 The Vision of Faust, by Luis Ricardo Falero (Spain) 1878 Bare in Our Dark Bravery Nudely we frolic. The lake, it beckons. Especially at night, moonshine obscured by cloudcover. Some say skinny-dipping, but not all of us are as skinny as skeletal shorebirds, and that’s okay-- We are all bodies: all bosoms, butts, and bellies. Like black cats, all bodies demand (and deserve) pleasure. That wondrous crone at our hips; that lying lizard after our hearts. Who are we to deny. Nudely we frolic. The gray sky, it beckons. Bats swoop softer and the hornéd goats soar higher, higher, with us riders. Creatures as familiar as our own skins, which we bare in our dark bravery. Court Harler Court Harler is a queer writer, editor, and educator based in the American South. She holds an MA and an MFA. She's ownder of Harler Literary LLC, founding editor of Flash the Court, and former editor in chief of CRAFT Literary Magazine. Her multigenre, award-winning work has been published around the world. Learn more at harlerliterary.llc or flashthecourt.com, and find her on Instagram @CourtneyHarler. ** If By Chance in the Woods The day I fell for a werewolf I was forest-swimming, searching for twigs to spruce up my broomstick, letting my bare feet sink into damp soil under the fallen yellow orange leaves. He was on all fours playing at cracking open spiky chestnut cases for the nutty treasure inside. Much sexier than a truffle-hunting swine. I broke one of my wooden lengths accidently-on-purpose and he stiffened, dropped his treat, and twitched an ear in my direction. "Red? Is that you?" As he turned towards me, he was suddenly standing on two legs and had acquired trousers. "Red?" His brow furrowed, "Where's your...?" He drank me up and down with his onyx eyes. "I was caught in an unearthly gust," I said, "blew every thread right off..." I faked a shiver through my alabaster orbs. The wolfman gulped, and the goofy hairy gentleman in him opened his arms to me, "Good thing I'm mostly rug, apart from mouth and muscle." I melted into his fur, wondering: Who is this Red and how do I end her? Bayveen O'Connell Bayveen O'Connell loves writing short form fiction and non-fiction narratives. She's inspired by myth, folklore, history, art, and travel. Her pieces have appeared in print and in online publications. Bayveen's creative non-fiction collection, Out of the Woods, is being launched this October. ** Visiting My Ex-Wife’s Grave, Anger, and a Simple Syllogism It’s not the hastily executed, shallow type, so popular with serial killers, and crimes of passion. Scattered leaves and twigs barely covering the victim’s mutilated body. In fact, she’s alive. So am I. We will not be going together. Adam coined the “f-word” just after The Expulsion. There was plenty of anger on both sides of the gates. Buddha sat around for a lifetime trying to get a handle on his. Or was that suffering? My case is a simple syllogism. I did not control my anger. Not her fault. So much for my marriage. Matthew Sisson Matthew Sisson’s poetry has appeared in journals ranging from the Harvard Review Online, to JAMA The Journal of the American Medical Association. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and read his work on NPR’s On Point. His book, Please, Call Me Moby, was published by The Pecan Grove Press, of St. Mary’s University, San Antonio, Texas. ** To Ricardo Falero Regarding Faust You reek of Satan by this ruse of ocean sky you wryly use where Aires reigns as sign of fire extolling courage of desire in witches who before your brush have modeled, as if joyful rush, their varied shapes as school of fish whose way to sabbath grants your wish by baring flesh of female form unveiled as if bedeviled swarm unwittingly becoming feast for savage soul of inner beast perhaps as artist now charade exquisite as your Faustian trade. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** Pursued by the Unbearable Brooms bats boobs saurian demons goats a crone a black cat the road to hell is paved with cliches envisioned by a mid-century advertising artist except: a skeletal pelican interjects a note of the absurd Is it Faust whose beak can hold more than his belly can? The alluring succubi of his dreams—close behind the crone the voluptuous witch with fiery eyes that duck-billed hellion suggesting the shape of Faust's own tenure in hell Is it Egyptian Henet protective psychopomp stripped of its feathered powers here attendant of damnation, bodiless is bloodless not nurture but torture stripped of suggestion of the Christ’s blood sacrifice promised redemption exeunt stage left pursued by the unbearable Mark Folse Mark Folse is a poet. retired journalist and blogger and IT factotum and native of New Orleans. His poems appeared in the Peauxdunque Review, New Laurel Review, Ellipsis, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, The New Delta Review, Metazen, Ellipsis, Unlikely Stories and The Maple Leaf Rag. He was a member of the post-Katrina/Federal Flood NOLA Bloggers writing and activist group, and his work from that period was anthologized in What We Know: New Orleans as Home, Please Forward, The Louisiana Anthology and A Howling in the Wires. ** Untitled glowing naked, she brings out the animal in me Charles Rossiter Charles Rossiter, NEA Poems in Fellowship recipient, and frequent Pushcart nominee, has published poems in The Ekphrastic Review, Bennington Review, Paterson Review among others. Info on recent books with sample poems at : https://www.foothillspublishing.com/2019/rossiter.html ** Eternal Fights for Eternity Eternal fights Between youth And old age Running to their Sabbath Witches Aging witches Thieves of life Jealous of young and soft skin They fight against death Their naked skin molts And changes into old skin. It molts so much That they refuse To recognize it as their own On their mutating body They chase their younger sisters Refusing their own destiny In quest of an illusional Eternity Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. He enjoys learning English as a second language through writing. ** The Descent of Faust Faust -you have been condemned to hell by your actions. Your vile family of pain , perversity and hate have deformed and dehumanized your soul. I abhor your demented visions that are inescapable. You turn love and art into cruelty and lust beyond description. Demons ravage a world where love once lived. Loathing that allow devils to rule the earth. Bodies without souls defile a world once blessed by God. Where is your humanity - buried -not to be exhumed. what has happened to your soul. Evil creatures defile a sky where birds once flew. You rejected goodness and left the world to rot. And yet you are not past forgiveness. Comfort , love and forgiveness await your return. Prayer and redemption are still possible. The savior will accept you into his heart. Do not defile the world further. Repent--repent; live a clean and holy life once more. Bend a knee and ask for love and forgiveness. The wings you were given can fly you to heaven. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle is a widely published poet, actress and voice over artist. Publications include, Synchronized Chaos, One Art, Dissident Voice, Verse Virtual, Amethyst Review, Wild Word, Cultural Daily, Haiku Universe, Connecticut River Review, and others. ** The Master At sixteen I learned the petty jealousy of spiteful older women how a male weight presses on a sainted frame what blood tastes like when the tongue is restrained how fire in my eyes burns the waste around me to be a woman is to be beautiful-- so to be ugly as a woman is to not belong. I can be an ugly fiend I can be a goddess and a man would only love me in my divine but let not the wild thing in me be tamed bashfulness be damned, I wear my shirt like a cape fly wildly into the clouds’ escape “Margarita!” I shout my hands reach out, they seize, they twist misery made me; I am witch. Stephanie Houser Stephanie Houser is a recent philosophy and English literature graduate from Columbus, Ohio. She writes toward the edges of knowing—where philosophy meets feeling, and beauty collapses into its opposite. Her writing explores queer womanhood, divinity, and the strange tenderness of being seen. She currently works as a writer for a local, community-building nonprofit. ** Mephistopheles on Walpurgisnacht There! On the Brocken peak, where the shadows dance. There, Faustus, witch and warlock will gather. Let me take your cloak. We will ride on it like Arabians of old. Fly, fly to the mountain! Weave between long-tailed demons, labyrinth of bewitched broomsticks, serrated hems of lizard tails and bat wings. Revel, revel in the orgy of fleshy curves, grunted snarls, slapping, slithering tongues. What a party! Ride, ride past the great horned goat, tip your hat to the sacrifice. My mouth waters already. Who cares about your Gretchen now, eh, Faustus? When there’s such bounty to be had. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner majored in German language and literature. Through ekphrasis, she is reclaiming her intimacy with Goethe's Faust and his deal with Mephistopheles. She once saw a restaging of Gounod''s Faust at the Metropolitan Opera with Jonas Kaufmann in the lead role. She gasped throughout the entire production. She is the author of the ekphrastic Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press, 2025), The Night Watch (Kelsay Books, 2025) and the forthcoming The Wanderers (Shanti Arts, 2026). Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Visions of Faust The Devil's in the details Beautiful promises front and center Eyes drawn to what's desired most Unable to see the full picture Beautiful promises front and centre A life of pure pleasures Unable to see the full picture Focused only on what could be A life of pure pleasures One could only dream Focused only on what could be He's forgotten the most important thing One could only dream Eyes drawn to what's desired most He's forgotten the most important thing The Devil's in the detail Andrew Jones Andrew Jones is 37 years old and just recently started writing again after about 22 years. His focus is on Gembun and Pantoum poetry. ** The Bruise Translucent green clouds my vision And there she is again, poetry, my nemesis, my some-timey friend The streets were empty where she ran, I couldn’t populate her City of lights, So many stars that I couldn’t comprehend what tiny flicker I Could possibly lend She flees, swirling her numerous pastel petticoats, Hiding the brighter colours closer to the limbs, bruised with over-use of tired tropes I tried to put aside to mixed reviews- Her hair, so unruly, brushed, then mussed by the great men Leaving the scintillating women to comb through it again and again- Red-gold like fall, forest deep was her dress, Gone again, but I saw her, and that’s something, I guess. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in Collaborature, 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, 2024 anthology. Debbie is an avid Tybee Island beachcomber and lover of all things nature. She also enjoys collaborating with Jahzara Wood, together they write poetry as “The 1965.” ** Victorian Bacchanal As bare as a bubble, I slither and float, Set free from my corset, astraddle a goat, With nothing between us, as nude as you will – Yet somehow my bustle is haunting me still. The Doctor, beside me, is stripped, but unsheared : He bristles, as always, with whiskers and beard, And though he’s not now in his frock coat, it’s plain That once tonight’s over he will be again. Hell’s ghouls swirl around us, a riotous gang: I’ve pulled out my braids, let my ringlets go hang: I’m naked as Lilith! But come on, attest: You cannot but see how I look when I’m dressed. Julia Griffin Julia Griffin has published in several poetry magazines.. ** Faustian Dream Faust, with the demonic presence of Mephistopheles Despite degrees, and as a scholar, rejected the divine As a sign of his embracing anything with satanic theme Began a dream, of naked witches - a sabbath to attend And spend every moment reaching sexual ascendance Their attendance ever combining both duty and desire On fire, with bodies and libidos seemingly unsatisfied Never to hide their exuberance as some sort of lapse Perhaps heeding the call to celebrate Walpurgisnacht Marked as followers, flames of passion never doused Aroused, writhing and cavorting, all in erotic displays Crazed with stimulation and excitement all the while Nubile and attractive young women feeding his dream A scheme to consolidate a dark commitment forever As a clever ruse by the Devil’s attending representative And give superficial recompense for a crossroads deal But unreal portrayals of witches as haggard and aging Raging and always with evil intentions, is just a cover As another way to obscure strong physical temptation Elation for Faust, albeit in an imagined delightful scene Keen to participate, and revel in that orgiastic journey Howard Osborne Howard is a UK citizen, retired. Published author of non-fiction reference book, scientific papers and poetry. Interests mainly creative writing (poetry, novel, short stories, songs and scripts), music and travel. ** Revisioned Listen to the way the whirling wind rattles all that we thought would last. We float—untethered, swirled, ringed by spirals of bodies barely limbed echoed inside a decaying past. Listen how they seize the wind and scatter bloodlust end to end-- nightmares bordered with shadows cast into swirling air--floating, ringed by demons that turn and return again, looking for harvests of heresy amassed, falling wayward into the wind. It’s not the devil that rescinds the light, but the darkness of humanity’s vast untethered hubris swirling us, ringed by greed and power, unoriginal sin that refuses the questions spirit asks. Listen to the way sycophants bend the wind, snare us, suffocate us--floating, swirled, beringed 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/. ** Somewhere Between Death and Reincarnation In nature we never see anything isolated, but everything in connection with something else which is before it, beside it, under it and over it. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe The sky is scraped to the translucent gray of a wasp's wing and the angel in her marble length of tresses and gown trailing a leaf-strewn earth plucks the string of a violin. Its note awakens grief in branch, berries and vine, in moss that sables the stone wall and rust the iron gate. Grief that calls the wind to rise and round up what remains of my ashes scattered on the graveyard lawn Soon they lift and fly into the ocean's air sparked with a spitting chill while a man looks on wearing a lanyard of dark hair braided and anointed with lavender oil sprinkled lightly in. Two keys dangle at its end, one to the house, the other my cedar box. A small casket where he found a bottle with a rose bud inside, some pills left on the felt lining and a farewell note telling why and what must be done on vellum pale as the November sun, reading: Plant the flower and a bush will bloom in the heart of spring when I come back as a woman wrought of stronger faith and will -- a different self with a memorized soul. (A bargain I made long ago.) So strew the salted wave with the opiates and they will wash ashore as sea glass in the sand showing the bluish green of your daughter's eyes five years from now, born under the full moon's rise. And tear the paper with a tender hand, letting it fall as pieces of bread so the birds may eat the bitter sweet sorrow of my death and carry it deep within their song, Wendy Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her work is deeply influenced by diverse cultures, history, myth and women's issues. Over the years, she has appeared in a number of journals including: Liminality, Silver Blade, Eye To The Telescope, Strange Horizons, The Winged Moon, Carmina Magazine, Crows and Cross keys, Eternal Haunted Summer and Sage Woman. Her most recent work has appeared in Songs Of Eretz and The Otherworld Poetry Journal. ** Five Things I’ve Learned About Witches 1. You can try to invite just one witch, maybe Hildy, over for a cozy game night. But be prepared for Hildy to start a massive group text sharing your address. Soon your driveway will be cluttered with brooms and your intimate game night will be transformed into a tournament. 2. Witches won’t arrive empty-handed. But don’t count on receiving any hostess gifts. Instead of chardonnay, they’ll bring their familiars. Of course you like cats, who doesn’t? But Friskers is always bristling. And some familiars aren’t even feline. Learn to like bats. If Ravenna shows up, get ready for her skeletal pelican-thing to swoop down and swipe random game pieces. 3. If you’re planning to play poker or some other card game with witches, give that dream up right now. Witches love Scrabble, and if you have Scrabble tucked away in your game cabinet, it’s coming out. If you don’t own Scrabble, witches will conjure up a game board and letters just for the occasion. 4. Witches don’t recognize the authority of Merriam-Webster. If you’ve just added S-T-I-C-K to the end of BROOM and think you’re going to clean up with a triple word score, forget it. Agatha will claim “broomstick” is two separate words and Hildy will insist it’s hyphenated and no dictionary on Earth will dissuade them. 5. If you stick to your guns, demanding the witches play fair, prepare for a ritual flaying. You can pursue them and their familiars, catch hold of the tail of their leering iguana, but you’re not getting your skin back until you surrender. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in Bending Genres, Five Minutes, MacQueen’s Quinterly, ONE ART, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking, playing board games, and obsessing over Richard Widmark movies. You won't see her whizzing about on a broom, but you can find her on Bluesky. ** The Method of the Chaos There is method in the chaos philosophers insist to check if you will persist in catching the gist which is nowhere to be seen because it is mean, it is mean – it leaps on goats’ backs it grabs their horns and speeds in the universal wilderness of rising hairs and nude beauty on beauty shoulders while the goat of sex runs berserk as his growling sound cuts the space where Eros was supposed to enchant the chaos and trick the bodies in accord with his irresistible sward but to no avail – there hangs a mystery spell they are entranced by Lucifer in their most vulnerable readily available in Faust’s realm who knows no calm in meeting his damn brutal deal with the devil while his bargaining tool – the Soul – was sold for a grain of salt – and all of this done by a scientist who knew the gist yet went to insist heaven on earth as philosophical rebirth – the thinker’s final abode but is it the gist’s spot - the catharsis against the nemesis that is not in the realness the beauty of their bodies against the chaos of their hairs the trance of our otherworldliness – is this the method in the chaos, paid dearly by Faust – the tragic twist in its own mist – the infinite pursuit of stars through thorns - the dearest beauty to uphold – Faust’s last breath drops on the spikes of the method yet saved in the penitence’ bond of his beloved from beyond,,, Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have often been honoured by TER and its challenges. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni. ** Saudade A flying assemblage of empty wombs, aborted dreams in coffins. Cold hollowed moon above half green autumn leaves, giant arms around thorny trees. Long silences then scream- embraces that can never be. How she must have walked in darkness to catch a glimpse of a forming mind, to hear the heartbeat. How she must have watched a wanting resurrection of failed desire. In autumn a season of separations, in October a festive month- of longing, of remembrance. Abha Das Sarma Abha Das Sarma lives in Bangalore, India. An engineer and management consultant by profession, writing is what makes her happy and fulfilled. Her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Blue Heron Review and Poetry X Hunger among others.
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