 Vengeance is Sworn, by Francesco Hayez (Italy) 1851 Moretta 0. No going back. It is black on white: he is a cheat. Horizon crumbles bleak. Moretta abandons its mystique. Water quits its belly dancing. The silhouette is licked up by the mist. The edifice towers like a bully’s fist. The stair leads to nowhere. 1. I believed that mother earth wouldn’t be able to make a move at such a dreadful news. I was sure our favorite canal, where he took me for the ball, would fully dry at my soul’s dire cry. I imagined our august Serenissima sinking in gloom at such a doom. No. None. They all mumbled their usual sailing song as if nothing under the sun was wronged. I’m hurt more by their neglect than by his double mindset – yesterday inamorato, today maledetto. Fake. Awake. 2. How – what – why?! My thought is rocking mislead like a gondola banging the canal’s end. My breast is bouncing like fish out of water splashing the air with vaulting despair. My blood is flooding my heart like Aqua Alta the square of Saint Marco. 3. It turned phantom, his small sandolo, that used to take me at midnight colluding tight like sardines in it and ferry me beyond the world, now sinking in one single word – infidelity. There is only one answer to that – vendetta. This is the tide of the rattle! This is the heart of the matter! I can never restore my virtues better but with a proper vendetta. I will never cool my blood without striking vendetta in his heart. I will never find sleep unless I dip in vendetta. 4. I will put on my moretta – eyes flashing flames, lips dancing poise, hands gliding silk, and with a siren’s sprezzatura will lure him in silent bravura by the dark side of our canal where at the corner, I am sure, he will attempt to tear my shawl, to plant his inamorato’s kiss as before, I’ll then pull my moretta and treat him like maledetto: I’ll kiss and bite, hug and strike, look and char, speak and spike – gusting syllables shall rain flame, petal and thorn, as a red rose under a storm – if this doesn’t force him to jump in the water ready to drown his dull adultery clatter, though this canal is shallow for that matter, then he is beyond cure, even by vendetta. 5. Vendetta would matter for a romantic trespasser who kneeling confesses his sin and rising gets on the ladder of divine accent; not for the habitual go-getter who randomly sinks his own stature. If this turns to be the case, I’ll then leave it all to Fate. I’ll save my tender heart from hate. I’ll keep my sweet soul elate. Eventualmente, under my trusted moretta I may befriend vendetta as my future playmate. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas has studied and taught linguistics and culture at universities of Sofia, Delhi and London and authored a book on mediaeval art for The British Library. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to meaning. Her poems appeared in Ekphrastic Review and have been honoured in its Challenge selection several times. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021. ** The Year I Went Without Having Sworn Vengeance I had first worn it instead like a mask. As black as a thought denied air. That still only hinted at death. The same death that worriedly rid itself. Of loose threads. And souls forever lost on the world. When it thought no one looked. And the same mask I tried out on another. As the evening cooled. And the stairs rested for a time. But it asked far too much of me. Made too damning a case for my guilt. And then had worn it like a veil that had lived. Its entire life in the shadows. Until that moment it might be. Kissed back into the light. Free of desire. Or references to desire. And I had worn it another time like a shawl. That betrayed little of its own needs. Only mine. Its forlornness washed again and again. In the lunar blue waters. Only to be reborn. As the lunar blue waters themselves. And had finally worn it like a dress that said. Nothing of the body that had worn it. Never mind itself. Mark DeCarteret Poems from Mark DeCarteret’s manuscript The Year I/We Went Without have been taken by The American Poetry Review, Hole in the Head Review, Meat for Tea, Nixes Mate Review, Plume Literary Journal and Unbroken. ** Vengeance is Sworn the spying sun receding at dusk diffuses yellow suspicions across calm canals spotlights her flawless face her divine décolletage her darkened eyes and flushed cheeks beauty admired by him in yesterday’s first light of love canals wait patiently for the traded words to sink like a millennium of words before her to carry vengeance to the depths of Aion’s memory to merge with the eternalised cycles of failed love gliding and twisting through time’s flesh in a flash in La Serenissima, she is not serene she saw him at Carnevale with her Cara, la maschera, her friend pleads she is not afraid to show herself Dammela, she demands, la lettera my quilled words are not hollow this Kairos moment is mine in the last light of this day Caterina Mastroianni Italian translations: La Serenissima: refers to the Republic of Venice Carnevale: carnival Cara, la maschera: dear, your mask Dammela, la lettera: give it to me, the letter Caterina Mastroianni is an Italian-born Australian poet living in on the land of the Cadigal and Wangal people of the Eora nation. She has published poetry in various literary magazines and four Australian anthologies, most recently in the Live Encounters Poetry and Writing Journal and in the Poetry for the Planet: An Anthology of Imagined Futures anthology by Litoria Press. ** When the Mask Comes Off She pecked his cheek, extended the handle on her bag, and glided out the door. Her coat tails and wavy mahogany tresses floated up to wave goodbye. Katelyn furrowed her forehead. A nagging sensation persisted, but she still left Truman for her best friend, Scarlett. Venice awaited the pair. It had been too long since the two best friends traveled abroad. From the curb, she hailed a cab. The worn vinyl sang when she got in. Following the key and notes composed by her fidgeting, the tune continued. When the car shifted out of traffic to make its second stop, Katelyn noticed a woman waiting on the sidewalk, her wild hair piled atop of her head, set ablaze by the setting sun’s rays. With her hip, Scarlett held up her overstuffed bag. As the trunk closed, the new passenger slid in, and the cab drifted back into a lane. On her lap, Katelyn rested her clenched hands, but Scarlett pulled them apart, intertwining her fingers with her friend’s. “I cannot wait. Venice, here we come! Are ya ready for us?” Scarlett interrupted the mundane silence with a splash of exuberance. In the rearview mirror, the driver eyed the pair. He nodded and winked, wearing an understanding smirk. Katelyn loosened her friend’s grip, “God, when was the last time we took a trip? Just us?” “Leaving the guys behind. This is going to be freakin’ fantastic.” As the cabbie pulled away from the international terminal, he yelled from the open window. “Have a good time, ladies.” On board, the friends settled into their first-class seats. As they organized their in-flight necessities, the two chatted about nothing in particular. Lurching back as the jet left the runway, Scarlett grabbed Katelyn’s hand. “Here we go. I know how nervous you are when you fly.” From the window, Katelyn watched the distance grow between land and sky. “You remember most everything, don’t you?” Her fingers burned in her friend’s grasp. No escape. **** Spring had yet to arrive, but the festive atmosphere warmed Venice. The pair didn’t waste time becoming acquainted with the city. After dropping off their luggage in their shared hotel suite, the women began their exploration. “We need to find out about that ritzy ball. The one George told me about,” Scarlett said. Her handbag swung on her forearm while her hands animated each word. “Can we eat soon? I’m starving.” Katelyn’s voice grieved for a peaceful, solitary moment. Scarlett rolled her eyes. **** Late into the evening, they returned to their lodging’s rented comforts. The conversation may have faltered with her traveling companion, but Scarlett found a listener on the other end of a phone call. From the bathroom, a repulsed Katelyn listened to long-distance wet puckers. Throwing her clothes on the bed, Katelyn said, “I need to give Tru a call. How is Alastor?” Scarlett’s eyes never left the screen as her fingers sped through a maze of letters on her phone’s keyboard. She muttered, “Al is fine.” “Who are you writing to now?” “Um. No one. Nothing. I had some messages I had to answer.” While Scarlett started her preparations for the night, Katelyn relished the silence and picked up her phone. She whispered. “Hey. We made it.” “Buttercup!” She inhaled Truman's sweet voice. “Expecting someone else?” “Nope. I’ve been waiting for your call. Everything going well? “It’s going.” “Ahhhh. You can always come home, you know.” “Venice has a special, infinite beauty. I may never come home.” “Okay. I’ll catch the next flight.” The lightness and familiarity in his voice relaxed her. “We may have to think about that. Baby, we were out all day. Do you mind if we talk tomorrow? What’s your schedule like?” A scrubbed clean woman came out of the bathroom and climbed into her bed. Her eyes avoided Katelyn’s. “Ciao, Babe. Isn’t that what they say? Love you.” Rolled over on her side, Scarlett faced the wall. Katelyn tossed it on the table, then flicked out the light. “Night, Scar.” A muffled response escaped from the mound of covers. **** Costumed and coiffed. Painted faces and nails. The week ended with the grand gala, infamous because of stories recounted by past invitees. During the week, Scarlett had cozied up to some influential Italian and procured two tickets, promising, in return, something she would never pay. “Black?” Scarlett growled. “It has a red petticoat. It leaves something to the imagination.” To traverse the canal, Scarlett ordered a gondola, desiring to make a sublime entrance, given her inferior floral costume. An attendant assisted them as they stepped up onto the marble landing. Two ornate doors of a Renaissance-aged villa opened and allowed them entry. Inside, the ceiling opened to the marvels of a starry sky as disguised guests feasted on food, drink, and other merriments. The women frolicked and danced until a lull fell upon the crowd. Stepping outside, Katelyn gazed over the Adriatic, hypnotized by the city’s lights. Lost in imagination, Scarlett startled her with a touch on the shoulder. Shoulder to shoulder, Scarlett moved closer, her rambunctious voice turned angry, and she scowled. Cheek to cheek, she narrated a tale to an unwilling audience. The redhead’s heated words branded her friend’s loyal heart. “He loves me. I have the proof. Truman wrote me this letter.” In her shaking fist, she displayed a crumpled letter. A weary Katelyn leaned away, attempting to escape the onslaught. When the barrage faded, Katelyn ripped the mask from her face. “You fool, Scarlett. Does Alastor know? He’s too good for you. He doesn’t deserve this.” Scarlett reeled. “I wrote the note. It was me! All this time, I’ve known.” “You’re lying." “What the hell are you thinking? That he would leave me for you? You’re out of your mind. And those text messages? We answered them. Yep - me and Truman — together.” Adjusting her mask, Katelyn, poised in her determined posture, returned inside – and never looked back. Cheryl Ferguson Bernini Cheryl Ferguson Bernini, originally from Connecticut, lives in Italy where she and her husband, Giacomo, share (use that term lightly) their home with four felines. You can read her stories, both fiction and nonfiction (in English and Italian), online and in print. Follow her on Twitter: @FergusonBernini and Facebook: @CFergusonBernini. ** Should I Listen to Her Advice? "See, I said that it was so," you whisper, sibiliating, into my ear, as you try to slide the letter into my sleeve. I push your palm away, preferring not to know. Curiosity overcomes me, though. I grasp the letter greedily, clasping it with my fearful fingers, then remove my mask to read and reveal the truth. I recognize his handwriting, the loop of each "l," "g," and "p," the slant of every "r," and "s," and realize that I have been deceived, definitively. The scent of his cologne emanating from the pages assaults my senses, just as surely and assuredly as it seduced her. I want to inquire how you obtained the letter, yet conclude that it perhaps is better not to know. "You must denounce the scoundrel!" you insist, hissing again into my ear. "Denounce him!" I wonder if revenge really is a dish best served rather cold, or, maybe, "if it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly." Oh, such are the seducing powers of suggestion and persuasion. Renée Szostek Renée Szostek's poems have been published in the Seven Hills Review (2022 and 2021), Panoply, Peninsula Poets, the Pi Mu Epsilon Journal, Integra, and several anthologies published by the Moonstone Press. She won the Third Prize for Poetry at the Westminster Art Festival in 2020 and 2021. The University of Michigan Arts at Michigan Arts Info email newsletter selected four of her haiku poems as "Haiku of the Week." She is a member of the Academy of American Poets, the Poetic Genius Society, and the Poetry Society of Michigan. ** Black Veil The black veil covers the queen’s silky complexion as it blows in the wind atop the castle roof. Her daughter places a gentle hand on her mother’s shoulder, a comforting touch, as she lifts the veil revealing her mother’s solemn expression. Below war looms and the king rides in battle. His crown gleams in the sun light and his horse neighs. Mother and daughter bellow as a sword plunges into the king’s chest, his blood staining the ground. He looks up at his wife and daughter as he takes his last breath. The women cling to each other, weeping, tears drenching their purity and watch as their beloved king is still and silenced, the enemy cheering. The queen pulls her daughter’s veil over her face and the princess pulls her mother’s veil covering her mother’s face once again. Only sorrowful blue eyes appear through the blackness. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published and The Importance of Being Short, in 2019. Her most recent book, In A Flash, was published in the spring of 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** The Cruel Cost of Love You have taken my heart, but your theft will not go unpunished. For all you hold dear dies by revealing the contents of this single, damning letter; I now hold it, and you, in the palm of my hand. It is I who will now be giving the commands. It is I who will now be the real ruler of this land. Behind your glistening golden throne, my puppet, I will be the one pulling the strings; in all but name, I shall be king. Why the fiery eyes? Why the long face? Why the look of shock and horror, Your Grace? Who did you take me for? Some dumb, illiterate whore who would not know, who would not catch on to your crooked plans? But your lips are sealed now because you know as well as I do that they’ll have your head on a platter should this letter ever make its way into their hands. Spare me the details of why you did it. But I must know-- Was she worth it? Justin Farley Justin Farley is a poet and author from Indianapolis, Indiana. He has been published in journals such as Calla Press, wrkwndr, and The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press. He has released three collections of poetry, all available on Amazon. Follow him on instagram @justinfarleypoet or visit his blog @ www.alongthebarrenroad.com ** Banish from Her Heart So Vile a Thought and yet, unmasked and having consumed the fire of her love’s letter to another (the wretch!), a deceit revealed by her Rachele, how could not this Maria succumb to blood vengeance, the bleeding desire, the sharp tip of a cold dagger through his breastbone…to vital Hell? Is anything more inevitable than the shriek of indignance, the bloodshot eyes, the steely stare away from betrayal's bold, bald fact, toward fury’s object, this man (the clod!), the fated force of her swift reprisal for his lies? Sworn vengeance swallows and swells all her beauty into a shadow, hard knot. It sticks in her eyes, her stiff limbs, her throat, as it will into him. Darren Lyons Darren Lyons was born and raised in Akron, Ohio, and received an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from The New School. His poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, The Inquisitive Eater, and Chronogram, among other journals, and a poetry/painting project of his was featured on The Best American Poetry Blog. ** The Betrayal She insisted that I meet her here, away from narrow passageways and bridges, where Venetians transitioning from one side to another observe life on the canals and on the streets, where careless whispers hang in the air indiscreetly, as rumours and innuendos flow back and forth with the tides. Here, we are inconspicuous. It is secluded and quiet. At first, I was reluctant to meet but Eleanor, my childhood friend and one-time confidant, persisted. Once, we had pledged undying love to each other, but our relationship cooled when she became jealous and possessive. Wearing a mask, her head and shoulders draped in a shawl, Eleanor arrived incognito. Wasting no time on pleasantries, she didn't break it to me gently. Edoardo, my lover to whom I am secretly betrothed, is having an affair. My heart sinks. I feel nauseous, faint. Turning away from her, I push her back. She grasps my shoulder, insisting that it is not a meaningless fling but a serious relationship bound to end in matrimony. Accusing her of lying, I send her away. Yet, seeds of doubt are planted in my mind. As she flounces off, a note falls from her pocket. I am about to call out, when I notice Edoardo's writing. Trembling, I pick up the note and read it. He asks Eleanor to stop writing to him, to stop pursuing him. I am his only love. He will never betray me, not with her, not with anyone. Roberta McGill Roberta McGill grew up in Ireland where she loved reciting poetry as a child. She immigrated to Canada with her husband and lives in Orillia, Ontario. Her poetry has won several awards at the annual K. Valerie Connor Memorial Celebration, Orillia, including a first prize award, and has appeared in several anthologies. She is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society. ** Voice The advances he makes are measured as even a lioness wouldn’t move half as stealthily towards her prey ... his movements were gradual, allowing the young girl to get used to a few touches, here and there, that she didn’t even think anything was amiss. a lily plucked - the deeper murmurings go unheard Kala Ramesh Kala Ramesh, a haikai poet and mentor for the last 17 years, is the Founder and Director of Triveni Haikai India, Founder and Managing Editor of haikuKATHA Journal. She is the haiku editor at Under the Basho. Her third book – the forest I know – published by HarperCollins, was launched at the Jaipur Literature Festival 2022. ** Endings The words crowded her mind. She turned away, trying to clear a path between future and past. She wanted movement. Instead she felt trapped, confined on all sides by lies, betrayals, contradictions. She had been held by desire, standing on the precipice of ecstasy, a wave of immanent consummation. Who pulled back first? Did it matter? And now these words, words, words, blocking her breath—ravenous rumors and insinuations that permeated the very air. Were they real, or just an accumulation of hearsay, whispers composed of scraps of gossip collected by those who would never forgive her for the beauty bestowed upon her by fate. What action to take—and against who? Was there actually talk of murder? Was she the intended victim, or was she to be the one to wield the knife? What impulse had conceived of such treachery? As the walls grew louder, closer, outside became more and more distant, unrealizable—a dream, a fantasy, a painted transparency of sea and sky. the mirror cracks, falls, shatters, becomes opposite-- the final act shifts Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/, and see more of her work on her website http://kerferoig.com/ ** Vengeance is Sworn The reason for vengeance: suffocation Tongues may wag with the widening of eyes when hearing the story behind her muffled cries in the toilet you see for she can't cry out loud as it is against the rules to make a sound. What have they done to you to make you cry Did they ask for money or were their requests sky high? All they did was ask for you to cook some food and make you wear clothes in colours suiting their mood. They also requested you never talk back even if what they wish for verged on the unreasonable track. You have to comb your hair this way, not that and stop showing your emotions like a spoiled brat. You were asked to stop working as it was getting in the way of all the tasks they had assigned for you every day. A house is never clean, you know, without constant care so when we said you could work, we meant for just an hour here and there. So is it any wonder she cries soft and low for each step she takes has become such a chore that her dreams too are filled with a thousand buzzing gnats she just can't seem to flee. Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford. She is an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer and published poet. She also loves writing stories. Her poetry has appeared in Glomag, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet (Christmas, Childhood, Faith, Friends & Friendship, and Adversity issues), The Ekphrastic Review, Visual Verse, The Bamboo Hut, Eskimopie, The Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, and Trouvaille Review. Her microfiction has been published by The Potato Soup Literary Journal. She also regularly contributes to the open mics organized by Rattle Poetry. She currently resides in Gurgaon, India, and works as a senior associate editor. Her first book of poetry, She: The reality of womanhood, was recently published by Notion Press (available on Amazon). ** Floral Shackle Pray, do not speak- The stream is a streak of grey And the iron gate a witness. The cracked earth murmurs Of arching shadows where absence rests. Favors hang in shreds, desires etched Thin on the walls like the worms Creeping upon a forgotten grave. Pray, stop- I am unmasked in the hurrying wind. Antiquity trickles in the hallowed ways With the rising scent from the ruins. I believe, I choose to be a floral shackle Taking root in the middle of a twisted tree In a tornado, a torment until eternity. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing the most. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** I Explain Some Lilacs You ask, should I squat in this repossessed house? Inseparable from who appear in it frameless and tacked to the clay where grows a white lilac reads a screed that begins the night, empty streets. And I will tell you all about why I will not hate a song that aborts April rains song that breaks spells that is, I cannot promise stone tiles of a dream fugue. Shop shutters across the city unrested, filled with chimera lacuna that lulls the naïve. And I will tell you that I will learn how to plant the moon that will entwine itself in those lime washed walls tinted taupe grey a walled garden that say, this is a house, these are the children these are Pa’s fists the mythmaking shilling screenplays rhyme and lyrical vagary staircases to the dunes the sedge grasses wetlands and a river. Ilona Martonfi Ilona Martonfi is a mother, an activist, an educator, literary curator, poet and an editor. Born in Budapest, Hungary, she has also lived in Austria and Germany. Martonfi writes in seven chapbooks, journals across North America and abroad. Curator of the Argo Bookshop Reading Series. Recipient of the Quebec Writers’ Federation 2010 Community Award. Martonfi lives in Montreal, Canada. The Tempest, Inanna Publications, Spring 2022, is her fifth poetry book. ** Not Here “Let's just keep this between ourselves, but I think you really need to know.” Not here, I thought. Not now. Do I want to know? Once spoken I know it cannot be unheard. I'm conflicted, wanting and rejecting at the same time. Whatever it is there are always going to be consequences. It doesn't matter if there's any truth behind the babbled story - gossip's the most prized gold, the most valued currency at court. She blurts the sordid details, words tumbling over themselves. How ironic that one so skilled in duplicity should be betrayed. My pride it at stake, I must stay composed and in control. Yet fire rises in my veins and bile chokes my throat. I'll have to put on both my masks - first the veneer of icy coolness then slip the velvet one back over my eyes, knowing it won't conceal the black flames of ire. First I must deal with this tattler, a tell-tale too keen to drip her poison. Next my betrayer, who behind my back makes me look like a fool. Something creative, cruel and long lasting I think. Something that will take time to stew. Vengeance is a dish best served cold. Emily Tee Emily Tee spent her working life wrangling numbers. Now retired, she has recently started writing poetry. She has had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review challenges and in print with Dreich magazine, with some others in print later this year with Dreich and elsewhere. She lives in England.  To celebrate our SEVENTH anniversary in July, we are trying something very new- an ekphrastic marathon. PLEASE JOIN US for this intense and fun experiment! The incredible queen of microfiction Meg Pokrass will be our judge for fiction, and the brilliant, one of a kind Brent Terry will be our poetry judge. The marathon itself is a writing experience. You can then take your seeds, sparks, and drafts and polish and work them out to submit to the contest. Click image above to view more details and sign up!
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