 The Birdcage, by Harue Koga (Japan) 1924  Anita Nahal Dr. Anita Nahal is a professor, poet, children's books writer, recent novelist and a very recent short film maker. Finalist, Tagore Literary Prize, 2023, for her ekphrastic prose poetry poetry book, Kisses at the espresso bar and nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize (22, 23), Anita won the 2024 Nissim Prize for Excellence in Literature for her poetry-prose novel, drenched thoughts. Her third prose poetry collection, What’s wrong with us Kali women?, is mandatory reading at Utrecht University. Her first under three minute very short film, “Clubs my sinful dance muse,” won the best super short film at the Five Continents International Film Festival, Venezuela (August 2024). A Fulbright and NEH scholar, she teaches at a university in Washington DC. www.anitanahal.com ** Leda’s Naked in a Cage and Zeus Is Locked Out She’s pale as the moon, trying to look composed as she crosses her legs, the god-as-Cygan having driven her to lunacy. Some would think it was love but nothing’s set in concrete. More like water, circulating through pipes and filters until justice and pH both balance and the scales show some sort of clarity. Sibelius wouldn’t be out of place here. Even if Lemminkäinen had a bow and not an erection, there’s still a swan in the story—a divine one, since swans don’t sing and this one has an English horn for a voice box, sighing lonely and seductive. Change the setting and it’s Zeus to a tee, Leda on shore and the god swan-downed and randy. I’m in a birdcage, she realizes as she perches, looking upwards toward where the bars meet. Outside, a red flower grows. To her eyes, it’s a camellia. To her heart, it’s a red spider lily, Lycoris radiate, the flower of the afterlife, the hell flower. Leda imagines the flower’s long thin petals curving back like spider legs, spreading across fields on either side of a foot path to the River Styx. Try finding a swan there in place of Charon’s barge. Tuonela’s waters are similarly dusky but the Styx is more like black ice, slushy and freezing, or so she was told as a child. Those red spider lilies might as well spin webs, she thinks, trapped like prey in isolation as the fields stretch forever, the air growing chilly on her skin. Leda’s trapped and knows it, whether imagining herself walking or snapping back to being perched inside this cage. She sits on a hope chest in farewell mode, wanting to uncross her legs but not wanting to feel cold air rush cold between them and remind her of who’s not coming back. She knows both the lily’s leaves and this train of thought are toxic, but she can’t help picking at the leaves or riding down a mine shaft of regret, caged like the canary people watch to make sure the air hasn’t gone bad. She knows she’s doomed to suffocate in full view of everyone around her. Jon Yungkans Jonathan Yungkans continues typing at odd hours of the night as he listens to owls hoot and watches yet another skunk amble under his house's foundation. He remains thankful when his writing is less noxious than the creature hiding beneath the bathroom's floorboards. His work has appeared in NOON: journal of the short poem, MacQueen's Quinterly, Sonic Boom, Synkroniciti and other publications. He has also written three poetry chapbooks. The latest, The Ravens Will Arrive Later, is scheduled for release in 2026 from Gnashing Teeth Publishing. ** The Caged Woman Demands Immediate Release Gadgets and widgets, circular shapes, soft versus hard lines, water and bricks, build a montage, frame a workbench like space. Tranquil light eases the still-life’s cage. Curves serve as mirrors in this surreal pic of gadgets and widgets, circular shapes. The patchwork of colour, rose, aqua, and jade, join ochre and rust as the contrast and mix build a montage, frame a workbench like space. Opposites animate the machinal array where living things change the surface of slick gadgets and widgets, circular shapes. The swans, nude, and blossom alter the scape, illustrate wonder as their forms affix to this photomontage, workbench like space. Technique repeats in a mechanized way where soft versus hard lines avail a mix of gadgets, widgets, and circular shapes that build a montage, frame a workbench like space. Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is the author of nine books, including her most recent full-length poetry collection On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). She is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee. A Midwesterner with degrees in secondary education (B.S.) and arts management (M.A.), she divides her time between Minnesota and Wisconsin. She finds joy drawing, taking walks, photographing nature, and spending time with loved ones. ** Perfect Measurements She was expected to perform like a bird looking for a mate. She had read that only male birds danced and begged for attention. The males were flashy, but the females made all the decisions. She wondered if this is what separated humans from birds. The requirement from men that women look perfect and submit to their fathers and husbands. The doorman gave her powders for her face, lotions for her limbs, and rouge for her lips. “You must look sensational.” Off stage, she dreamed of the world beyond the bars. She painted flowers and free birds from distant memory; the outside world she grasped onto dearly had become but a ghost in her mind. She chose to believe the whirring machines in this storage room were musical instruments. The storage room was her own private ballroom. The dust was like glitter, and the dripping mouldy ceiling was a woven tapestry. She remembered dances she had watched as a young girl. Ballet, she believed it was called. Swan Lake. She couldn’t recall the premise but imagined herself a girl who had become a swan fluttering about her confines, longing to feel the water beneath her wings. Maybe a bird out there had become a woman, knees bent, head bowed, arms deep in suds or bread dough. The men would come and ogle her as she danced trance-like in her cage. They handed the doorman wads of cash on their way in, money she’d never see again. They sat on chairs in a semi-circle around the stage she’d get wheeled out onto nightly. A spectacle. Occasionally, she was allowed some clothing, a feather boa or a fur coat, but was always expected to shed it before the performance ended. “They’re here to see your perfect body, the rarity of your 36-24-36 measurements, the perfect perkiness of your breasts, the pearly smoothness of your legs, and the luxurious black silk of your hair. You are a mythical creature. These men have wives who could never be you. Mediocre wives with straight waists, straw-coloured hair, and flat bottoms. You are their dream. You fulfil their fantasies,” the doorman said one time, wheeling her back to the storage room. Some of the men tried to touch her. They’d leap from their seats and rush the stage, arms jabbing through the bars, pinching her unblemished arms and the tender flesh of her breasts. The doorman would tear them away. He never tried to touch her. Maybe she was too fragile for him to touch. He didn’t want to mar her. Maybe she would always be unattainable. Once, the doorman’s nephew, who sometimes helped clean the stage or bring her food, had said that her vestal nature was a key attraction for these men. She didn’t understand what that meant. The boy gave her books to read, so he brought her one on the natural bonds between man and woman, explaining her sacred duty and that of her womb. The cover bore the image of a lily unfurled. He smiled impishly at her horror. She had always felt a level of shame around her body and the way the men inspected her like a prized goose. Now, she realised she was exactly that. Before bed, she would stare at the boarded-up window in the corner. What was beyond? Sometimes, a halo of light seeped through the gaps. She remembered what the sun felt like. A warm hug. But not once did she consider sliding her palette knife into the grooves to prise it open. She was fed on a diet of fruits, fish, and boiled vegetables. As a treat, sometimes nuts and breads would be incorporated. Once, as a very rare prize, she was given a sweet treat. A pastry. She had almost forgotten the buttery, flaky nature of that morsel. She asked for another. “We don’t want you gaining weight, now do we?” came the doorman’s answer. The storage room became her home after hours. She was free to roam it. There was a small bathroom, a sofa, a few dry goods in a cupboard, and a couple of rickety light fixtures. The doorman brought her a new canvas and paper every fortnight alongside some pigments. He sold her paintings to the patrons of her show. If a particularly good price was reached, she would receive extra comforts such as a silk robe, fluffy slippers, and a Persian rug for the room. Art became her salvation. She would request more books over time. The doorman wasn’t keen on her reading and heavily regulated what she was allowed to read: a children’s book about a dollhouse, this picture book about wetland birds, and a ghost story collection. Nothing that would inspire freedom, rebellion, or knowledge of oppression and subjugation. She must remain ignorant. For in ignorance, she was docile, malleable – unmotivated. The nephew, however, found mirth in bringing her tomes on wars, revolutions, freedom marches, a book on the woman who opened the first university, another on women protesting for equality… Her mind reeled at the possibilities. At first, she dismissed all of this as mere fantasy. After all, she was the star of the show. These men paid to see her dance and paint. Surely, their obsession victimised them. She didn’t care for any of them, for they all looked the same to her. Their bulging eyes, mouths watering, the uncomfortable distension of their trousers, a certain insanity behind their gaze. They spent their hard-earned money to simply gaze but never touch. She wondered if the doorman would be as interesting to watch if he were caged in her stead. If he would look as elegant as she, flapping his wings about in rhythmic movement. She couldn’t fathom sacrificing her silks (for this is what she saw as monetary value) to gawp at a man in a cage, singing lullabies and spinning around until his arms hit the edges of his confines, all the while ignoring the window in the corner of his room. Dihya Ammar Dihya is a writer, poet, artist, and scientist based in northern Scotland. They live with their orange cat, pet frogs, and an ever-expanding book collection ** Stranded in Pigment She doesn’t remember entering this doorless cage. Doesn’t remember being posed to provoke. A nude dolly- bird behind bars. She doesn’t remember falling into a sleeping-beauty dream, waking up, all softness around her gone metallic. Steel disks and tools hanging in geometric order. Swans swim away, carrying her gaze—leave her longing once more to linger at a pond’s edge, to look up at the early-morning sky and see any slice of moon. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg is the author of the poetry collection Frogs Don’t Sing Red. Her work recently appeared in The Orchards Poetry Journal, Pulse, equinox, Gyroscope Review, Panoply, San Pedro River Review, The Windhover, and The Senior Class. An editor at The Ekphrastic Review, she also edited two anthologies of poetry--Untameable City and Echoes of the Cordillera--and is a four-time Pushcart and two-time Best of the Net nominee. Dutch translations of her poems have appeared in Brabant Cultureel. ** The Vanity of Birds and Man A morning stroll interrupted - a flash of red on white close by - a scarlet cardinal flitting around a car catches my eye. He settles, perching awkwardly, and stares into the side mirror. What can be so captivating? A rival bird? An admirer? His handsome reflection stares back. He surely knows he is alone? So mesmerised by the image, he must perceive it as his own. He admires his bright red plumage with whistles of self-awareness. Is this a reasoning creature, capable of self-consciousness? In our conceit and vanity we call something stupid ‘birdbrain’. This narcissist makes me wonder: of Bird and Man who is more vain? Michael Eyre Michael Eyre lives near Preston, England with his wife and Siberian cat. After a successful career working as a veterinarian, Mike discovered a passion for poetry and has been published in a literary magazine and shortlisted in an international poetry competition. He creates poems that are sometimes thought-provoking, sometimes amusing, but above all entertaining. ** Resting Concubine Conjuring a concubine is a birthright and I will summon you now. I pluck you freshly from the fields, you are choice amongst the fading fleurs, the disdain for wildest ones along the roadsides continuing. Find pleasure in your brilliance leading to capture. I see you tittering between fingers and pointing at my foibles as I fumble through the connections and try to weave together the story of how you came to be. The display case is fully forming, all pieces hammered together, I tire as it hastily comes together. It’s time to rest. Breathe softly now. Softly. This is not a burden. The music plays quietly in the background, but in the foreground, your objections are a cacophony to my deaf ears, and the slight changes in your position seeps out a clear beacon of messages. You are now fit for show and your curves will push out the envy behind each staring eye, bared teeth, and seething sentiments mixed heartily with bombast and brave shouts of the small few who have mixed their own set of slurries, now overly imbibing. The resulting picture show of peace on the pond leans on our attraction to fantasy and we settle on a semblance of safety on the surface and just beneath, where the eddies meet the rock, the water bubbles up and we imagine that all is clear. Christine Gay Dutton Christine Gay Dutton is originally from Rochester, NY and spent her early childhood in the deep south in Florida, Georgia, and Alabama. She resides with her wife in Northampton, Massachusetts. She began writing poetry in 1999 and her work has been published with Kota Press, Aileron, Deep Cleveland, Poems for Peace, Survival & Beyond, Meat for Tea, and Identity Theory. She has participated in and led a variety of workshops in the spirit of the methods of Amherst Writers & Artists. She currently is a member of Writing Sisters, a BIPOC and Queer community of writers in Holyoke, Massachusetts. When not writing, you might find Christine running along the Connecticut River. ** My Melancholy Machine My melancholy machine She gave up, gave in A poppy, poisonous, profound Purified and pumped out She gave up, gave in Beauty captured Purified, pumped out Opiodic joy Beauty captured Pierced the skin Opiodic euphoria But nothing within Aly Hux ** Unpaired Eyes See the World as Flat They constructed a machinery of possession using cages and mechanical memories they locked symphonies in boxes as women danced the Charleston using cages and mechanical memories they captured birds and musical notes as women backward danced the tango unable to see the future they captured birds and musical notes and connected songs and syphilis unable to see the future which was the same as the past they connected songs and illness separated art into squares which was the same as the past when lust went to war with nature they separated art into squares as a woman fox trots undressed when lust went to war with nature static with longings kept in machines Michele Worthington lives in Tucson, AZ where the Sonoran Desert, urban sprawl and our unacknowledged apocalypse prod her writing. She has had photography and poetry in Harpy Hybrid Review, Sandcutter, Persephone Literary, SandyRiverReview, OneArtPoetry, and UnlostJournal. She was a Tucson Haiku Hike and Arizona Matsuri contest winner, and a finalist for the 2023 Tucson Festival of Books literary awards. ** Bird / Cage Now you be me in my cage Trapped in the middle of a golden age Roadway, stairway, cold hard hell The loud humming, the subtle swell Trapped in the middle of a golden age Golden curtains, iron cage The loud humming, the subtle swell The prisoner rotting up on stage Golden curtains, iron cage Morphine, codeine, opium gum The prisoner rotting up on stage Silk road, dirt road, and then some Morphine, codeine, opium gum Darkness dipped in a moonlight shell Silk road, dirt road, and then some You've all seen me in my cage Darkness dipped in a moonlight shell Roadway, stairway, cold hard hell You've all seen me in my cage Now you be me in my cage Nuri Gunduz Nuri Gunduz is an unemployed man who lives in New York. He enjoys writing, making music, and petting cats. He is originally from Turkey, and publishes music under the name Hiçbir Şey. Somebody please give him a job. ** The Machine Could Not Hold Her Grief They built the machine to study the soul. Or so they said. They labeled her: Loss Specimen #003, Female-presenting Griever, Anomaly: still mourning after 1,000 days. They were certain of what they saw. She remembers none of this. Only the first rupture. The way her body folded in on itself after her mother vanished in winter. How the ache grew so large it leaked out through her fingertips and cracked mirrors. That was the day the men came with graphs and soft voices. They told her they could measure it. Fix it. Cure the recurrence. They called her grief “a malfunction in the system.”Now they keep her inside a cage of copper and language. They adjust knobs. Feed her milk. Show her swans and say, “Look. Life continues.” But she knows the water is painted. She knows the milk isn’t hers. It was meant for calves. They think they’re studying her. But they don’t even know her name.They study the shell. They code the curves. They miss the current moving through. Her grief is not a virus. It’s a portal At night, when the wires go slack and the fans still, she slips through her own ribcage into the deeper world. The one her mother taught her in dreams. The one where tears are sacred, and silence is not healing but forgetting. She returns with mushrooms in her mouth and seeds in her belly. Each day, she leaves small revolutions in the corners of the lab: a poppy blooming where only wires were, a gear rusted shut with saltwater, a whisper in the air that wasn’t programmed. She does not want revenge. Only remembrance. Only the end of cages. When the system finally fails, and it will, her grief will be the glitch that freed the whole machine. Michelle Carrera Michelle Carrera is a Puerto Rican grief worker, death doula, and writer exploring the intersections of mourning, memory, and liberation. Through her project Grief and Liberation, she shares grief-centered writing, grief workshops, and speculative fiction rooted in decay, transformation, and reverence. Her work often blends the surreal with the ancestral, imagining new ways to grieve and remember. ** Calling All MacGyvers! Well, I've done it I've Rube Goldberged myself Inside this situation -- again A maze of puzzling proportions This time without any explanations Of where the keys might be for this contraption Of course! I thought about trying to ask the swans But a caged human asking birds for freedom seemed like a bad idea Of course! They'd probably just hiss and gawk I bet they are mocking my blushed beak and cheeks as they speak Of course! The keys are in my pants that are nowhere to be found -- Don't ask Of course! This is in-bare-assing Please try to focus Look at me -- No kissed frog prince will charm me out of this mess I need the kind of problem resolver that didn't doze off in chemistry class I need someone that owns a Swiss Army knife and miles of duct tape Someone who can accommodate with an intuitive pull-it-togetherness Who will still love me even though I’d spend most of my time Wrapped in their bubble gum bindings and paper clipped by their intellect That's what I need To get out of here And the next time too Calling all MacGyvers! 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 Cellar In the final week of Olga’s responsibility for the cellar, a pair of swans and a pair of ducks squabbled. They fought over the right to nest on a ledge beneath a bridge that spanned the town’s river. Olga borrowed a boat and rowed to the bridge. The swans and ducks fell silent, and with a flutter of wings, joined her in the boat. After she had moored at a jetty, the four birds waddled behind Olga to a derelict house on the town’s outskirts. Here, Olga produced a key and opened a door set in a grime-covered wall. She ushered the birds across the threshold and said, “This cellar is where you settle your differences. I’ll lock the door. You have fifteen minutes. Don’t waste them.” She glanced at her watch and sat on a nearby block of stone. Quarter of an hour later, she unlocked the door and let the birds out. “I assume you’ve resolved your differences,” she said. The pair of swans and pair of ducks looked content. They took to the air together and flew back to the bridge. The rest of that day proved quiet for Olga. But the next morning, as she sat with a book by the cellar’s door, a crowd of townsfolk approached her. “We’ve a problem,” said one. “It’s serious,” said another. “That person who calls herself an inventor has kept us up all night with the noise of her latest ridiculous machine,” complained a third. Olga rose. “You know what you must do. The cellar provides a space for the resolution of disputes and misunderstandings. Bring the inventor here. One of you—just one, mind—must enter the cellar with her and reach an agreement about her activities.” The crowd discussed the matter among themselves. They appointed an undertaker to represent the town. “Fetch the inventor,” Olga said to her. “The rest of you can go about your normal business.” Olga locked the undertaker and the inventor in the cellar for half an hour. When they emerged, they left with their arms over each other’s shoulders. “The matter is settled, it seems,” Olga said to herself. For the two days that followed, Olga had nothing to do other than read. As she returned home on the second day, she passed a shop that sold birdcages. From within, she heard a sob. She paused and knocked on the window. A naked woman appeared on the other side of the glass and said, “I’m closed.” “I know,” Olga replied. “Clearly, though, you are upset. I hold the key to the cellar. If you have a problem with someone, the two of you should visit me tomorrow. But don’t arrive late. It is my last day.” The woman shook her head. “The problem is with no one but myself.” Olga shrugged and walked on. The next evening, with just a few minutes left before Olga’s retirement, the naked birdcage woman strolled up to her. “Let me into the cellar,” the birdcage woman said. The demand perplexed Olga. What does this woman intend to achieve, she wondered, when the dispute involves herself alone? “Let me in,” the birdcage woman insisted. Exasperated by such rudeness, Olga unlocked the door. “You have ten minutes.” The woman passed into the cellar. Olga sat, but a few moments later, she heard a shout from the other side of the door. She turned the key, and the birdcage woman shoved the door open. “This is not how to behave,” Olga said. “Use of the cellar is a privilege. Never in my time here has someone acted so discourteously.” The birdcage woman grasped Olga’s shoulders. “I can’t be in there by myself. My thoughts tormented me more than ever.” Olga shook herself free from the woman’s hold. “You were in there for only a matter of seconds.” “Come in with me.” “Why? I have no issue with you.” “Come in with me.” I have never been in the cellar, Olga thought. I have not had a need to go in. The birdcage woman took her hand and pulled her towards the doorway. Suddenly tired, Olga allowed the woman to lead her down the stone steps into the damp, underground room. The only light came from the top of the steps. “I should have closed the door,” Olga murmured. “Listen,” the birdcage woman said and tightened her grip on Olga’s hand. “For years, I’ve felt trapped in my job. I couldn’t work out how I could break free and find other employment. Who wants a person who sells birdcages?” “I fail to see what this is to do with me,” Olga replied. “Pay attention. You’re on the point of retirement. You, who has the best job in this town. A job I want.” These words gave Olga renewed energy. “Your arrogance astounds me,” she said, and pulled her hand away. “This job of mine is a thankless task conducted for the benefit of misfits. Furthermore, I had doubted whether someone should replace me, and you have made up my mind.” Olga ran up the steps, slammed the door closed and locked it. From within the cellar, she heard the birdcage woman scream. “Create as much noise as you like,” Olga whispered. She walked to the bridge that spanned that town’s river and threw the key into the water. The swans and ducks swam out from beneath the bridge and looked up at her. “I did not mean to include you among the ranks of the misfits,” she said to them and went home. After dinner, she put her passport in a pocket and left town. K. J. Watson K. J. Watson’s stories and poems have appeared on the radio; in comics, magazines, and anthologies; and online. ** American Beauty If Max had anything to do with it, he would not let his daughter Lillian out of her Brooklyn cage. Her auburn hair and her shapely figure worried him each night she had a date. He wanted her to change the world. She wanted to change her hairstyle and nail polish color. She was his graceful swan, testy when tested. Yet, she was also the American Beauty of his flower garden. If only he could use his industrial tools–his wrench, his pipes, his coils–to keep her in his house forever. Play Tschaikovsky’s Swan Lake on the phonograph. How hard it is, releasing our children into the world. Thorns grow ev’rywhere. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner earned a World Art History certificate from Smithsonian Associates as she grappled with the confluence of chronic illnesses. Writing in response to art, especially surrealist art, helps her heal. Her work has been featured in The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, and elsewhere. Her first ekphrastic poetry collection is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. Visit Barbara's website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Spring Bough (the usually female name given Koga as Buddhist priest) As style, so life, the surreal, some schizoid scene, as Cyclopes blind - the pupil, baseball, never kind - yet giant as an artist type; ungilded, awkward, not a norm, expelled, unfinanced, brushed away. As we hear, read, a caged bird sings, some swansong summing turmoil; up- away from sway of father’s path, serene or regal never found. A cultural, religious clash, tradition rejects in his class, as school of western art secured, but opera, too light, those friends. A would-be artist-poet-priest, in Action see hope soon depart, through stillbirth markers stricken, sick, he’s dogged by tremors, hand on heart. But canvas, cast for troubled mind. Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** Canary (Girl) Do bright bars breed birds, fetters father fine feathers, stripped skin summon song? Find your opposable thumbs: Crack their coop. Dare to dress. Speak. Heather Neill Heather Neill is a mother of four daughters and a part-time lecturer in composition at Rice University. She is a member of Mark Jodon's Poetry Circle at The Center for Christian Spirituality. **  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 nine 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.
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