat! O forked tongue 
and bony pointing finger! O Eve –
 
conceiving and grieving,
slow breathing, 
push and pain.
 
One son slays another
and wanders off leaving you
bone-pallid, lined like winter limbs,
 
your sunny heart splintered 
down to the core. Are you
spat out like a pip?
 
Blood pools 
around the tree.
A saffron finch begins to sing.
 
Helen Freeman 
 
Helen started writing poetry and flash fiction whilst recovering from a car crash in Oman and got hooked. She has publications on several online sites and loves trying her hand at challenges presented by The Ekphrastic Review then reading the different interpretations chosen by editors. She currently lives in Edinburgh and her instagram is @chemchemi.hf 
 
**
 
Apple Villanelle
 
All apples are Honeycrisp now, 
not as sweet as they were before.
Eventually, they all turn brown.
 
Really common, sold by the pound 
in every produce selling store. 
All apples are Honeycrisp now.
 
Old cultivars are not around--
one rarely finds Braeburn anymore.
Eventually, they all turn brown.
 
Once, Granny Smith had fed the town 
with latticed pies and cidered cores.
All apples are Honeycrisp now. 
 
At first bite they made quite the sound,
with flesh as crisp as autumn's morn’.
Eventually, they all turn brown.
 
By October, boughs touch the ground,
but no one picks fruit off the floor. 
All apples are Honeycrisp now.
Eventually, they all turn brown.
 
Jory Como 
 
Jory Como is an aspiring American writer residing in Christchurch, New Zealand.
 
**
 
of snakes & men
 
red apple
burning to its core
scorched earth
 
in the beginning, rachel was barren like the earth. barren by land. barren by sea. barren by sky. and luke said to mary, “blessed be the fruit of your womb.” was this fruit the promised one or the prince of darkness? who bore the earth? a god, a devil, a mother? before the amoebas and monkeys and us, a bang exploded into the night sky like a mustard cloud spewing mustard gas with a mustard taste. a silk skein of sun-kissed webs covered skins and skulls.
 
yellow bones
searching for
a skeleton
 
a garden grew. and from it a tree bearing poisonous fruit. the fruit was red and glistening like lipstick-stained cheeks and dripping with temptation from a tree dripping with knowledge to a man dripping with sin. the man, who was evicted from the garden for claiming to be god, was squatting there with his pet snake. the snake told him there was a way to live without sin, a way to indulge without shame, a way to prosper without guilt - - find someone else to blame.
 
snakes and men 
still framing
eve
 
Michelle Hoover
 
Michelle Hoover is an amateur poet and professional wiseacre. She lives near a mountain on unceded Ute territory with her ornery feline, Stevie the Magnificent Marshmallow. She enjoys her toes in the grass, a hearty laugh, and a backstroke under a starry sky. Her work can be found in The Ekphrastic Review and The Haiku Foundation. 
 
**
 
Eve
 
Death clings to the creak of wood 
the soft split of living time 
 
when you step away from the ribbed
road to your future, you hear 
 
the grainy breath of lumber 
 
knowledge is harvested 
from seed to skin, surface all
 
death’s envy lingers in his fingers 
in the splints of his brittle heart 
 
wormed thought shrivels in the sun 
 
death and god are in cahoots 
damming the rush of spilling juice  
 
fruit’s sweet joy is forbidden 
to the dry scythe of yellow teeth 
 
devouring the heartcore of lust
 
you will not be bound desire 
your belly harbours bounty 
 
light showers your lifted head, hungry 
arms embrace apples abundance 
 
the dogs have a new mistress 
 
soil roils beneath your tread 
swirling rich earthy dust to savour
 
you will escape unenlightened eden 
language bursting from your breast
 
walk on Eve, you know more than them 
these 
   watchful 
               rigid 
                           restraining 
                                                   men
 
Simon Parker
 
Simon is a London based writer, performer and teacher. His work has been published in Cathexis NW, Gramercy Review, The Pomegranate London, The Mackinaw, The Ekphrastic Review and shortlisted by the BBC. He is an associate artist of Vocal Point Theatre, a theatre company dedicated to telling stories from and providing workshops for the marginalized. He also runs creative writing and reading groups for the homeless, socially excluded and vulnerable at the 240 Project.
 
**
 
Hide and Seek
 
Dear Eve
I’m going to play a trick on you
I hope you will like it.
 
This time
No sin
No reproach
No Garden of Eden
No Lucifer
Only fun and funny apples.
 
Adam is playing hide and seek with you
When you find him
Tell him that he must be careful.
Behind the apple tree
It’s not a snake which is watching him
It’s a dog
And we know that all dogs like to eat bones
More than apples.
 
And since you are the apple of Adam’s eye
Don’t keep all your apples for yourself
Give him an apple a day
 
Because he is looking a little skeletal.
 
Jean Bourque
 
Jean lives in Montreal.
 
**
 
Eve
 
in natural wonder and curiosity
she seeks to understand
she tests the rules and pokes the beast
they said she was weak and foolish
and of course there was a price to pay
but Oh! how much we’ve gained
 
Kaz Ogino
 
Kaz Ogino is a Japanese Canadian living in Toronto. A lifelong artist, her practice has been enriched with poetry. Her goal is to look beneath the surface and explore what might be found. Curious, she is seriously prone to deep rabbit-hole diving. Her practice is all about the discoveries and wonders of the process, in making art and crafting poems. Kaz’s art and visual poetry can be seen on her Instagram accounts; artbykaz.ca and artbykaz.play.
 
**
 
Jaundice
 
What mad choreographer
blocked out the scene
with traipsing nymph 
gathering all the knowledge
of Death we will ever need
leaving only the bitter fruit
of The Appreciation of Life
Tree that flowers only once
for each Cro-Magnon
each Neanderthal
and even further back
to the alleged crime scene
where we were bitten
by a thirst
an unquenchable curse
that ever questions
and no doubt asks too much
of Paradise
 
dan smith
 
dan smith is the author of Crooked River and The Liquid of Her Skin, the Suns of Her Eyes. Widely published, his poems have been in or at The Rhysling Anthology, Deep Cleveland Junk Mail Oracle, Dwarf Stars, Gas StationFamous, Jerry Jazz Musician and Sein und Werden. Nominated for the 2025 Pushcart Prize, dan's most recent poems have been at The Ekphrastic Review Challenge, Five Fleas Itchy Poetry, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and dadakuku.
 
**
 
My Choice
 
You say that I was tricked
Making it seem as if it was not my hands that lifted the fruit,
not my lips that pressed against its skin,
not me knowing the taste of fate even
before I swallowed.
 
Let it be known now!
The underworld did not take me.
I walked in, of my own free will,
barefoot but uncowed.
I carried the delight of spring with me,
but made myself a throne from the shadows.
 
The pomegranate did not bind me
It crowned me.
Every seed I swallowed, a promise, not a prison.
 
A skeleton crew knelt at my feet,
their empty gaze reflecting the stark truth:
I was never a captive — I was the key.
 
Aboveground, you speak of me with regret.
But you do not see me here now
do not see how the dead kneel,
do not see how Hades himself moves aside to let me to pass.
 
And for the last time, let me tell you this.
I am not lost.
 
I am a queen
who has never been afraid of the dark.
 
Nivedita Karthik
 
Note: The My/Me and I in the poem refer to Persephone and her voice. I wrote the poem from her point of view. I wrote it as if to show she knew what she was doing, rather than be tricked into it. She would rather be a queen there, than a voiceless here.
 
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.
 
**
 
Musings for My Dearest Eve
 
After the first bite of sweetest fruit,
Did you feel your innocence dissipate?
Your cells begin to slow
Your skin to wrinkle
Your bones to ache.
Death was born to stalk you,
Lurking until he could swallow you down.
 
Without the first bite of sweetest fruit,
Would we be tearing ourselves apart today?
Setting the world on fire
Fueled by hate and uncertainty
Filled with toxins and plastics and emptiness
Our children scared, elders lost
With the rest of us trapped in artificial prisons.
 
Before the first bite of sweetest fruit,
Would you be able to resist?
I beg you for the truth.
Would you save us from pain and loss
Despair and death--
Or was the taste so seducing,
Bringing your children to their knees everyday
Fighting for their own salvation,
You would still gather every fruit and guzzle them
down again and again.
 
It’s alright if you would.
Most of us are gluttons for such temptations,
We inherited that from you.
And the world contains towering oaks, mountain creeks
Green frogs and soft infants
Foggy mornings, snowy nights.
It’s not too late for us to make amends
Before death sneaks up to swallow us down.
 
But please pray for us, you at least owe us that.
 
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.
 
**
 
First Kiss on Earth
 
We kiss.
Not once, not twice. 
We kiss more times than we have numbers. 
Death watches from behind a tree. 
 
With each kiss we are stronger. 
Wild dog watches from afar. 
Each kiss a beckoning.
Death shrinks. 
 
We gather pomegranates, 
we share seeds mouth to mouth. 
Wild dog comes to our side, 
squeezes puppies from the womb. 
 
Kiss me. 
Kiss dog, kiss pups. 
Death is nowhere.  
 
Joe Cottonwood
 
Joe Cottonwood dwells in fog beneath redwood trees in the hamlet of La Honda, California. 
 
**
 
Mother Tongue
 
What the bones know lingers
in the amber of millennia,
 
and by now, Eve, you perceive
how the parts create a whole
 
conscience howling at the sun.
Each day dawns
 
from a first cry of hunger,
and still you gather sanguine
 
apples, pomegranates, figs
rich as honey. Holy prayers
 
for your hallowed belly.
Oh Eve, how we forget God
 
sends the rain
for the upright and sideways
 
beasts alike, and how we labor
to blame, ashamed to admit
 
that we too would bite
the fleshy fruit of knowing,
 
sweet juice like blood
flowing from our hollow mouths.
 
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. She is a member and regular student of The Muse Writers Center, a member of The Poetry Society of Virginia, and a former board member of Hampton Roads Writers. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Literary Mama, The Ekphrastic Review, Yellow Arrow Journal, Black Bough Poetry, OyeDrum Magazine, and elsewhere. She’s the author of Water in Every Room (Kelsay Books, 2025), her debut book of poetry. Website: https://heatherbrownbarrett.com/.
 
**
 
The Garden of Eating
                                                       
                                          "Current unrest was mild in Britain, compared to other parts of
                                           Europe. Even in the United States they were having troubles
                                           of protest and unease, a new class of urban poor uniting and 
                                           demanding privileges…"
                                           Anne Perry, The Angel Court Affair
 
 
       Death watched her pick the apples;     and the apples, red and ripe,
       were filled with the possibility     of joy and sweet desire.
 
       See, the winds of change said     how her little dog's ears
       are perked up?    How the garden air is threatened
 
       with the haunting sounds of her lost love?    The key-shaped
       spade had never worked on stubborn roots;    the smiling skeleton
 
       was her proof --     how he'd wished that he could stay,
       eating apples to forget their disagreements    the games they'd played
 
       for days to pay for refrigeration --     a modernized menu
       that groaned with questions:     cheddar cheese, or cream, whipped
 
       to top the pies;     a dash of cinnamon to save the taste
       of flesh forever...     Outside the window, a picture-perfect orchard
 
       had been flush with fall --    a honeymoon in Normandy, 
       a class in crusts --    how to survive when times were flaky
 
                                                                                            though the apples
                                                                                                  had blushed so much
                                                                                            before the June-Drops
                                                                                                  we thought forever
                                                                                                                       could never stop.
 
Laurie Newendorp
 
Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston where she attended The University of Houston for a Master's Degree in Creative Writing (Poetry.) `She has been a dedicated volunteer, working -- among other roles with children -- as a Great Books teacher and costume matron.  Honoured many times by The Ekphrastic Review's challenges, her book, When Dreams Were Poems, explores the relationships between art, poetry and life. Mentioned in the poem, the June-Drop apple falls un-ripened and out-of-season.  Apple season is usually September through December, and the June-Drops cannot mature without the seasonal nutrition provided by the tree.  The June-Drops are tart, but with added sugar, can be cooked and used as jelly.
 
**
 
Without Adam
 
Without Adam, I strip the tree.
 
Within my Eden, I found no man
to hold to and catch on, 
to fall with and be blamed for taking down
further, all is saffron wash for earth and burnt sienna strokes.
 
Missing firmament, I am caressed by elation. 
Laughter peels for the stars inside.
 
I revel across Paradise stage right,
cascading the red hearts embrace of apples
like a soubrette. He could never enter
 
this core that’s perhaps made of j’amais vu.
He’d watch in the wings far from me, call
out a line he thought I long lost, let it fire
and quench my pause for dramatic effect;
 
but not a soul is here. Only Death and mongrel
lech, sneering around the tree where I arch, 
steal with old gazes; as I know the tree. 
 
Adam, if he were waiting, crestfallen
 
at my insouciance as to whether he had hatched
a plan to stomp on Ares,
from a rocket shell to see ever-distant territory, 
insatiable and empty.
 
I look to Aphrodite, and she says
“Abundance is reaping
only what can be replenished.”
 
Without a first, I last.
No seed or cider to swallow
and be ripened by.
 
The tree keeps on yielding.
 
Iris Quinn
 
Iris Quinn's poem Sub Rosa Formation was selected by artist Hannah Berta as the Artists' Choice poem inspired by her work Muse Garden Rugosa in the fourth annual Ekphrastic Poetry collaboration between Page Gallery (Camden, Maine) and The Poets Corner, 2024.
 
**
 
Literally Eve
 
Repeatedly, I have been told that the way to appreciate modern art is to stand in front of it and let the art speak to me. I have done this in some of the finest galleries in the world – the Met, MOMA, the Guggenheim, the Morgan Library, the Frick, the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum (before the heist), the Getty, the Uffizi, the Smithsonian, the Van Gogh in Amsterdam (as well as the interactive experience) and the Dali in St. Petersburg (the American St. Petersburg, not the Russian one.) Then, next month, the Louvre and Musee d’Orsay will be added to the list. Guess what. Art doesn’t speak to me.
 
I am cursed with a hyper-literal mind. I see the paint on the canvas; I see the palette of colors and how they have been arranged. I can even appreciate what the artist is trying to say, Then, its like a bad cell phone connection – I get half the words but not the message.
 
Jackson Pollock is a good example. For me, Silver Over Black, White, Yellow, and Red, 1948, is just that – silver, black, white, yellow and red paint splattered haphazardly. I acknowledge that it holds my attention as my gestalt tries to form its randomness into patterns it has seen before.  I would quibble though that the silver is gray as it doesn’t shimmer, and the red is rust. But then, the red of dried blood is actually a rust colour. As I write this, I am going outside every half hour to watch the progress of the Blood Moon, and its "blood" is more rust than red.
 
But Pollock paintings don’t say anything to me. One viewer described their “encrusted, puddled, labyrinthine, and weblike surfaces” as “physically, erotically present.” Thank you, I know pornography when I see it and this isn’t it.

Eve, by Dyane Jackson (no relation to Jackson Pollock) is another example. It is not repulsive, but is certainly not a pretty work of art. I am sure Ms. Jackson did not intend it to be pretty. She talks on her website about her experience while painting: “. . . struggling to paint something for hours---a face, a tree---when there's sort of a "pop" and you SEE, oh, it's brown right there! Or, I have it too pointy! In Eve she does indeed have a pointy, brown tree. And a pointy, brown dog, at least I think it is a dog.

The two key figures are a woman (three straight, splayed lines where her long hair should be tell me it is a woman) and a skeleton (straight, splayed lines where the ribs should be tell me it is a skeleton.) The presence of the skeleton peering around the tree at the woman is obvious symbolism although I don’t for what. The skeleton is smiling so maybe they are playing a game of hide and seek.
 
The woman is carrying a large basket of red apples, or maybe she is trying to hold twenty or so of them loose in her arms. Whichever, she is not doing a good job as three of them are falling to the ground. Is there symbolism in the number three? I don’t know. Note to Jackson Pollock: this is what red looks like.
 
The woman knows she is not doing a good job and has her head raised to the sky bemoaning her clumsiness. I didn’t paint it; I am just relating what it is saying to me.

The composition is interesting, a diagonal from lower left to upper right. The arch of the woman’s body is mirrored in the bend of the tree trunk. The skeleton and the dog are looking at the woman, likely wondering, like me, why she is dropping the apples.

I assume the woman’s name is Eve implying the tree is the Tree of Knowledge. I wish I had one of the apples to eat as my hyper-literal brain does not have the knowledge to understand what Ms. Jackson is saying. I noticed that she started a blog in 2011 to communicate with people interested in her work. I found a passage where she is explicitly talking to me: “For you non artists, any area with a strong light/dark contrast or bright color will first grab attention, also small detailed shapes and wiggly lines.”

I also notice that Ms. Jackson abandoned her blog after a half dozen entries. Maybe that is what happened with Eve, perhaps the painting was declared finished cutting off what Eve was trying to say mid-sentence. I will finish it for her. Literally, Eve is crying out to the heavens, “Olly olly oxen free! Death, come out; the game is over.”
 
Michael Field
 
Michael Field was born in Maine and now lives in North Carolina where he transitioned from a career marketing technology to creative writing. He specializes in flash memoir, stream of consciousness essays, and insightful reflections. He has had multiple works recognized in literary contests including a first-place prize in the Friends of the Chautauqua Writing Center Adult Prose contest. His works have been published in magazines, literary journals, and an anthology, Memory as Muse.
 
**
 
How They All Go
 
The girl--
focused on her joy,
her flower scene,
her basket of fruit
embodying her youth
and unused body--
sees neither Death nor the Jackal,
who spoil
her plans from forming
in the yellow morning
with plots
to put her down.
The Jackal distracts her
with its shrill bark,
circling her,
spilling her fruit,
cutting off her escape,
while Death sneaks in--
unwanted dance partner--
and taps her elbow.
 
Brennan Thomas
 
Brennan Thomas is a Professor of English at Saint Francis University in Loretto, Pennsylvania. She has published short fiction and poetry in several online magazines, including Right Hand Pointing, Rue Scribe, Short Beasts, and Eunoia Review.
 
**
 
The Golden Afternoon
 
Conspicuously, Adam isn’t there,
the age-old bias still in play,
as if ‘twas only Eve who ate,
or hood-winked an untutored boy.
 
Then, lurking there behind the tree –
not Heaven’s Hound which chases
the reluctant down with boisterous barks –
but Death and Death’s Coyote
waiting for the lady’s back to turn.
 
She’s laden down with excess fruit,
unable to content herself,
and craving ruddy encores
until all the juicy savor’s gone –
the afternoon oblivious
to Death and Unfulfilled Desire.
 
Jeremiah Johnson
 
Jeremiah Johnson got his MA in Rhetoric in 2003 and then ran off to China to teach for a decade. His work has also appeared in the Sequoyah, The Ekphrastic Review and The Society of Classical Poets. He is currently a teacher of English Composition and World Literature at the University of North Georgia. 
 
**
 
Harvest
 
In the fabled garden,
Eve gathers ripened apples.
She fills her arms with so much fruit
that some of it falls to the ground.
Hurry, Eve, don’t waste the day--
for yellow leaves colour the air
with the scent of impending decay.
 
Her Adam left so long ago
that she rarely thinks of him now.
Adams come, and Adams go,
but trees of knowledge bloom anew.
 
Their apples impart wisdom or inspire doubt.
They raise questions and prompt debate.
Apples move eaters with their beauty
or challenge them to question fate.
With each bite, the knot entangling
truth and myth unwinds.
Bottom Line: Apples open minds.
 
So, Eves in Edens everywhere,
gather your apples while you may,
before the last fallen leaf has browned,
because death may hide behind the next tree
with his devouring hound.
 
Catherine Reef
 
Catherine Reef's poetry has appeared in several online and print journals. She has published more than forty nonfiction and biographical works on subjects including Sarah Bernhardt, Queen Victoria, and Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. A graduate of Washington State University, Catherine Reef lives and writes in Rochester, New York.
 
**
 
Eve’s Harvest
 
The air is gold, I’m standing tall:
How many apples make a Fall?
 
I came in Spring: the cold was bright,
And all the tree was hung with white.
 
White turned to green; the air was fresh;
I saw another, all of flesh:
 
A Summer man, who stripped a bough
To make a crown.  It’s faded now;
 
He says that Winter’s on its way.
What that may be, he cannot say,
 
Only he knows it will be cold;
But here today the air is gold.
 
While he is foraging alone,
I see another, all of bone:
 
Winter, maybe, with Winter’s beast.
But look: the tree brings forth a feast
 
Of life!  My arms can’t hold them all.
Each one a sun, a flaming ball:
 
How many apples make a Fall?
How many apples make a Fall?
 
Ruth S. Baker
 
Ruth S. Baker has published in some online magazines including The Ekphrastic Review. She has a special love for animals and visual art.
 
**
 
Your Core Is an Orchard, Brims with the Wisdom of Apples
 
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in
~ Leonard Cohen, lyrics from “Anthem”
 
Ripe with promise
a basketful of potential
you dropped to the ground
traversed unknown terrain.
 
On your journey
what did you encounter
gullies and ridges
ditches and peaks
the occasional worm?

Despite the unevenness
the unexpected bruises
and wounds along the way
did you choose wisdom
follow the high road
honor your core?
 
When confronted with obstacles
challenged by a landscape
fraught with imperfections
were you determined
to sow seeds of light?
 
Jeannie E. Roberts
 
Jeannie E. Roberts is an artist, a poet, and the author of nine books, including On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). She is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs and finds joy spending time outdoors and with loved ones.
 
**
 
good Eve ning
 
oh goddess 
    cast 
thine eyes 
    upon this  
orchard of lust 
    in 
mine basket
 
hie thee hither 
dear Adam 
   from behind 
yon 
apple tree  
 
lest I see thee 
    for all 
that thou 
art 
   not 
 
lest the asp 
    doth kiss 
thy jackal's 
    haunt
lusteth
    thy forbidden 
    wisdom
 
Donna-Lee Smith
 
Donna-Lee Smith loves the challenge of looking at a piece of art, finding the words to express her feelings and (when required) utter nonsense. Thank you, as always, Team Ekphrastic!
 
**
 
Defiance
 
She has gathered her apples
like jewels
in this garden of Eden
a carnal carmine
of hearts ripened
with passion.
 
She is tripping on sunshine
a livewire of intent
a blaze of delight
a living, loving, longing
woman just being.
 
Look at her laugh
in the face of Death
who hides tremulous
from this golden exhale
as the seeds of her secret
fall to earth with a sigh.
 
Yes, she will take temptation
if this is the reward -
succulent, sweet
cornucopia of joy
mystery of the flesh revealed -
a feast.
 
And the air warms
to a yolk yellow:
the bright birth
of a new world.
 
Siobhán Mc Laughlin 
 
Siobhán Mc Laughlin is a poet and Creative Writing facilitator from Co. Donegal in Ireland. Her poems have appeared previously in The Ekphrastic Review. She has also been published in literary journals including The Poetry Village, The Honest Ulsterman, Drawn to the Light Press and more. She enjoys ekphrastic writing as the artwork provides a narrative of its own. Find her on Instagram @siobhanmcl7 (she no longer uses 'X') 
 
**
 
Evelution

So much knowledge
it’s heady and exhilarating
as she dances away
seeding ideas and change
in the wake of her
overflowing arms

Life and death suddenly
have deeper meaning
neither can exist
without the other
now that she knows
what lurks inside each fruit

They become her
a hundred breasts of
food flowing through
her belly to nurture
the earth and birth children
she is goddess and guardian

The jealous god disapproves
poisoning bark and root
he will punish her life force
the violence of manhood
hidden under skin and
dying to the bone

For a brief moment
ecstasy was within reach
balance achieved
until hounded forever
pursued for existing
without permission

R A Ruadh
 
R A Ruadh’s poetic universe is where farm life, erotic questions, war zones, and snowstorms are all related. With deceptively lyrical simplicity the poet takes on everything from the ravages of a child’s murder to a maple tree’s promise of new life, and erotic odes to garlic.  Her award-winning work has been published internationally in book form, annual and quarterly collections, and online editions. An unrepentant Red Sox fan and proud grandmother, R A Ruadh lives on a farm in Mi'kma'ki, the ancestral and unceded territory of the Mi'kmaq People, also known as the Canadian Maritimes.
 
**
 
The Wondrous Daughters of Eve: a Sijo Sequence
 
I.
Unrepentant of their sins, men watch as we struggle and suffer.
They lurk. They creep. They troll. They catcall. They boss. They scheme. They attack - constantly tormenting, be it gleefully or unwittingly.
 
II.
No wonder we wander away, and no wonder we wonder.
No wonder we are fearful, and no wonder we are brave.
No wonder we love. No wonder we loathe. No wonder we are numb. 
 
III.
Men can lie. Men can cheat. Men can steal. Men can kill. Men can destroy,
But our hair, our lips, our breasts, our asses, our wombs, our brains, our souls
Are held to much higher, perpetually changing standards.
 
IV.
No wonder we love apples, and no wonder we hug trees.
No wonder we wear miniskirts. No wonder we refuse to shave our legs.
No wonder we are so tempted, and no wonder we, ourselves, tempt.
 
V.
They keep breaking and breaking the commandments that they wrote
In the name of a god that supposedly looks just like them,
Whereas we are expected to obey without question.
 
VI.
No wonder we are considered vain. No wonder we don’t care.
No wonder we read so much. No wonder we are curious.
No wonder we ask. No wonder we believe. No wonder we doubt. 
 
Rose Menyon Heflin

Originally from rural, southern Kentucky, Rose Menyon Heflin is a poet, writer, and visual artist living in Wisconsin. Her award-winning poetry has been published over 200 times in outlets spanning five continents, and she has published memoir and flash fiction pieces. She has had a free verse poem choreographed and danced, an ekphrastic memoir piece featured in a museum art exhibit, and two haiku put into a gumball machine. Among other venues, her poetry has appeared in Deep South Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, and San Antonio Review. An OCD sufferer since childhood, she strongly prefers hugging trees instead of people.
 
**
 
To Dyane Jackson Regarding Eve
 
You paint her as the truth disclosed
of will that wisely God imposed
in each of us who falls as well
to find the faith in which we dwell
 
to bear the brunt of gathered blame
for sins that jaundiced eye will name
as basket of the ills deplored
that in the mirror though ignored
 
will in delusion see reprise
as dread assured by vain surmise
of fear that fame can mobilize
invoking cloak of evil guise
 
on courage that would dare oppose
the arrogance so lacking clothes.
 
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.
 
 
 

Dear Writers, 
​
I'm again honoured to curate The Ekphrastic Review's biweekly challenge. Over the next two weeks, artist Cookie Wells and I invite you to spend time with her painting, Rocky River, and share whatever its inspiration creates.  

For many years, Cookie was a figure painter. Wanting a change, she switched to abstract about 8 years ago. Her passion is colour and texture. She is a native of Texas, born in Beaumont. She received an art degree from Lamar University and worked 30-plus years in graphic arts. She is now a full-time artist and member of Archway Gallery, a co-op gallery in Houston, Texas.

Write On!

Sandi Stromberg

**

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 Rocky River, by Cookie Wells. Deadline is March 28, 2025. 

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 WELLS 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, March 28, 2025.

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!
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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.