 Dances, by Arch Hades (United Kingdom) 2024. Click on image for artist site. Delineation Asleep or awake? How am I?—uncertain, my mind hovers in a tension of thought inside images not quite deep enough to be dreaming. I walk gingerly across a landscape filled with currents of intuition I can’t translate into the coherence of words—they tell me something, shivering me, yet are forgotten as soon as they pass across the gaps between the synapses. What is this place? I don’t recognize it, or else it is larger than I remember, or smaller. If you were here, you’d know how to name it, to make it familiar. It's always your map I follow, the roads that hold your choreographies, even though you’ve left my life, this life. I can almost extract the music, the patterns—if I summon your reflection out of the breach, will you dance me home? 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/. ** the gates of hell loitering around these angels never really getting through this dance that wears me out around the arch of hades dressing up and peeking through speaking words of reference to multisemous suffering only to articulate a meaningless existence the arch of hades it divides us and unites us their bodies for our souls the blinded angel keeping score as we reach a perfect balance Stien Pijp ** Paso They face in the wood With horns and with cape Where evil and good Can make no escape. Soft grows the sound As if from afar Stamping the ground To a Spanish guitar. The heat of the day Has faded to black– Setting the dance For chase and attack. For the righteous a knell For the victor a curse Before gates of Hell The proud enter first. Lara Dolphin A descendant of immigrants, Lara Dolphin lives with her family among the Allegheny Mountains of Central Pennsylvania on the ancestral land of the Susquehannock/Iroquois people. She has written three chapbooks In Search Of The Wondrous Whole, Chronicle Of Lost Moments, and At Last a Valley. She, like countless others, hopes for a world filled with greater peace. ** The Dance of Winter Winter dances around the bare trees swishing her heavy robes of snow. Her head is bowed in concentration as she touches the music of the wind, the silence of seeds. Her body spins to the alternating beats of day & night. The patience of leafless branches, the strength of the bark reaching for the skies trance in black & white. The light song of her veined hands, her soft Sufi-twirls wrapped in swirls of prayers, the stillness hidden in her deft movements are but a reflection of possibilities in the invisible mirror of time. Preeth Ganapathy Preeth Ganapathy is from Bengaluru, India. Her works have been published in several magazines, more recently, in Pensive, Braided Way, The Orchard Poetry Journal and elsewhere. Her microchaps A Single Moment, Purple and Birds of the Sky have been published by Origami Poems Project. Her work has been nominated for Best Spiritual Literature. ** Dance Planet Enter two graces: figures of sound curves postures as aligned masts belted in black dresses of white backdrop mirroring the Milky Way for a late unfathomable sail. \ A nocturnal tune raises the masts: pianissimos to grazioso to rubato steer hands reorder air unbound feet tap on newly tangled euphonic compound you can hear its particles’ splitting sound quantum leap shreds belted bounds milky stars fall down – ecstasy crowned! Dance coast found! Out of the last broken-hearted note splashing on the dance coast emerges dressed in Aphrodite’s vest the third grace. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. Her poems have been honoured by The Ekphrastic Review and its challenges quite often. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021 ** From the Book of Holy Fires The bonfire on the edge of the sea, seemingly comprising broken timbers liberated from old abandoned rowing boats, sat smouldering as a sharp breeze carried the group's memories away with its dank grey-black smoke. Strewn around them were partly burned items of clothing. There had been a funeral pyre but its work had been incomplete. Now the Sisters would need to Shrive the setting, bring the cleansing and atonement that the ritual burning should have achieved. The group watched the water. The Sisters would approach from there and depart upwards, into the wooded hills after the Shriving. So it was foretold. A way had been prepared, using the charred remains of furniture, mainly wooden chairs, to form a kind of causeway on the edge of the water. Floating at the edges of that informal, unsteady raft were lifeless spines of books, most of the pages loosened and floating away or burned to cinders. Either way, unreadable. That no longer mattered. The Sisters knew what they needed to do, to say. Records were unnecessary. The group stared, looking for a first sighting. Nothing. Then, two distant white specks. Gulls? No. The movement, at sea level, was fast and direct. In a blink two figures were there, draped in long white shroud-like cloaks. Elaborate headdresses, almost mini versions of themselves, crowned them while wholly obscuring their features. The Sisters faced each other, mirroring each other's actions, grasping each other's hands. They moved silently towards the group seemingly without using their legs, as if rolling on wheels. The group were motioned to lie down on the dirty, ashy, gritty sand. Only when they all lay facing the ground and closed their eyes would the Shriving begin. After the briefest of pauses a high pitched shrieking and wailing started. The prone figures felt the air move around them, the sweep of garments grazing them as the Sisters moved. Strong gusts of warm air swept across them all. The noise rose to a crescendo then suddenly dropped. The unmistakable gut-churning odour of newly wet ash permeated everything, edged with a tinge of salt and seaweed. After a short while members of the group began to move and get up from the sand. A few groans and exclamations escaped, hands flying to faces and heads. Those not left bald and beardless had a short bristle of white stubble on their heads. Others had lost their sight. There was always a steep price to be paid to the Sisters. Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer living in the UK Midlands. She's had pieces published in Ekphrastic Review’sChallenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print, including most recently in Blue Heron Review and The Orchards. ** Twin Goddesses on the Mountain Top As Mr. Frederick lowers the needle on the 45, the stylings of the Dutch band Shocking Blue get up under our feet. Our legs itch to get on the dance floor. “I’m your Venus,” the female singer belts out. It’s our signal for the Lindy. This Saturday night, we, the seventh and eighth grade girls, in our party dresses, curled hair, panty hose, heels, and the required white gloves, await the approach of the seventh and eighth grade boys to ask us to dance. All have been sponsored by members of the Arlington Women’s Club. This, ladies and gentlemen, is Junior Assembly, more frequently called Cotillion, in the auditorium of Roosevelt School. My twin sister and I were not accepted at first. We were plump, thanks to late night gorging of Sara Lee cakes from our father’s supermarket. We were Jewish. Not the right profile for this exclusive throwback to the town’s once-homogenous population. But we did not want to come into our classrooms on Monday mornings as social outcasts. Our mother had to intervene and ask one of her friends to sponsor us. I bought a new brown dress with sheer pink sleeves and a bowtie from Lane Bryant’s Chubby Department. Gary, whom I knew forever as a classmate, asks me to dance. But I am too tall to slide under his arm. No suited-up boy wants to dance with a girl taller than him. No boy wants to dance with a fat girl, either. My sister and I, refusing to be wallflowers, partner with each other. We’ve been doing that since the womb. We match each other in gait and grip. Once we determine who will lead this time, we step forward and back, one leading with the left and one with the right. We move on to the waltz, the foxtrot, rhumba, and cha-cha. We partner again as college seniors to fulfill the gym class requirement. We choose Dance. We whirl each other around as we waltz, clasping each other’s hands as we execute all that we learned at Cotillion. The gym instructor scolds us constantly, because we are having too much fun. It’s time for the Lindy. As we step forward and back, we sing, “I’m your Venus. I’m the fire, at your desire.” Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner is the author of three poetry chapbooks, including the ekphrastic Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press, 2025), and a forthcoming ekphrastic collection, The Night Watch (Kelsay Books). She's been honoured to have her ekphrastic poetry and prose appear in The Ekphrastic Review, The Mackinaw: a journal of prose poetry, Unbroken, Blaze/VOX, and elsewhere. Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Last Dance The old woman Knew that it was her silhouette In the mirror of the dark forest Dead trees accompany her Their branches imitate her movements Follow their languid rhythms Hers and her phantom Who envelops Her last breath In a last dance Before being tenderly embraced By Infinity Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. He and his wife love social dancing. After retiring, they resumed the hobby they enjoyed before having their children. They have been dancing together for nearly twenty years now. Touched by Arch Hades’ painting, Dances, he hopes to be able to dance with his wife for a few more years. ** Grocery Bag Ghosts "Right in the world's deep heart I lay me down And look up at the sky between the leaves... The air is full of soft imaginings... Soft luminous shadows Drifting like gilded ghosts before my eyes" Lord Alfred Douglas, The Wine of Summer Was I too late to see them released to dance through a jewelry-making studio in DuPage County? On pages, sheer as the light of an ancient emanation Caer Ibormeith appeared in the dreams of Oengus Og love-sick until he found her, flying with swans in the very heart of Ireland. Call her moon- white by starlight, Cygnus in a sapphire night as lovers married in a ritual of flight circling the platinum surface of a lake -- three times around, air reflected in water when Oengus shape- shifted into a swan his mating dance, the passion of feathers; feathered like late sun in the window of the lab pale air around the tin cans without brands washed clean to hold figures made with Jewel food bags, their shapes dancing -- no 2 the same -- in the flame of a jewelry soldering torch. I'd tried other bags, but only the Jewel bags, made of white plastic knotted and flowed into mythical drapes -- the way fabric hangs, designed by its own weight -- & once I added an opal moon. But by night the Celtic characters waited bedded in plaster, in unmarked cans, burned out -- or should I say melted -- the lost ghosts of legend to be cast in silver a page turned in the "ride of their lives" in a centrifuge. How mysteriously they seemed to me to be human, Caer floating in the arms of Oengus Og his goddess of dreams & prophecy -- how they'd fly over the leaves of the Kingsley Yew forest as our hair turned to silver in the mirror. Laurie Newendorp Honoured multiple times by The Ekphrastic Review's challenges and nominated for Best of The Net, Laurie Newendorp made jewelry in Chicago, adapting the "lost wax" technique of casting to plastic bags that took shapes that looked very like the figures in Arch Hades' Dances. ** Contortion In this sterile white dress, I am an oyster’s pearl-- a muse imbibed by eternal dusk. So the touch of life evades me. Tree branches, the veins of nature herself, do not dare to restore me. And yet, I contort to the rhythm of your fickle pulse. Samsaric, almost, and I remember how much I love your choreography. Anika Tenneti Anika Tenneti is an avid poet based in California. She has explored a vast array of themes in her works, some of which have appeared in anthologies such as Cargoes, Sheepshead Review, and Just Poetry, and have received recognition from The Poetry Society of Virginia. She has self-published several chapbooks, with a new one in the works. When she is not writing, she enjoys learning about various scientific concepts and doing origami. ** To Arch Hades Regarding Dances They seem to cling to sphere unseen, in dream of truth that lies between a moment sensed through echoes stored and promise held on which it soared preserved to be recalled again as all it was and might have been. The dance beheld is dare and trust that is our being unto dust... ...and bond perceived of faith and fear... ...or of hereafter and of here. ...or of assembled thought profound and conscience challenged, though unbound, to be defining sculpted grace of moral, other-centered face. ___ You mirror dances we impart as presence left in love and art. 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. ** Night Goddess Dance with me, take my arm and sway Around the copse of trees in darkened wood Nymphs, billowing, faceless in moonlight Circling in rhythm, gauzy fabric flowing Endless music in silhouetted silence, echoed Stillness, celebrating the night goddess Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson has been writing poetry over 50 years, using prompts such as art, music, nature and memories. Her work has been widely published in full form [Amazon] as well as in many journals such as Blue Heron, Lothlorien, Medusa's Kitchen and The Ekphrastic Review. ** ocular respite (fibonacci poem) who dances for me in the moonlight dresses afloat shimmer and wind kisses me with soft cotton shrouds born again ___ after the autumn dance we stand winter leaves resting ___ enchant me (fibonacci poem) first ink then paper and a finger presses harder than a brush the watercolours of the night bring new painted memories ___ leftovers (fibonacci poem) seasons pass and we shed our skins smooth cotton and sandals too Mike Sluchinski Mike Sluchinski documents prehistoric parrothead habitats in Saskatchewan. Grateful to be read in Kaleidotrope, Eternal Haunted Summer, The Wave (Kelp), The Literary Review of Canada, The Coachella Review, Inlandia, Welter, Poemeleon, Lit Shark, Proud To Be Vol. 13, The Ekphrastic Review, MMPP (Meow Meow Pow Pow), Kelp Journal, “the fib review,” Syncopation Lit. Journal, South Florida Poetry Journal (SOFLOPOJO), Freefall, pulpmag, and more coming! ** Clandestine They meet in the trees in the liminal space between town and forest, light and twilight; the coming moon reflecting brightly off stark tree limbs. Each offers an arm to the other, torsos turned in time with crickets. Their heads tilt in laughter as their dance begins. Kaila Schwartz Kaila Schwartz has always loved writing ekphrastic poetry and finds great satisfaction staring at art that provokes story. Her work can be seen in Hippocrates Awards Anthology 2020, Ekphrastic Review, Moss Piglet, Waffle Fried, and The Yelling Continues, a Procrastinating Writers United Anthology. ** Hell’s Belles The Reaper’s older sisters, starkly grim, still frightened him, although not him alone. Their features always hidden, ghostly dim, but unlike his, without sinew and bone. His own bones had long framed his hood and shroud; gaunt figure, the dark portent of his fame. A single digit reaching from his shroud would take the life of those he came to claim. Identical, and yet invisible except for dingy vestments that they wore; disheveled gossamer, goat’s woven wool, black trim and skirts unraveling toward the floor. The sisters wandered like two nymphs from Hell and spread their madness to each mademoiselle. 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. ** Dancers Beautiful dancers, fading into the darkness, audience, amazed. 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. ** Danse Macabre Two, for whom death was complete Now shrouded in white, would meet Reluctantly, to follow that slow beat Both unable to resist the music’s pull With flapping costumes no longer full Circle each other in a danse macabre In life, such an event might be sweet Here and now, to permanently greet A state of mind that none can defeat Yet are afraid of being seen as a ghoul Spun slowly around as if in a whirlpool Yet still are dressed in their burial garb 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. ** When We Two Reunited When we two reunited, In silence and tears, My predictions were thwarted By the passage of years. Guided both the same Into the forest that night, I heard your lit fame And you tasted my caverned eyes. Past vows held us no longer Forever lost in deceit. From the former we grew stronger, Though I stuttered from my knees. The silence was broken By our tears tapping on the earth - A song of our love reopened, Music that our feet preferred. I stretched out my hand And traced your formless grace. Imagined the parts that were stabbed - Removed and erased. But the parts I had missed, Those floating like ghosts in my mind, Remained as we kissed In teardrop counted time. And who would have thought We'd have met again this way? Freed from the laws we were caught in, Frozen with nothing to say. We spent that night Swayed in marbled trances. Locked by our memories - And danced dances upon dances. Brendan Dawson Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and experiences as an expat. ** The Wind in My Sails The wind can climb a flight of stairs. And leap over a mountain range. In a single breath, it can cross an ocean. Or take a respite like a damselfly in my hand. But when it flows through your satin dress, Your silky nightclothes, your hair, It touches my soul like a nightingale. And it rests becalmed like an old rocking chair. Where the hearth in its cinders still Glows in the moonlight, ready to suddenly flare It's here; there is a hope, a wish to hold- Your hand and to dance beneath the starlight. It's here I want to watch the sunrise. And gaze into your eyes. A thousand more times without sleep; And here I want to pivot into the mystery that is you. Holding close a scented pillow, I never knew that at that time it could echo. My thoughts and feelings. I never really knew. The wind in my sails could taste this sweet. 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. ** We Would Be Water A sea of greige stands between us. We are constructed of monochrome, the colour makes us messy. It ruins a constructed image we present, darkness wraps around purity, separation creates order. A divide in the chaos we could create. We would be water, clashing and crashing. A sea of confusion and hurt would overcome us. The separation is good, I tell myself. Whether to convince, reassure, or remind, I am unsure. So may the line remain, careful construction fulfills me. I do not need the complexities of shading, I have remained orderly long enough to know that. Darci Hunt Darci Hunt is a poetry enthusiast from Derby, England. This is her first entry into a poetry challenge. When not reading and writing poetry, Darci is a keen baker, often listening to Oasis whilst in the kitchen. ** Dance In the midnight stillness, dark and dramatic as a Caravaggio, the poet takes her evening walk. The hunter moon has transformed the skeletal trees into forked lightning creations at the forest’s edge. A disquieting aura blankets all. From the raven black shadows emerge a cloth-clad apparition. A ghostly figure from a de Chirico, haunting emptiness and power, wrapped in a Magritte-like riddle, unfathomable yet compelling. It floats and glides gracefully her way, hovering in her just-beyond as enigmatic as a poem. Unconcerned and curious, the poet, as poets do, puzzles over this strange spectacle, this stark form against the backdrop of nocturnal light swaying in wordless conversation. The poet’s thoughts stirs with possibilities; It’s me yet not, a mirror image of sorts, a mimic, a mask, a message. She digs deeper striving clarity; this or that, past or future, real or illusion? The mystery unfolds and recognition rises through the layers of impressions. The poet realizes it is not about a ‘who’ or ‘what’ but a ‘that’. Not about the Dancer but the Dance. Kaz Ogino Kaz Ogino lives in Toronto. A lifelong artist, her practice has been enriched by poetry. Her practice is 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. ** Abandon We petal-dance, paper-wrapped dry as pharaohs in sand-swept secrecy, as shrunken hibiscus blossom, once vibrant, faded to a Victorian memory, pressed and lifeless. We skirt and flirt the hours of lived days beneath too-bright light or soft night-light, searching, sometimes finding, like planets orbiting elliptical courses that touch then move away, pretending the sap and syrup will never run dry, there will always be another.minuet. Ghost you, ghost me, we join hands, sifting our own dust, weaving our own shrouds as the rivers run over the world’s edge, taking our inconsequential dreams and the beauty of all creation with them. 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 September 2025 by Northodox Press. She lives in southwest France and has published three collections of poetry. ** An Offering How old was I the night you materialized in my bedroom at the lake house? Three or four? Never a sound sleeper, I stirred as soon as I sensed your gaze. You stood tall in the dense blackness, in front of the sliding glass doors. Through my thicket of hair, I could see you studying me. You shone from within. Skeptical of one another, we remained immobile and mute. I had never seen a boy with hair falling past his shoulders, a band tied around his head. You wore draped, loose clothing. A soft sack rested at your hip. You held a long, pointy stick in one hand and at your other side stood your dog. Or was he your fox? We watched. We marinated in uncertainty. We cultivated silence. Cocooned in my nightie, I wriggled to the edge of my twin bed without sitting up. I need to tell Mom there’s someone in my room with his… his pet, I thought. Never taking my eyes off you, I decided to pop up and dart into the hallway. The moment my feet touched the forgiving carpet, your hand crept into your satchel, eyes steady and safe. When you uncoiled your arm, a compact doll rested in your open palm. An offering. * How did you find your way to our cabin overlooking Clear Lake? Or am I the one who unknowingly stumbled into your world? Before Europeans made their way to the land that would become northern Iowa, Native Americans set up their summer camps on the shores of this lake. Tall grasses and oak trees dominated the landscape. Buffalo and elk roamed. Perhaps this was the lake you knew. Decades after our visit, I unearthed the diminutive corn husk girl as I rifled through the wardrobe in that same back bedroom. Stiff and papery with an elegant, tapered waist, her faceless form shot me back to that night. Your tradition taught that the lake’s spirits held the ensemble of human likenesses. Adorning the corn husk creation with eyes, nose, and a rosebud mouth would have deprived the water spirits of a sacred image that was theirs to protect. Doll at my chest, I stepped to the spot where you had stood. I turned and looked out over the lake. Your lake, my lake, our lake. Then, I lowered my arm to study the corn husk girl. Yours, mine, ours. * How old were you the day a tiny girl appeared at your lakeside camp? Fifteen or sixteen? Cleaning the walleye you had just pulled from the water, you looked over your shoulder and startled at the strange child sleeping curled under an oak. You rose to your feet and stood watch as she began to rustle, splashes of filtered light bouncing about her shifting frame. Your dog joined you. The girl awoke, rolled onto her back, and brushed a lock of tangled hair behind her ear. Her puzzled, glowing eyes appraised you. Neither of you spoke. Her twisted gown was dotted with tiny blue flowers. Her fingernails were dabbed with red paint. Plush and pale, she fidgeted nervously beneath the tree. Where are her people? you wondered. Should I call out to Uncle? You stayed quiet. You watched over her. Maybe she was lost. When she stood, you slipped your hand into your leather pouch. The corn husk doll was your talisman—a remembrance of your niece. Removing it from the sack, you leaned down and presented it to her—a gift of reassurance. An offering. Allison Connolly Allison Connolly splits her time between France and the States, taking inspiration from both cultures. Her book Spaces of Creation was published by Lexington Books in 2017. Her work has also been featured in Romance Notes and French and Francophone Studies. Her chapter Luxuriously Intimate is forthcoming in The Stories We Tell at Brill Press. She blogs at www.creativesanctuary.net and teaches at Centre College in Danville, Kentucky. ** The Golden Hour at a sky park- direct downing sun burning thoughts. Retreating laughter, fading music, plummeting cable cars in a discarded dance. At the pool bar loud voices beckon all- still minds, bent looks, moves under threat. Jerusalema of a shrouded body- glimpses of an old neighborhood and reflected past. 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. ** These Woods, This Night These woods in dark without moonlight without firewood without sleep This stand of cedars where wind hangs like cheesecloth where roots dance skirts where a drying branch still reaches This night when I dream awake when I listen, listen when hours melt one into the next This one night of cedars and mist and reaching that cannot separate what is held together that is everything and the spaces between things that promises passage between what is and what cannot be Denise Wilbur Denise Wilbur is a writer, a teacher, a hospital chaplain, a forest lover, a listener, a wide-awake dreamer. She lives for the spaces between things -- worlds, words — and the passage they promise. ** Contrasts The dark and the light Reality and dreamland Goodness and evil Hard truth and slimy fiction -- All just phantom narratives * We, the Contradictions We cloak ourselves tight In darkness so light can shine We run to stand still Telling lies to know our truths We are our own opposites 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 250 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 published in 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. ** The Women’s Duel I mostly played by myself as a child, too blind to cross streets alone. No other kids on my block. Most of my friends were books and cats. Our backyard creek was a lure, but Mama warned, “Don’t go far from the house. I need to keep an eye on you.” So I wandered around the creek bed – a mini Grand Canyon. As usual, I was hunting for fairies. Mama always told me, “Use your imagination,” but it was just too dark to see any fairies. As I backed out of the tiny cave, the wind began to howl, then something hard struck my head. Whack! Fortunately, Mama COULD see me from the kitchen. She came running, though I didn’t know that at the time. I was hearing the wind as lush music, saw tiny, gossamer figures staring at me. Fairies! Chirping birds called me to look up, up, up into the sky, where two giant dancers took turns, charging at each other, then backing off. Mama later explained that’s called flamingo dancing, but I don’t know why. Where are their wings? And why cover their faces in gauze? I bet one’s a good fairy godmother, the other her evil twin. Maybe I’d be worried if I saw their scary faces. Instead, I’m just swaying to the music, waiting to take my own turn. I’m the last to know about my ten-day coma. I’ve never told ANYONE what happened that day…until now, when I told you. 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, MO. 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. In April, Alarie was proud to be named the 2025 Muse of The Writers Place. **
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 The Serpent, by John Slaby (USA) 2024 Dear Writers, In The Serpent, artist John Slaby offers a true smorgasbord of daily life for your imagination! He and I look forward to all your responses and hope you enjoy the journey. John Slaby was born in Brooklyn, New York, and has been a Houston resident for almost 40 years. Trained as an engineer (he holds a PhD in Chemical Engineering), he splits his time between his profession and his art practice. He is mostly self-taught as an artist and has exhibited his work in the Houston region since his first outdoor art show in 1989. He has been a member of Archway Gallery, Texas's oldest artist-owned gallery, since 1993 and has had many solo exhibitions there. Happy writing! Sandi ** 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 Serpent, by John Slaby. Deadline is August 1, 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 SLABY 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, AUGUST 1, 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.  Spirits of Prisoners, by Charles Altamont Doyle (England) 1885 Sunnyside Prison Only an after when once was before, and during shadows board in between. Joyful I collapse in star-sand, yet they, here, want an obey; transforming all that falling in to steadier views. Walls dark - even on days - as memories destroy a distance. How they rebuild our film of wishes here. Sanity in spirit, an impressive gift to daily sketch. Delicately. Never will I cascade, down their brainy stairs. Hardly they listen. Today, I just smooth the beard, laugh my smiles and water- colour with stone compeers balancing. The ones who ask the good questions. Better than butterfly ruins: the crows that hope. Voice and cosmos, together, open up clearly; a history of now and then — though never may I unravel. A cell is not sunny in the end. Kate Copeland Kate Copeland’s love for languages led her to linguistics & teaching; her love for art & water to poetry. She is curator-editor for The Ekphrastic Review & runs linguistic-poetry workshops for the International Women's Writing Guild. Find her poems @ https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/ plus @ TER, WildfireWords, Gleam, Hedgehog Press [a.o.]. Kate was born in harbour-city, and adores housesitting in the world. ** Imprisoned Prisoners of our own imperfections Chained to our fantasies In the tightened straitjackets of our illusions We're only fatally flawed humans Even imps and greater demons Colonizing our surroundings — Parasites — living inside our mortal hearts Are doomed Unless redemption is sought... Will the Maker Give us a second chance In the reality of an as yet unfathomable Other world of freedom? Z. T. Balian Multilingual French-Armenian author, Z. T. Balian, holds and MA in English Literature from the American University of Beirut. After a career as a university lecturer, she now devotes her time to writing. Waiting for Morning Twilight (2023) is her first collection of haiku poetry in English, and her 199 Haiku Poems in Western Armenian was published in 2022. Her poetry in English has previously appeared in Hope: An Anthology of Poetry (2020) and Setu Mag's Poetry: Western Voices (2021-2023). She is also the author of two novels, Three Kisses of the Cobra (2016) and Fallen Pine Cones (2023). She is currently working on a collection of poems in English which will be published in October. ** Top of the Tower She felt no need to retrofit her solitary status accustomed to the confines of plentiful arts ideating her private nest when she risked a brief glimpse beyond she imagined legion of souls escaping, banshee shrieks assaulted her, tempted her to follow the chill, the other, the unkept confusion of freedom beckoning, as evil does, to a prison of “you should” out there nowhere Unseen in her upper room she chooses her boundaries, her single purpose her bountiful joy Cathy Hollister Cathy Hollister is the author of Seasoned Women, A Collection of Poems published by Poet’s Choice. A 2024 Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has been in Eclectica Magazine, Burningword Literary Journal, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, and others. She lives in middle Tennessee; find her online at www.cathyhollister.com and Instagram cathy.hollister.52 ** Phantasm at Sunnyside Asylum Morpheus glazes the moon’s blue patina in serene morphine the porcelain stars craze spiraling below chimneys ghosts tumble from Hermes’ gable in paralyzed flight in serene morphine the porcelain stars craze the inmates sing dreams deprived of sight from Hermes’ gable in paralyzed flight conjuring spectres compound windows watch the inmates sing dreams deprived of sight giants strangle screams of pleasure conjuring spectres compound windows watch at their leisure amorphous horses infants giants strangle screams of pleasure spiraling below chimneys ghosts tumble at their leisure amorphous horses infants Morpheus glazes the moon’s blue patina Denise England Denise England’s passion for languages, art, cultures and connections inspires her writing. She studied in Bordeaux, France and holds an M.A. in French literature. Her poems have been published and are forthcoming in Cave Region Review, UAMS Medicine and Meaning, The French Literary Review, SLANT, and Ekstasis Magazine. She enjoys sharing and developing her poetry within communities of other poets and artists including The Poets Roundtable of Arkansas and Spectra Arts. www.pw.org/directory/writers/denise_england ** Dreaming of Freedom In the gray -blue hour of early morn before a day is fully born, I watch the spirits flee climbing on what seems to be a beanstalk spiral grown from dreams, rising from its start as magic beans. As the wraiths rise up toward the stars, out of bondage beyond walls, I note the smiling cloud- a benign face urging them on to a better place. Before sun sucks up the hopes of night these must reach dipper’s cup to complete their flight. Have any climbers reached stars’ dipper cup stars arranged to shelter, guide those who float up? Sadly, of those still climbing up when sun appears most will fall from the withering vine, back into living fears. Some will escape again to stars, climbing dream vines at night; others will discover how to become free in day’s bright light. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta is a poet and story performer who loves writing and performing to the inspriation of art and has been a frequent contributor to The Ekprahstic Review. ** Artist The artist will not be at work today. He has called in sick. He’s closed his door and his eyes. And is resting in his revery. Everyone is in a muddle. The attendants are not attending. The patients are getting impatient. The quiet is cresting chaotic. Somewhere: Stories unravel into warp and weft Jack and Jill fall off the roof Titans flee Mount Olympus The spirits sputter. The sprites succumb. Somewhere: People go about their people things. Nature nurtures naturally The poet writes her homage poem. The artist dreams He dreams he is An artist locked in a tangled world Of nested syntax and illusion. So many parts To puzzle out. Kaz Ogino Author's note: An homage to Sarah Kay’s “Astronaut." Kaz Ogino lives in Toronto. A lifelong artist, her practice has been enriched with poetry. 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. ** The Pause Found guilty of a lifetime of never, the laughter of always and the stink of getting used to being used, the jury saw fit to sentence her to a hefty burden. She accepted it as would the donkey owned by a master who took pleasure in regular overloading, along with the whip, extending her pain and regret because he could. Upon her back, secured in ropes of heavy hemp, she carried those she had wronged who cried out at the least provocation: the man who beat her until at last she paid him back, in spades, the baby she had never asked for, the husband she hadn’t wanted those who daily dressed her in the flaws and transgressions of her life or rubbed her face in larvae-laden ordure of any kind or source or etched graffiti on her soul simply from the habit of being in this place with no one she could truly trust and still with fourteen years before release if she were lucky. By some mental skill, perhaps from an atavistic trait before sapiens claimed ascendancy, she could sleep at night without having to revisit what brought her there. Yet the dead who writhed and swore, raining excrement and threats for what they’d do when they regained mastery of her mind remained largely unheard as they hung like unwashed laundry entangled in the cable of souls she’d cast off in the dark. Except for the sense that the air—sighing from the barred windows— might carry some unholy essence, she could spend the entire night unwaking innocent again, for a while. Linden Van Wert Linden Van Wert has been writing since high school but has only recently considered regular submissions. Her work has appeared in Muleskinner Journal, One Sentence Poems, Ekphrastic Review and Orchards Journal among others. Originally from New England, she is a teacher now living in California where four deer and a turkey have elected to live in her backyard. ** Never Say Never After the jump from the top floor window of a hotel near Central Park shreds you into 100 pieces, will someone attach to the sill a small plastic shrine secured with red and white bakery twine, interstitched blue and pink plastic flowers, and a small index card calligraphed in black Magic Marker, NVR Alone? Over time, will the hotel, etched with your shadows, be listed on the National Historical Register? On designated holidays, will the public cry red, white, and blue tears, God loves you, God loves you? Janice Scudder Janice Scudder is a poet. She lives in Colorado. ** The Genius Inside Hide me away from prying eyes Awkward questions, your shameless lies Block your ears to my anguished cries I will not let you break me Lock me up but you cannot crush The spirit flowing through my brush The voice inside that won’t be hushed I will not let you break me Shut me in with iron bars Beyond my gaze, the moon and stars Imprisoned till I breathe my last I will not let you break me Berni Rushton Berni Rushton works in the health sector in Sydney, Australia. She writes poetry and short fiction and is working on her first novel. Berni enjoys the outdoor life, running and theatre. Follow Berni on Instagram @berni_rushton ** Spirits The moon’s gray-blue glow Somberly lights the curved dormer On the three story stone building Coats its walls in cold sterility Stars flicker outside its’ windows Barred to thwart escape With just enough view for some To allow yearning Swirling downward from rooftop to ground driven by Dante’s demons Tumble writhing spirits Of all things lost in that building Humans, animals, non-humans and souls Inside, unseen, the moans of human Suffering, as law requires, Fill each room With stifling air One man, held there For episodes not criminal Paints images from his time spent as protest Sends them to his family How people are selected To occupy this building And who wields that power Is unclear Only a sleuth could uncover those facts Dean Luttrell Dean Luttrell, a Houston poet, pianist and artist has been writing poetry since high school. His work has most recently been seen in the The Ekphrastic Review and has been published in the Archway Readers 20th and 25th Anniversary Anthologies. In 2016 he was awarded Third Prize in the Houston Poetry Fest’s Ekphrastic Poetry Competition. ** A Constant Battle Locked in his head Fear of the outside world Feeling of falling Waking nightmare Daily fears Caught between Health and madness Freed from his dementia Emotional rationality of painting Stopped him Today he didn’t fall May be tomorrow He won’t fall either Navigating the World Of Mental Health Is a constant battle Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. One of his hobbies is painting. For the past seven years, as an amateur painter, he has sent paintings to the Canadian Mental Health Halifax-Dartmouth Foundation in Nova-Scotia. The Foundation holds an online painting sale every fall to raise funds. In October, it will be their 27th Annual Mosaic Sale: https://www.cmhahalifaxdartmouth.ca/mosaicformentalhealth ** A Shrine of souls- under low clouds, faith’s brittle scaffold. Its walls in whispered prayers against the slow settling grey- truth tumbling out, the ground unravelled. A hollow husk of hoarse hope. 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. ** If I Have Freedom in My Love... Richard Lovelace, 1642 "Then dawns the invisible, the Unseen its truth reveals; My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels Its wings are almost free -- " The Prisoner, Emily Bronte When do our ideas become ghosts of where we've been? Like the wings of parrots flying in colours, their original meaning cloaked in fog? To begin, there is the actual-reality of what we can create ourselves the faces of children, too soon grown. I stand alone on the roof of the grey prison, an unexpected muse in your 19th century depiction of falling like a fool caught by a strange interpretation of a midnight Pegasus, or was it a pale horse of the Apocalypse? No matter. I hung on like tomorrow in the sisterhood of heartache, watching lines of poetry falling all around me -- how could I live, my life caught in a summer storm, impetuous as a poet I'd loved Old Thunderbolts (or should I have called him Lightning Bolt?) How can a storm be lyrical? There was music in the garden. Spring flowers. A dove calling -- why wasn't it afraid, and why wasn't I? With Lovelace's mandolin, how to compare my fate, Stone walls do not a prison make/ Nor iron bars a cage. Al the world's a stage say Shakespearian scholars. I suppose I could add Quoth the Raven, Nevermore! (a Gothic blackbird's Americana with rib vaults) a way to identify what I can't forget that lines of poetry are the spirits that lie within us -- what you take into your hands you take into your heart -- those early days when girls were the birds in a gilded cage, the lace on my grandmother's pantaloons, self- made, cotton from southern cotton fields where love stopped to pick me, lame from Civil Wars -- Lady Stumbleton -- my lineage faded into spirits; poems I wrote to try to change what seemed unholy in my future: Days I pray And in my soul am free/ Angels alone that soar above, Enjoying such liberty. Laurie Newendorp Honoured multiple times by The Ekphrastic Review's Challenge, Laurie Newendorp, at eighty, has endured entrapment, both real and emotional. The lines from Richard Lovelace's 17th century poem, “To Althea from Prison,” defends the freedom of thought as a means of survival though the body is imprisoned. A more violent example -- contemporary as the tribes of Israel and Iran continue to fight battles older than Lovelace's poem -- comes from Bruno Schulz's "Street of Crocodiles," 1933, an example of the way a Polish-Jewish writer, born in the Ukraine, used his imagination and the power of thought to encounter his death, a prisoner of the Nazi Regime. ** One Man’s Madness… The stoic man in the starbright sky oversaw it all: the painting the ramblings the protestations of insanity between doctor and patient Look, the artist said see the precision in the brick and the panes not a mullion out of place even the shadows are cast with architectural perfection But the smokeless stacks, said the doctor and the bright blue sky and the Great Bear made of stars with no darkness — not to mention the array of blue fairies and men, dogs and horses even a baby falls from the roof tossed over the edge by a demon! That’s a fairy, the artist corrected, without malice, and those are the columns on the roof of this hospital you treat as a temple and there is love and shouts of exultation at the prospect of freedom Kaila Schwartz Kaila Schwartz runs an award-winning high school theatre program in the San Francisco Bay Area where she has spent the past 24 years with her spouse and their kitty overlords. Her work can be seen in Hippocrates Awards Anthology 2020, The Ekphrastic Review, Moss Piglet, Waffle Fried, and in the upcoming The Yelling Continues,, a Procrastinating Writers United Anthology. ** A Nurse, a Cop, and a Priest Walk Into an Asylum... A nurse, a cop, and a priest walk into an asylum... And we see them every morning with a long line behind ‘em At two in the morning from our high-rise sadness We can see them badging in when the work shifts change They've all come for their own reasons too intimate to explain But from our perspective, we aren't the only ones with some madness One prays at the door Another pretends to ignore the stains on the floor And the other has a gun without a receipt One cries at breakfast alone Another calls his kids at home When the other buys rum from across the street One reads a book about body parts While another steals pills from the clinic's cart As the last mumbles to everyone in made up languages One avoids all the others The big one talks poorly of her mother And then there's the one who flinches when opening packages But these three have helped us all to decide That maybe this place is not only for the insane on the inside And that our purpose here comes from the man floating behind the columns - to watch over a nurse, a cop, and a priest as they walk into an asylum… Brendan Dawson Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and experiences as an expat. ** Relics My eyes are sightless, my mind swimming in a sea of grief. My body, weightless, shrinks, tries to disappear. I haunt myself into transparency, ghosted as part of a script that has been erased, its pages scattered inside a vortex of wailing wind. I am a shadow of keening. I am imprinted into the fabric of an unrelenting night. I have lost the details of who I could have been and the direction of where I could have gone. I am an unfinished absence that only appears when seen in a certain unconjurable light. mirror shimmers—moon reflects rising tide’s abyss swallowing the 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/. ** Keep Steadily In View Keep steadily in view the detention of the unusual person, whose art is ascribed wholly produce of a MADMAN thrown aside like those that escape from the towers of Montrose Asylum, would you say deficiency of Intellect when viewing the intricate detail of window and arch, is this art or depraved taste, these phantoms, prisoners as unseen as fairies silent among us If you can find a single evidence of either, madness or lack of normality in thought, then mark it where the detritus of sane society floats away, record it against me fill a ledger with the sum of unjust confinement of caged spirits but as to the angels, the sooner they get away the better for themselves. Daniel W. Brown Author's note: The lines in bold are from the writings of Charles Altamont Doyle. Daniel W. Brown is a retired special education teacher who 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. Daniel has been published in various journals and anthologies, most recently Jerry Jazz Musician, Chronogram Magazine and Kinds of Cool, an anthology of jazz poetry. He has hosted a youtube channel Poetry From Shooks Pond and was included in Arts Mid-Hudson's Poets Respond To Art in 2022-23. Daniel writes each day about music, art and whatever else captures his imagination. ** Strange Casement* Sheer interlocking bodies sway Silently down from walls of stone. I paint beneath the sign of fay; My study’s starlit. I have known Adventure's spirit – stymied now; Liberty's ways are hard to learn. To be or not to be? This bow Is not my last: I will return. Yes, I’m the father of a son Certain to trust these faeries too: The blind and jealous will make fun Of him; they call me MAD. Do you? Look at my work: can you not see In what dire homes they’re holding me? Julia Griffin *Charles Altamont Doyle, the father of Arthur Conan Doyle, provided illustrations for his son’s first Sherlock Holmes publication. Afflicted by depression and alcoholism, he protested desperately that he was not “a MADMAN”; he died in a mental asylum. Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia. She has published in several online poetry magazines, including Light, Classical Outlook, Snakeskin Poetry, and The Ekphrastic Review. ** Hoping We Can Levitate Without Falling to the Ground Spirits of prisoners rattle their chains. It’s a golden age for stolen bones and faceless devils. And killers committing homicide It’s a golden age for orphans eating gruel and neglecting school It’s a golden age for cotton mills. And the workhouse for malnutrition And the death penalty, it’s a golden age. For infantile deaths before the age of seven For poor sanitation and harsh living conditions Dreaming of a skylark behind the clouds Spirits of prisoners rattle their chains. It’s a golden age for long hours, low wages, And widespread suffering While the wealthy enjoyed advancements Of the Industrial Revolution Others face numerous diseases without doctors It was a golden age, and not that unlike today. When I see the homeless in the street And people, people neglected in hospital corridors It’s a golden age for sure. It’s the reality for many, especially the poor. There's a lack of necessities. If you're working class It’s your cross to bear. Okay, there’s no more death penalty. There have been improvements along the way. And slavery has been long gone, too. But we’re all enslaved by a minimum wage and despair. Hoping we can levitate without falling to the ground. Hope there’s a silver lining to that dark cloud, maybe. 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. ** On The Spirits of the Prisoners Watching from on high as if a cloud, a well-known face, this “bearded apparition” within a cloak which soon would be his shroud, resided there, but not by his volition, for magistrates determined his transgressions, results of years of alcohol addiction, were far too dangerous for more concessions, while deep depression furthered his affliction. He sketched and painted wonderous works of art in many notebooks, most unsigned, undated; some offered as presentments on his part, decrying his immurement was ill-fated. Inscribed above the painting where souls flee, the spirits of the inmates carried there, to Sunnyside, sights he alone could see, beneath the constellation of Great Bear. Sometimes, his illustrations found the sun; “Our Trip to Blunderland,” by Lewis Carroll, and there’s a Scarlet Study by his son about a great sleuth known by his apparel. His last ten years were in asylums’ halls. Sir Arthur’s words, “his playful wit undone by weaknesses. We all heed our own calls.” He died within when only sixty-one. 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. ** Free Free from gloom from dark walls reek of mold inedible food filth and decay Kept for years dressed in rags unwashed unshaven left to rot shivering Scourge descends sickens many not much difference from days inside cells stink of death or at least illness Finally taken spirits flee no more filth disease cured by the hand of death finally free Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a long time poet and YA writer whose work is prompted by art, music, nature and memories. Her work appears in Lothlorien, Masticadores, Blue Heron and The Ekphrastic Review, among other journals. Dickson shares her home with two rescued feral cats, Cam and Jojo. ** Letter to Arthur Conan Doyle From “The Home For Intemperate Gentlemen,” April 25, 1882 My Beloved Son, Here I sit, a prisoner in the Home for Intemperate “Gentlemen,” although I use that word loosely. One of my fellows kept me up until the brink of dawn, bellowing and laughing by turn until I almost succumbed to drink, an “Intemperate” one at that: Pure grain alcohol mixed with soured grapes that a guard offered in exchange for my silence about the bellowing. I just discovered the loudlouth, the French dissident Lemond, is the father-in-law of the guard! He is probably right to attempt to hush me, Lemond is on his last leg here! I’m sure McDaniel and his wife have no intention upon bringing him home, what with their six barins already terrified at the thought of his last visit, whereby he stuck the tines of a fork into the hand of an offending grandson who was too quick to grab the finest piece of Lamb from the platter of a Christmas feast. Don’t fret, son, I didn’t fall victim to the temptation, as hard as it was. Only the thought of your probable dismissal of me as the illustrator of our second story kept me away. It was in many ways like a miracle from God when you engaged me to illustrate the first, “A Study In Scarlet,” and to see the fruits of our labour in the Beeton’s Christmas Annual, was almost too delightful to bear! Even your sacred mother stopped by to congratulate me! Better than the publication was your visit. So many eyes agog at my fine-figured Doctor Doyle, my own laddie! I’ve never been so proud in all of my life, Artie! The way the nurses and caretakers groveled for a seat near you! They would sooner cut off a limb than be near me in most circumstances. And then you paid me the penultimate compliment, myself, labelled as a ne'er-do-well father, and a drunkard, you said to me “Faither, you did a fine job with the illustrations, Holmes and Watson are drawn exactly as I pictured them in my mind.” Jingo! Aye, the baw-faced McDaniel was mouth agape. I know he lent me some respect at that moment. Thank you for that, Artie! As for your auld man, I am doing the best I can while here, waiting everyday to be sprung out! I sometimes draw for the newsletter for the captives, and even the fine lady McGinnis sat for a portrait, left her study where she does Lord God-knows-what to keep this place from running amuck. Your mother gets my County Pension, and gives a spot to her for my “care.” I still receive some small compense from the illustrations of my first twenty-some books, when they are reprinted. So your dear mother gets by with the barins crawling all over the house. I do miss them all, especially of a Sunday afternoon, the loneliest time to be among the inmates, when the sun comes down on our families, after church, a fine meal and perhaps a hike. One day I hope to render these feelings into a lithograph,showing the spirits of these men, dying to be free and among loved ones. Alas, I am one of them. As for you, young man, fare thee well! I am holding onto your words to keep me as sane as I can be under the circumstances of my lodgings. I keep your last letter close to the vest, the one in which you wrote “I was sitting at my desk, looking through your many illustrations while having a smoke, when the idea for Sherlock Holmes came to me, as clear as if he were standing right there, in front of my open window.” Godspeed, Doctor Conan Doyle! Haste Ye Back! Your Loving Faither, Charles Alamont Doyle Debbie Walker-Lass Author's Note: Arthur Conan-Doyle was not yet a knight in 1882. Although he took a dim view of his father while young, he came to greatly admire and respect him and his art when he became a man. Charles illustrated the first Sherlock Holmes, and a few of Conan-Doyle’s later books. Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in The Rockvale Review, Green Ink Poetry, The Ekphrastic Journal, Punk Monk, Poetry Quarterly, The Light Ekphrastic and The Niagara Poetry Journal, among others. Debbie was proud to be nominated by TER for the Best Small Fictions, 2023 anthology. She is an avid Tybee Island beachcomber and lover of all things nature. (Except Spiders) She recently presented an Ekphrastic Poetry workshop for her local Dekalb County library. ** Released As though escaped from the chimneys of their red brick prison, like drifts of smoke or steam from some internal furnace, a roiling stream of dream-like phantasms turn and twist their way to freedom. Fantasies and nightmares curling and uncurling on ladders of midnight air, dressed only in their garments of grief and isolation, remembering tales both bright and dark of long-gone childhoods and years of hope, unwinding like tangled threads or knotted hair- unruly as disordered thoughts, discordant dreams and offenses too unmannerly and wild for reason’s measured dance, While midnight holds its breath, their bodies sleep- heavy beneath the leaden thumb of dull soporifics, their souls eloping like fog rolling under the doors, through every crack and loose connection- the night a recess from grief and sorrow, delicate and brief as any moonlit vision fading in the sun. Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many anthologies and journals, including The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Memory Palace, edited By Clare MacQueen and Lorette C. Luzajic, and issues of Verse Virtual, Third Wednesday, Earth’s Daughters, and Caustic Frolic, as well as others. She has been a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. Her collection, How to Become Invisible, an exploration of experience with bi-polar disorder, is available from Kelsay Books and on Amazon. ** A Silent Convocation In the stillness before dawn, they assemble, the nameless, the faceless. A collective born of need. The world beyond them faded by the sharp angles and edges of this soft blur of unity. They gather together not for war, but something more, much more, deeper. A communication among souls now untwined from the flesh. In this dark predawn, they hold the space between breaths, until the call comes to evanesce. Then they become one with the morning breeze. Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford and a professional Bharatanatyam dancer. Her poems have appeared in many national and international online and print magazines and anthologies. She has two poetry books to her credit (She: The Reality of Womanhood and Pa(i)red Poetry). Her profile showcasing her use of poetry was recently featured in Lifestyle Magazine. ** Dear Writers and Readers, Our annual marathon is coming up on Sunday... Scroll below for details and registration. Don't miss this epic opportunity for a wild day of pure creativity. The Ekphrastic Review  Join us for the epic event of the year. You won't be sorry. It is wild, exhilarating, exhausting and wonderful. A day of pure creation. Play. Brainstorming. Join us on Sunday, or do it on your own time over the following weeks. This year, to celebrate ten years of The Ekphrastic Review, an optional Champagne Party follows the marathon on zoom. Details are below. Perfect Ten: an Ekphrastic Marathon Try something intense and unusual- an ekphrastic marathon, celebrating ten years of The Ekphrastic Review. Join us on Sunday, July 13 2025 for our annual ekphrastic marathon. This year we are celebrating ten years!!!!! This is an all -day creative writing event that we do independently, together. Take the plunge and see what happens! Write to fourteen different prompts, poetry or flash fiction, in thirty minute drafts. There will be a wide variety of visual art prompts posted at the start of the marathon. You will choose a new one every 30 minutes and try writing a draft, just to see what you can create when pushed outside of your comfort zone. We will gather in a specially created Facebook page for prompts, to chat with each other, and support each other. Time zone or date conflicts? No problem. Page will stay open afterwards. Participate when you can, before the deadline for submission. The honour system is in effect- thirty minute drafts per prompt, fourteen prompts. Participants can do the eight hour marathon in one or two sessions at another time and date within the deadline for submissions (July 31, 2025). Polish and edit your best pieces later, then submit five for possible publication on the Ekphrastic site. One poem and one flash fiction will win $100 CAD each. Last year this event was a smashing success with hundreds of poems and stories written. Let's smash last year out of the park and do it even better this year! Marathon: Sunday July 13, from 10 am to 6 pm EST (including breaks) (For those who can’t make it during those times, any hours that work for you are fine. For those who can’t join us on July 13, catch up at a better time for you in one or two sessions only, as outlined above.) Champagne Party: at 6.05 pm until 7. 30 on Sunday, July 13, join participants on Zoom to celebrate an exhilarating day. Bring Champagne, wine, or a pot of tea. We'll have words from The Ekphrastic Review, conversation as a chance to connect with community, and some optional readings from your work in the marathon. Story and poetry deadline: July 31, 2025 Up to five works of poetry or flash fiction or a mix, works started during marathon and polished later. 500 words max, per piece. Please include a brief bio, 75 words or less Participation is $20 CAD (approx. 15 USD). Thank you very much for your support of the operations, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review, and the prizes to winning authors. If you are in hardship and cannot afford the entry, but you want to participate, please drop us a line at [email protected] and we'll sign you up. Selections for showcase and winning entries announced sometime in September. Sign up below! Perfect Ten: annual ekphrastic marathon
CA$20.00
Celebrate ten years of The Ekphrastic Review with our annual ekphrastic marathon. Fourteen drafts, thirty minutes each, poetry, flash fiction, or CNF. You'll choose from a curated selection of artworks chosen to challenge, inspire, and stimulate. The goal of the marathon is to finish the marathon by creating fourteen drafts. Optional: you'll have time after the event to polish any drafts and submit them. Selected works will be published in TER and a winner in poetry and flash fiction will each be chosen and honoured with $100 award. Following the marathon, exhausted writers can join our Champagne Party on zoom to celebrate an amazing day.  Dances, by Arch Hades (United Kingdom) 2024. Click on image for artist site. 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 Dances, by Arch Hades. Deadline is July 18, 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 HADES 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, JULY 18, 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. |
Challenges
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