 Rain on the River, by George Bellows (USA) 1908 Rain On The River Rains falling on the Hudson River zone And deluging the pathways in a park, Inhibiting the progress of a lone New Yorker splashing through the semi-dark Of daylight under leaden clouds, emit No sound—in physics terms—from forceful strokes That Bellows used to paint the grime and grit He juxtaposed with grass and trees, to coax Enchantment out of gloom ... But don't you hear Rails clanking, plumes of hissing steam, the spray In hurried footsteps, and a neigh? The mere Veracity of physics can't gainsay Eyes predisposed to hear as well as see: Rain On The River captures sounds for me! Mike Mesterton-Gibbons Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus of Mathematics at Florida State University who has returned to live in his native England. His poems have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Better Than Starbucks, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Daily Mail, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, MONO., the New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, the Satirist, the Washington Post and WestWard Quarterly. ** Ledge The path splits like a river stitching the lampposts together below a fractal stack of boulders, chunky rubs of color off the brush and the shoulder below that threatens to smear towards fall like a spaghetti strap that tumbles down the precipice and reminds me that most days your bowlegs take retreating steps far beyond my sympathies or sightlines. Still, I think of you as mine rich as the emerald grass, some assurance smogging fog to the sea like a train’s cushion of salt along the city cliff to a metropolitan maze that mocks our mis-remembered love cage with its multiples of ribs twigging out like the world’s first dawn etching their way through morning, through dock posts and floating debris to some other side where, just passing from this view, I might imagine you. Sarah Wyman Sarah Wyman lives in the Hudson Valley where she writes and teaches about literature and the visual arts. She co-facilitates the Sustainability Learning Community and teaches poetry workshops at Shawangunk Prison. Her poetry books are Sighted Stones (FLP 2018) and Fried Goldfinch (Codhill 2021). ** Double Vision: Looking at George Bellows' Rain on the River George Bellows is much better known posing punch-drunk palookas, pounding each other's guts, and keeping their smashed-nose faces pointed to the bloody canvas. But here is something that feels like a left hook, its visual violence aligned in a sharp assemblage of slanted lines, paralleling the distant, blurred embankment, with the mud-coloured flat river under the toxic chemical clouds. Along its length are some warehouses with a short and empty pier sticking out.. Nearby is a cartman, scavenging coal. And in the central artery is a train, pulling its filled container cars along. Rain-soaked, glistening paths, shaped like a wavering divining-rod, are where one itinerant figure is strolling alone. So we see this little drama as it unfolds, below a platform of fractured stone slabs, painted with thick daubs of gray and brown. They are as rough as those spent boxers he drew in broad strokes of dark and light, smudged on paper from a charcoal stick that congealed the smoke from cheap cigars that filled the cheering mouths of boxing fans. But here a single freight train lumbers along, with plumes like a punch in my double vision. Royal Rhodes Royal Rhodes is a poet who has been writing for the last fifty years. His poems and essays have appeared in numerous journals, including Ekphrastic Challenges. He lives now amidst Amish farmland in central Ohio. ** Love and Trains I took my first train ride when I was in college. My first air flight, too. But train trips became my staple, whether to New York City for the museums or to Washington to visit my oldest friend at school. I loved the noises, the shuddering car speeding on tracks, the tucking away of bags in a compartment above my head. I knew every view and vista from the Yankee Clipper, knew when the spectacular sparkle of Long Island Sound would appear, and when we would sit, steaming and hissing in New Haven as Amtrak switched the power source and the lights went dark. More than the lights of a city or the dark cave of a station, I loved the dirty, tired backyards of the cities and towns the train swept through. I saw their sad parts and sometimes the ok parts. I loved the angles of intersection in a small town, when the train was raised high above a main street, running past the corners of old brick buildings with what appeared to be inches to spare. Leaning against the glass, tired of my book, I loved looking at the sections that ran along water the most. We were perilously close to the river or ocean, so close we could tip in if the train jumped the track. Were we? Was I catastrophizer? I had many hours to contemplate scenarios on many trips, and my thoughts often drifted towards emergency exits and how to pop the windows open, if necessary. The backyards of houses and the centres of small towns, with their carved gazebos in tiny parks, were my delight. Why run a train so close to where I imagined a Fourth of July concert would happen? Why did people have so many sheds at the end of the backyard? Why did people dump decades of trash by the side of the tracks? Conversely, what compelled people to garden down to the very edge of the cinders and rails, flush again the flimsy fence where their daffodils or daylilies blossomed and brightened view? I have considered these things for decades, riding on the train. Today, I await my ride at a stop on the west-bound commuter rail. No real station at this stop. Just an overhang, barely a shelter, but with the added convenience of an LED sign declaring the time of arrival. The noise from the highway on the other side of the fence is persistent and thrumming. I look down the long straightaway of track and watch the train draw near. Without the cement platform that surrounds trains in a station, I marvel at how tall it is, an imposing engine of transportation. I hoist myself up steps steeper than those I remember, up and into the car on the left, uncrowded at this early hour on a Saturday morning. I shuffle in, gracelessly, and thump myself down by the window, my bags at my feet. And smile a little smile. I am headed to a college town an hour from where I live to visit the man I am in a relationship with, a post-divorce romance for the both of us, a second chapter we arrived at through circuitous routes and painful endings of love and sadness and rupture. Around me, late night college revelers are headed back to their schools, very large coffees in hand and tattered backpacks on the floor. Singletons are intent on their phones, a few riders slumped, asleep already. It is 10:20 a.m. We start, and I rest my forehead against the glass. The Washington Street Whole Foods slips by, Abbotts and its freezers of ice cream and gallons of fudge sauce. The 1507 gains cruising speed and I am passing the industrial sections of tidy suburban towns who have the space and inclination to hide their parks and recs department by the tracks, to allow children’s gyms and Dunkin Donuts to set up near the train crossings. I cannot read, not when I can relearn the geography of towns I know well. I am smiling now because I feel no different from the 19-year-old heading to New York City, huddled in a trendy long coat that was not warm, on a 6:32 a.m. commuter rail in February with no heat and no dining car from which to purchase a hot drink. It is thrilling and it is freedom and it is new and different, and I feel that now as much as I ever did. Barbara Selmo Barbara Selmo earned an MFA from The John Hopkins Writing Seminars. She has been a member of writers’ groups over the last 10 years. In 2021, she joined a Grief Writing group with Diane Zinna and went on to participate in three month-long, daily writing circles Zinna led. Barbara has worked with Rita Zoey Chin, Dorian Fox, and Zinna, all of whom have been extraordinary. Recent publications include “The Gravity of Love” (Dorothy Parker’s Ashes) and “Lunchables” (The Sun.) A craft piece is forthcoming in Letting Grief Speak: Writing Portals for Life after Loss (Diane Zinna, Columbia University Press, 2024). ** Boxing Clever A player courted, basket, base, though chose that ball, art students league, this radical of ashcan school waxed lyrical from left of field. What drove to brush ’fore graduate, reject sport scout, leave commerce part, withdraw athletics, focal point of painting as his primal call? It was the urban working class of city grime in real rough, from boxing ring of gruff appeal, atrocities of gruesome scenes. Dissenter - Wesley middle name - he stood for lines, unpopular; supporting war against the Hun, defending those against the same. How dare he paint what had not seen? His quick response to critics’ form - ‘for had no ticket’ - sportsman talk - Da Vinci absent, upper room. For illustrator, books, the norm to craft response from written word; so seasoned ethics, politics, he framed stark, dark, reality. If river, rain and misty steam were all ingrained, washed over work, then harsher life must be revealed in lithograph or oily truth. From elementary blackboard chalks ’twas class controlled his pupillage; iconoclast up till sad end, until life ruptured far too young. 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 ** Swimming Prohibited Due to Poor Water Quality. When I take my glasses off, everything looms in soft focus, like distant cliffs shrouded in the mist-grey of what everyone who looks at them is thinking at the time. Once a thought is born, like each bloom of smoke from a steam train’s funnel, where does it go? When I look closely at life, the snaking paths and flat green pastures of it glitter in my eye. It’s easy not to see the bent and breaking backs of men and the overburdened cart horse; the trees stripped of leaves and blackened by fire long extinguished by hard rain. A river’s clean water turns from blue to the yellow-green of bile draining from the hepatic ducts of our homes and factories. Birds have flown away and a flower wouldn’t dare to raise its face. The jetty crumbles and the fish float belly up. Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda lives and writes poetry in Lake Tabourie, NSW, Australia in traditional Yuin country, and enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various literary spaces. ** Progress Slingshot Riverside Park paths glide through high grass as Vanderbilt’s New York Central debouches Hudson River view. The park itself, not so innocent. In the name of conservation, eminent domain claimed country homes of Old New York. A pedestrian bears the strain, braves the stain of progress, an umbrella useless against the gilded drumbeat of time. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, Tiferet, Rust + Moth, and other literary journals. She lives and teaches in New Jersey. Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Hudson Overlook This Hudson overlook, Exposed and frigid, Might discourage another, But not me. Compulsion burns. Glazed schist, Impastoed brine-- I will snatch this place out of time And pin its soul to canvas. Art with muscle. Give me hulking and lurching-- Punchable smog, Gouts of gunmetal soot. Down below, a few desperate souls Collect gleanings of coal-- Concentrated, impacted grime As if sublimed from smut of air My stiff brush grasps the cold mood-- Dapping across canvas Leaving negative spaces of white-- Perfect weird twin of hoar on paths below My fingers crack and bleed now, But a bit of blood cuts the umber nicely And beefs up coastal verge Under beaten copper trees. In time it grows dark, and I pack up. Not that my painting is finished. My work is never finished. It is a held breath —until it hurts. Anna Gallagher Anna Gallagher earned a bachelors degree in English and a masters degree in liberal arts from University of Delaware. She has enjoyed reading poetry all her life. After retirement she has tried some new challenges, including poetry writing! ** leaving behind I looked back for the last time on the best of times standing naked bare and vulnerable like trees in Autumn. Marc Brimble Marc lives in Spain and apart from drinking tea and hanging around near the sea, he teaches English. ** Painting the Future The Hudson is cloaked in smoky yellow, its surface awash in smog and steam as if the rocks, trees and urban sprawl are squeezing life from the city’s tide that I have loved since I was a child. So I paint, my easel perched on a ledge as I scrape my rage across the canvas. I conjure a future of oily pollution and hang it in Paris on a gallery wall. What do you see? Art or a warning? Kate Young Kate Young lives in England and enjoys writing poetry, painting and playing the guitar, ukulele and mandolin. Her poems have appeared in various webzines, magazines, andchapbooks. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond the School Gate have been published by Hedgehog Press. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet or on her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk ** Rain on the River To cut the world to pieces – sort the past to the left the future to the right leave the bare boulders to the present, the winding path, its empty benches, the soaked green, those trees harsh with branch and twig and the steam billowing from yesteryears’ locomotive all will leave our sight forever – as now will turn into then. Barbara Ponomareff Barbara Ponomareff is a retired child psychotherapist, writer and occasional painter and translator. Her poetry, memoirs and short stories have appeared in a variety of literary magazines and anthologies. She has published two novellas: A Minor Genre and In the Mind’s Eye and is very much drawn to ekphrastic writing. Barbara lives in southern Ontario within walking distance to Lake Ontario. ** How to Capture Dreich on Canvas Rain falls. Rain always falls here. The hungry river is nourished, fattened by the constant fall. The emerald field of the park is sodden and saturated, its path gleaming like a silver tributary as lone walkers bob along, umbrellas dragging like sails. The droplets enliven a train's steamy plume, a dragon hissing its progress through spindles of winter trees bending in the breeze. The same gust spritzes my face with drizzle, glazes it like the gleaming granite boulders I stand behind. The grey river is not quite in flood, girded by the heavy iron of the railway track and the sparse trees enduring this dreich downpour. I know the rain is needed, that it is part of life. The water cascading from the sky to the land, into the river, is a cycle, ancient, inescapable. The river was here before the park, before the city now crowding along its banks. It carries not just today's waters but all the rains, the storms, the mists and mizzles from the lands it has already crossed, carries on towards the sea, to the ocean. I, too, add to this ensemble as salt teardrops slide down my face. Like the rain clouds I have no choice but to let the drops flow, let them mingle with the rain, flow out to the sea. Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer from the UK Midlands. Having been born and raised in Northern Ireland she's seen a lot of rain during her lifetime. She's had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review Challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print. ** The Way Forward The necklace of railcars whisper in metallic clicks before belching out clouds of white smoke. Thick cotton mists silhouette grey the glitter of distant buildings. The river, at the touch of the pale sky, wakes alive in golden tints of a fading summer. Bituminous realities litter the ochre banks, while men with cracked lips, worn hands, stoop to scavenge for an answer to their tired drizzle of prayers. Tall trees with bare branches, gleaming barks sentinel the rain-slicked change of winds. Through the endless carpet of emerald green, a silver road meanders, all the way up to the rocks of glistening hope. Preeth Ganapathy Preeth Ganapathy is a software engineer turned civil servant from Bengaluru, India. Her recent works have been published in Last Stanza Poetry Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, Star 82 Review, Panoply Zine, Visual Verse, Quill & Parchment, Shotglass journal, Sparks of Calliope, Tiger Moth Review, The Sunlight Press, and Ink, Sweat & Tears. Her microchaps A Single Moment and Purple have been published by Origami Poems Project. Her work has been nominated for the 2023 Best Spiritual Literature. ** Thoughts On Rain on the River, by George Bellows This is American rain on an American River, not European Renaissance rain grand old deluge falling on sunshine Cathedrals, but dirty American rain on a muddy brown yellow river gray snow sludge train tops flowing through the heartland, this is America stripping off its shortpants and declaring this is us this US with ashcan underbelly and smoke clogged skies and by God pride of mud green brushstroke landscape and working folk small like beasts along the shore, beauty in the common experience thankful for our uniqueness until the epoch noble vision strips burned out forests of green and souls drown in squalid rivers and artists like Bellows spin in their graves. Daniel W. Brown Daniel W. Brown 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. world. Daniel has been published in various journals and anthologies, and he has hosted a youtube channel Poetry From Shooks Pond. He was also included in MId-Hudson's Arts Poets Respond To Art in 2022-23 and writes each day about music, art and whatever else captures his imagination. ** Perspective
"...thousands of feet above the Brenner Highway, we began to slide down the air quietly as a snowflake... the plane in a long slip like a scimitar curve, the ground rising up to meet us, the trees growing larger, focusing automatically, as in a microscope..." "Italian Days,"* Charles Wright Where did the rain stop and the river begin? In English, it is said that landscape means both the land itself and a painting of the land, that "scape" means "scope," the way an artist balances in an ethereal world, high above the scene below recreating (or embellishing) mountains and waters with an inner eye as the composition moves forward, the river parallel to a train, like a belt girding the painted earth, its trees and verdant grass (greener in the rain) and the rocky ledges of Riverside Park. As a natural setting is altered by art, Bellows moves beyond his earlier work -- "River-Front On A Hot Day" -- a canvas where tenement children strip away their clothing for a swim in the Hudson, waters that become static in "Rain On The River" as if a primal microcosm on canvas attests to New York, the way it appeared when Henry Hudson's ship, the Half Moon, discovered a body of water in the New World its boundary-territory explored by indigenous people, the Mohawks. Otherwise untouched, and ripe for the future, Riverside became a path for the Hudson Railroad (originally the Hudson-Mohawk line) its 20th century destiny to pass the Park's Cherry Walk, to carry cargo past trees, the Sakura, their petals like pink snow -- a gift from Japan -- where art can look down, from the right to the left (one could say east to west) the way the morning sun rises, although it's a grey day today, in Riverside Park. The dock below the railroad seems to disappear in fog that envelops the other side of the river, a thick veil over mountain-like shapes so Bellows' canvas resembles, in its perspective, Hokusai's "Great Wave" a wood block print where Mt. Fuji, bedded between the cresting waves is so far back in the picture, it looks like a mountain in miniature its size like the cap of an otherworldly being -- a gnome, perhaps -- who can guard any treasure buried underground...and at the end of Bellows' dock where my perspective changes, as it always does, to love while white steam bellows from the train engine -- transport to where my heart has been. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp has been honored many times by the Ekphrastic Challenge. Her book, When Dreams Were Poems, explores the relationship of words to art and nature. *She could locate only an auditory copy of Charles Wright's "Italian Days" -- what is a poem without a page? The name of the Hudson Railroad, owned by Cornelius Vanderbilt, was changed to The Hudson River and New York Railway. ** Just a Job After ten years as a freight brakeman in Atlanta, I got laid off last week. Nothing personal, they told me. In Washington, even Hoover said things were bad. In August, Jane and I got married and moved into a one-room basement apartment. In October came Rose, our baby girl. Now, two months later, I lost my job. “I’ll look up North,” I said, as Jane sat on the edge of our bed. I’d heard that trainmen were needed there. “I’ll send money home.” “Promise me you’ll stop drinking, too.” Rose suckled on Jane’s breast. “It’s me or the bottle, like I’ve told you. Now we have a baby.” “I promise.” It was easy for me to say. I’d told her that lots before. When I arrived in New England, the yardmaster hired me on the spot. The rail workers that milled around his office grumbled. They likely wanted a friend to get the job, not me with my Southern accent. Afterward, I walked up a hill in a park and stood on some rocks. In the December rain, I looked at where I’d be working. The paper mill next to the river was big, but the nearby rail yard looked small. On the midnight shift, the engineer, conductor, and another brakeman joshed among themselves, but they didn’t speak much with me. They needed to see what kind of brakeman I was, I guessed. The conductor and I huddled at the top of the lead track that led downhill into the yard. With his lantern, he examined his switch list that gave information on the cars. “Whoa…lookee here. Three hopper cars. Coal. Haven’t seen it in years.” Sleet pelted our faces, and he cleared his throat. “Ride these into Track Three. It’s empty. After fifteen car lengths, tie ‘em down with a hand brake.” He put his gloves on. “Careful now. Another crew’s working on the other end of Three. It holds only ninety-two cars.” He returned to the engine. As the three cars started to coast, the rails groaned under their weight. On the rear car’s icy raised platform, I gripped the brake wheel. These three squat New York Central cars were heavy. Rain that day had saturated every chunk of coal in the open cars. Slushy flakes cut my visibility to a few car lengths. As I entered Three, snow-capped logs on flatcars on Tracks Two and Four whirred by. We were rolling at fast clip. That was okay. I’d done this lots before. But not in winter. At night. In a strange yard. Adrenaline flickered in my gut. In a minute or so, I’d be done and would walk back to the engine. I’d chug some calming whiskey from the pint bottle in my pant pocket. It’d be my first drink since leaving Atlanta. After ten car lengths into Three, I started to spin the brake wheel. I wasn’t used to wearing a heavy winter coat and such thick gloves. The brake shoes clamped on the wheel. It slid, as smoke and sparks spewed and screeched. If I got off and abandoned the cars, they’d only go faster. They’d kill men at the other end of Three. I’d get fired, or worse. But I’d promised Jane that I’d send money. I sprinted on icy ballast rock, over crossties, through sparks and steel-on-steel smoke, with only a few feet of clearance to the boxcars on Two. I was now at least forty car lengths into Three. These monsters wouldn’t stop. On the second car, I spun the brake wheel. Same thing! The sparks, smoke, and screech only doubled. We were going even faster. I raced to my final hope, the third and lead car. Wire from a car on Two snagged my sleeve. I stumbled but regained my footing. I climbed to the car’s ice-crusted handbrake and spun it into a blur. I was at least eighty cars deep into Three. In seconds, I’d crash. The cars slowed to a stop. The screech and sparks had halted, but acrid fumes began to blanket the ground, as the wheels pulsated with heat. I staggered into breathable air and sat on a rail on Two. I’d be able to send money home, after all. “Who’s there?” A lantern poked through the sleeting night. I had no breath left. “We’re…workin’ on…” I filled my lungs. “…the other end of the yard.” “Yeah, we’re on this end.” The brakeman pointed with his lantern beam. “We heard a helluva racket. Cars’ brakes must have frozen up. Then nothing.” A few car lengths from the coal hoppers stood black tank cars. “They’re…heavier than they look.” Gradually, I caught my breath. “That wet coal…almost got away from me.” Shaken, I walked back to the engine. “We need to go back into Three and drag the coal cars back to this end of the yard,” I said. “I was worried you couldn’t stop them.” The conductor shined his lantern on the switch list. “Says here they weigh a lot.” He looked up. “More than cars with lumber we usually see for the mill.” He glanced again at the list. “I didn’t check their weight, till after you’d started riding them into Three.” When the engine stopped near the coal cars, the conductor and I got off and stepped into the lingering smoke. He looked around, bent over to touch a rail, but recoiled. “Still hot.” He shook his head “Sorry. I had no idea. How…how did you stop ’em?” “Been doin’ this for ten years.” “Make the coupling and let’s get out of here.” The conductor got back on the engine. While hidden from the others, I climbed up a car ladder, reached into my back pocket, and tossed the unopened bottle onto the coal. “What was that?” The conductor flicked on the cab light when I returned to the engine. “Sounded like somethin’ broke.” Not broken, kept. “When’s payday? I need to send money home.” Bill Wilburn After college, Bill Wilburn worked as a news reporter for four years. He left as an Associated Press Writer to begin law school and a career as a lawyer. Bill has written scores of professional articles for law reviews and journals. He also freelanced op-ed pieces for The Wall Street Journal, the Dallas Times Herald, the Baltimore Sun, and Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. Bill has written novels, short stories, and comic pieces. He is working on a memoir. Bill speaks fluent German, and lives with his wife in Chevy Chase, Maryland. ** Hudson River, 1903 Under a fog-shrouded landscape, I sit here on that granite ledge above Riverside Park where we spent endless hours in conversation. In tight embraces we witnessed bellowing puffs of dark gray smoke obscure a locomotive’s journey on the New York Central route, a journey I had hoped you would never take. Today, a bank of rain swollen clouds vies for my attention while a restless wind adds music to the day, reminds me of sad melodies we often heard. From this solitary post near two mature white birch, my mind recaptures moments we shared years ago. Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) copies are available [email protected]. His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He is a full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** Muddy Trails Alone is the sound of rain, spatter melting away- and the stories not left behind. The purpose is here and the purpose is now in swathe by the mossy cliffs- a crow caws at start of the day, definite as death. Where no one walks, the ground orchids span- as yet breathing, hopeful as yet. Journey through stone walls guiding the roadway into western ghats, the truth of muddy trails. Tunnel ahead 500 metres. Alone are the dreams and tales of belief- the placard reads ‘Mr. Alok’ at Pune airport, now as forty-eight years ago. A cloud burst striking weary waters in a youthful escapade. Abha Das Sarma Author's Note: My brother Alok, who passed away nine months ago, had gifted me my first flight ticket, for Poona (now renamed as Pune). 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, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** Life As It Is From a craggy ridge slabs of slate grim and dark bare black branches stand guard a freight train trails clouds of steam a jetty leads into ghostly waters Horse pulling cart of coal scavanged from the littered foreshore boats lost in mist on the far shore loom wharves and warehouses rain dripping over man, beast,and machinery Gritty, urban scene Muted colours - greys, browns and black stark realism yet a sense of hard lived lives a picture of life as it's lived Sarah Das Gupta Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge who really enjoys this artist's ability to combine gritty realism with a sense of beauty in ordinary, working lives. ** The Spot I have been hiding in this hillside spot since I was seven years old. I discovered it when a group of neighbourhood boys rallied together a round of hide and seek. While they searched, I scrutinized the large men working on the trains. They were powerful and strong, covered in soot and sweat. Those boys never found me and ended up leaving me there as they dispersed at sunset for their homes, and I got my butt whooped for getting home so late and covered in dirt. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was that spot and the trains. I saved that spot just for me. I went every day after school just to watch the trains and their workers. When I got older, I would smoke cigarettes and watch as my puffs mingled with the train’s, making us one. I ended up on those tracks working 12-hour days for the last 21 years. When I would think of it down on the tracks, I would squint up at the spot wondering if there was a small kid who had replaced me there. With a family and house and work, I haven’t found respite at the spot since…well I don’t even know. It’s one of those things that happened in your life one last time, and the occasion seemed so ordinary that it was sure to happen again, but it never does. Like the last time I picked up my son before he got too tall and too independent to need carried around. I have been here every day this week, in my work clothes and carrying a paper bag with a ham sandwich, watching the younger guys still working. I follow their movements, my hand twitches. Tomorrow will be the day I tell my wife. It must be tomorrow, because the day after she’ll be expecting the paycheck to take to the bank. I flick the butt of the cigarette over the edge and light another. Samantha Gorman Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel.
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 Farfalla, by Emilio Pettoruti (Argentina) 1961 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 Farfalla, by Emilio Pettoruti. Deadline is August 2, 2024. 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. 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 PETTORUTI 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 2, 2024. 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.  Antigone Giving Burial Rites to the Body of Her Brother Polynices, by Marie Spartali Stillman (England) before 1927 Not to Lose Grasp on Fate Dear Antigone, You knew you were born from Troubled parents and tragedy. Tell me What did they tell you When you asked about Your grandparents? Your parents They weren’t Worthy of you. How did it feel being clutched By the sorrowed hands of the one man Who was supposed to protect you? How feeble he was in the end. You did mourn the death of your father But in what way was it any comfort? You lost two brothers To power: Polynices is dead. In mourning you found your freedom. You defied cruelty with courage. You were to be buried alive But you hanged yourself Not to lose grasp on fate Of death you came To death you returned You were bound by destiny But you broke your chains. Mahdi Meshkatee Mahdi Meshkatee is a UK-born, Iranian poet, author, and artist. His translation of the children’s novel Witch Wars by Sibéal Pounder has been published by Golazin Publication Company. His work has been published by October Hill Magazine, Nude Bruce Review, and Inscape Magazine. His writings are a continuity of attempts at decoding himself. ** To Marie Spartali Stillman Regarding Antigone You paint her as generic grace -- her deed more featured than her face -- defiant in defense of rite immoral rule denies to spite those filled wirh fear of death's decay becoming feast as savaged prey for swarm bewinged that tortures those who witness but dare not oppose. unless possessed of special strength by faith that follows to its length the hope that buries in its soul the justice wrought by its control that never shrinks from moment seized to leave such evil unappeased. Post Scriptum So cleverly beneath this scene interred is message left to glean that fame witheld by men begrudged has been denied by gender judged. 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. ** Anorexia I was sent to a cave to starve for this: for throwing ashes over you, a poor man’s burial, brother, but it’s as though I turn the vultures away with my hand each time they arrive to peck your uncovered flesh. I was sent to a cave to starve for this. Anorexia my grief, my thin anger. I wasted away through choice, brother, just as Creon chose to punish you by refusing oils, choral tributes, a crown, swaddling. I sent myself to a cave to starve for this. I chose the sun’s absence, the weight of death falling away from my bones. I chose the one thing that I could control, sister, no matter how loud you whispered they are coming, coming. Who is coming to save us, sister? Not myself. Not you. Not the vultures who are beautiful and hungry. No. No one is coming to take death from us, like a prize. Only I throw the dust. I decide what is enough. Jennifer Harrison Jennifer has published eight poetry collections (most recently Anywhy, Black Pepper, 2018). Two new collections are forthcoming in 2024/2025. Awarded the 2012 Christopher Brennan Award for sustained contribution to Australian poetry, she currently chairs the World Psychiatry Association’s Section for Art and Psychiatry – and loves an ekphrastic challenge. ** Ceremony No mourning bell, no stranger’s deference, no bowed heads or doffed caps, watching the procession through busy streets. No carnations spelling ‘BROTHER’ in capitalised florid woe, no hymns sung off key or hollow platitudes from second cousins. No weak sandwiches and cold tea, no sympathetic faces, no awkward silences in black Sunday best or clutched handbags. Just a darkening sky, where clouds silently rage at insolence and crows screech above mercilessly, declaring, “He is dead”. Stephanie White Stephanie White is a teacher from Nottingham, England. She has recently taken tentative steps into writing and submitting poetry. When not indulging in writing, she is a regular wild swimmer. ** Antigone in Ecstasy and though Oedipus in Spirit with a breasted chest, she is a heaving sister, there, wild, raven waves bound but Standing. Then the heavens open ushering vultures, to feast on shared flesh, wasted bloodlines dried on this broken cliff in these hills, body Rotting. Defiance on her lips. Appleseeds sprinkle down fingertips to this wasted body covered in Rites to curls and shadows. The indecency of a red shawl. Given a type of burial. Ismene, Pleading for time’s wind to lift them. Waiting. Kneeling, in a type of Thaebean anti-prayer. Still, clouds brighten against mountaintop auras beneath smudges of night at end. Heaven’s smoke provokes these, their only arms. Lifting, in a rapture of tragedy. C.E. Layne C.E. Layne enjoys and applauds characters who aggressively surrender to being mediocre. A long, exhausted, and failed perfectionist, C.E. Layne now only overanalyzes herself, by herself, in a room with a couple of windows and a great view of a dark lime green swamp, now called A Lake. She graduated with a BA in English Lit from a university in Las Vegas, got a Master’s in business to compensate for lost time, and has yet to be published. C.E. Layne participated in PocketMFA’s Spring Fiction Cohort and is thrilled to be invited to participate in the Summer Residency. She’s loved by those who gave her life, those who keep it watered, fed, and worth something more, and relied upon by two dogs for food, shelter, sun, and belly rubs. ** Ismene’s Dream The caverns of her mind The darkness of the night The dream she can’t escape She turns her head away One sister chose the Gods One sister chose the King One sister chose to die One sister chose to live She sees a single gravestone The dream she can’t escape The darkness of the day The caverns of her mind Kathleen Cali Chicago-born and Midwest raised, Kathleen resides at the Jersey Shore. Her poetic interests include formal and modern poetry and haiku. Always the student, she enjoys poetry writing workshops and working with her local library. Other interests include historical fiction and photography. Kathleen enjoyed a career as a senior auditor and educator and served as an assistant professor of business following receipt of her MBA. Technical writing and editing were a major part of her profession; now she uses her skills to craft poetry. Her poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review; her haiku was published in her local community’s magazine. ** Dreams of Death on a Daily Basis I dream of dead people as if they were still alive, as if I hadn’t seen them in caskets, hadn’t noticed their body-shells without souls.. I hugged my father in Tuesday’s dream, the padded filling of his jacket, the Ivory scent of his skin mixed with vanilla scent of tobacco. I waited for my mother in Wednesday’s dream, stomping my foot while she smoked her Kent to the stub, her jungle red nail polish matching the filter tip’s lipstick stain. I grieved my twin in Sunday’s dream. We were born on a Sunday. She perished in a car accident that hasn’t happened. Yet. Like a carrion crow, the accident is waiting, just waiting. When it happens, I will give the eulogy. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts and a PhD in Holocaust & Genocide Studies from Gratz College. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, Chicken Fat (Finishing Line Press, 2017) and Pounding Cobblestone (Kelsay Books, 2018). Her poetry has also appeared or is forthcoming in Cimarron Review, Nimrod, Vine Leaves Literary, Tiferet, and other publications. She lives and teaches in New Jersey. Visit her website is www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Daughter of Oedipus My words become wind--ancient and unintelligible-- like a hidden spell inside a tattered scroll written in a forgotten language. I do not know if I speak of regret or defiance—either way the rituals entrap me in endings-- refusing to release me, uncursed. 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 Cleanest of Ends Antigone knew a thing or two about death and burial, the disposal of bodies. She knew that the cleanest of ends is to be stripped of flesh right down to the soul to be released to soar. I didn’t know why the birds were circling the house of the neighbor lady who lived alone. They swooped in circles around her yard, settling now and then in her orange trees or on the antenna on her roof and on the clothesline where her clean sheets dry but not taken in and folded still flapped. The birds had been drawn by what the neighbors could not detect, closed up as they were in their AC. It wasn’t till someone, alerted by the birds, called the authorities to come get those birds out of the neighborhood and dispose of what she had already discarded. But doing so robbed her of the cleanest of ends. Antigone knew and prepared her brother’s body for the coming of the birds who would release his soul to soar. Gretchen Fletcher Gretchen Fletcher won the Poetry Society of America's Bright Lights/Big Verse competition and was projected on the Jumbotron while reading her winning poem in Times Square. One of her poems was choreographed and performed by dance companies in Palm Beach and San Francisco, and others appear in datebooks published in Chicago by Woman Made Gallery. Her poetry has been widely published in journals including The Chattahoochee Review, Inkwell, Pudding Magazine, Upstreet, Canada’s lichen, and more. Gretchen has led writing workshops for Florida Center for the Book, an affiliate of the Library of Congress. Her chapbooks, That Severed Cord and The Scent of Oranges, were published by Finishing Line Press. ** She doesn't know her name is Ismene. She slices her hand up through the air, The heel of her hand upwards, palm flat, As if she were a butler on Downton Abbey Delivering a silver tray of sherry glasses. She can feel her warm tears unclogging Last night's mascara. The sisters’ shapes Have a rhythm of roundness - a Matisse dance. Her sister was always more angular, Hip bones and clavicle jutting out accusingly. They call it complicated grief as if grief Wasn't complicated enough… Already… She brings her lunch to sit in front of the picture. To let her mind detach like a placenta From the uterus. Some of the dark shapes are hair, some Of the dark shapes are crows, some of The crows are flying, some of the crows Are dead, with their feathers pulled out. It's some kind of ritual. She unwraps her sandwiches. Almost Each day now the meal deal gets more expensive. * The younger sister has hair woven with orange threads, Writhing in the sunshine and wind, made from the same paint as the cloth covering the cold flesh. The fabrics repelling each other like North North magnets. The younger sister looks away. She's never Been able to take life head on, the full force Of truth in her face. She needs to hold her hand over her features, To hide in the shade, more of a fresco Than a statue. Her skin is painted with petals from the hillside. Only momentarily borrowed. The crisps sound very loud in the white space Of the gallery. The crunch crunch awkward In her jaw and ears. But there's nobody Else in the room to mind. And the figures In the frame are held firm in their own circuit Of electricity, which does not include her. * She will sit and eat her sandwich and think About her sister, quite separate from the painting. With her office clothes and fading hangover, From drinking too long into the night alone. Red wine has always made her weep, after more than half a bottle. Why do we all persist in doing things that are bad for us. And the brother lays cast down on the rocks. Crows’ feathers scattered over the cloth on His stomach. Sky is gathering night together quite quickly And soon the picture will get too dark to see. When she gets back to work she won't remember The faces. Just the circle they made: turning together And twisting apart. Saskia Ashby Saskia Ashby is an artist/poet who engages in a wide range of creative activity and encourages other people to enjoy exploring, expressing and experimenting with art. She really enjoys seeing so many perspectives from people to the same image in these Ekphrastic Challenges. ** Tragic Theatre The Floating Pavilion, Oneonta NY, 9 pm performance Grief teaches the steadiest minds to waver. ― Sophocles, Antigone 1. The stage is raised round and oaken -- a wheel on which fate turns the universe with another version of Antigone's death. Haunted by her brother's burial (and pain beyond the ancient plot), the young actress kneels at the center-- hypnotic with a rope of leaves around her head. Her hair straight and shining like the dagger in her slim hands. 2. Poised and perfumed with bath oil, she prepares to stab the heart -- until a bird flies in disrupting the act, its classic resolve. Dust flares in the light along with iridescent wings. A trembling darkness. Unlike the heroine, her own soul is still in dispute wanting its body back, and uses this place, this raftered ark to panic. Wendy Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes, women in conflict and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both on-line and in print. Among them: Strange Horizons, Liminality, Coffin Bell, Eternal Haunted Summer, The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Stirring A literary Collection, The Orchards Journal, The Copperfield Review and Sun Dial Magazine. Her most recent work has appeared in Indelible Magazine and Songs of Eretz. ** The Penumbra Dark schooner clouds unfurl their sails above the roiling sea, a tempest sweeps her turbid mind, leaving a calm eye, a determination, resolution. Here the chorus sings, here the crows rise, black exclamations anchoring their warning cries, augurs of could, not will, they foretell war, death, but also the coming dawn. They call to the furies; they call to Athena and Aphrodite. They are the presagers, more than what they seem. Antigone ignores them, the scene Is set, she follows through, a pawn-- What is fated? What is freewill? Choose, If you can-- always, always listen to the crows. Merril D. Smith Merril D. Smith lives in southern New Jersey. Her poetry has appeared in publications, including Black Bough Poetry, Acropolis, The Storms, and Sidhe Press. Her full-length collection, River Ghosts (Nightingale & Sparrow Press) was a Black Bough Press featured book. Find me: @merril_mds and merrildsmith.org ** Antigone Speaks I Smuggled by night from Thebes, his body—limp, pallid-- sprawls slack across a rock beribboned with kelp. Fearful, dear Ismene cannot bear to look: turns tear-stained face towards the north. In this brewing storm, ravens claw the wind, croak messages of harsh revenge, of rage. II I sprinkle soil, first full rites for him I loved: let fall burned petals of roses: dark shreds. Traitor, King Creon named him. If he was that, then am I also venal. But hear me: Polynices was true to Thebes. His spirit now belongs to Zeus. III Ismene! Up and dry your eyes! Even in death, our darling brother triumphs. Lizzie Ballagher Ballagher's work has appeared in print and online on both sides of the Atlantic. She lives in the UK, writing a blog at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/. She enjoys experimenting with formal structures as well as free verse: is particularly interested in how a poem sounds when read aloud. ** Inquest The Theban royal family, Jocasta, Oedipus, their four children, Antigone, Ismene, Eteocles and Polynices, and Antigone’s lover/betrothed/husband are all dead or exiled. The Queen’s brother Creon is King, creating a new line. All because of bad luck and tragic coincidences. But what if the story of sphynxes and riddles, of queens given as prizes, of regicide and incest, self-enucleation and voluntary exile (which, if we are honest, does seem rather far-fetched), was a fiction, a calumnious smoke screen to endorse a coup d’état, an upheaval in custom, social organization and religion? What if Jocasta was Queen and ruler, not a prize, and what if Laius was her old king doomed to die when his time was up, at the hand of a young pretender, and what if Oedipus, the young pretender, was simply an ambitious young man? And what if Queen Jocasta, because she loved him, when his time was up, offered Oedipus blinding instead of death? And what if her brother Creon, inspired by new-fangled ideas that replaced the matriarch with a patriarch, saw an opening for himself? What if he killed Jocasta Queen, his sister, and suggested to Eteocles and Polynices, Jocasta’s sons, that they share the throne? And what if he suggested it because he knew his nephews, and that they would never agree to share? And of course, he was right. They quarrelled and killed one another, or were killed. And what about Antigone, daughter of Jocasta, who should have been the next Queen? What if Creon offered her the choice, exile with her father or death? And what if, after Polynices and Eteocles quarrelled and killed one another or were killed, when Antigone returned with her lover/betrothed/husband, Haemon, it was not to bury Polynices, not to praise him, but to claim her crown? And what if that was the reason Creon had her killed? Because funnily enough, after all the tragic killings and blinding and hanging and fratricidal wars, Creon was the only one left. 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 2025 by Northodox Press. She lives in southwest France and has published three collections of poetry, thicker than water, birds and other feathers and night horses. ** As the Crows Fly The crows unfold their crepelike wings. Wise birds, they know it is time to go. I ask, so soon? My incense still burns; I perform my rites, I perfume his body with herbs. My eyes linger on the wavy hair tumbling back on the slab where he lies. My fingers recall its softness and mourn his pulsing, warm caress. But life grasps my arm and guides me away, to where the crows lead: past wildflowers, through valleys. I live, and so I must rise. Dearest one, this is goodbye. In every bond we humans form, loss has been preordained. Every hello implies a farewell, just as every first kiss imparts a chill. Catherine Reef Catherine Reef's poetry has appeared in several online and print journals. She has published more than forty nonfiction and biographical works on subjects including Sarah Bernhardt, Queen Victoria, and Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. A graduate of Washington State University, Catherine Reef lives and writes in Rochester, New York. ** Tragic Flaw Ravens prophetically drew the sky low squashed the lush below chased away any foe and ambushed the earth in limbo winging wildly for the final blow of a twins brothers battle throw. It happened long ago but at another epoch discord Spartali recaptured Sophocles’ yearning by drawing the suspense line along the pressing glow of the true twins throw – that of human and heaven, which Antigone turns into a shrine for horizons with divine intimations. She rose to the sacred call disregarded the royal protocol ignored the croaking ravens and laid her brother to rest under a handful of dust – her brave reverence to the law of the divine above that of man despite the suicidal chain it inflicted as an outcome. Logistics for heroes. For literary pundits – a tragic flaw. For dreamers – a contradiction in terms: for how come upholding the divine can be a tragedy and not eleison! Something must be seriously wrong if earth is estranging itself from the sky-high worth since each inch in the universe is appointed for the precise purpose of sustaining gravity of life just right. Take for free Spartali’s poised firmament descending to its climax low so we can reclaim our divine flame! But take not for granted its devout herald doing that with bare hands – Antigone – looming large in her art of right honorable antagonistic catharsis – not a tragic hero but a goddess not a mourning sister but a star not an improbable bride but a bloom if only one could break the gloom of the man-made fatal flaw and see the twin flow of heaven and heart mutually disguised meandering mild on our own daily battlefield. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have been frequently honoured by TER and its Challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021. ** So Spoke Antigone I am afraid for what I do, The world about me is dark and challenging. I feel the black clouds and thunder, which wracks the very rocks beneath my feet, speak of doom. The crows, scavengers of flesh my own flesh and blood, ravage my brother. Is he to travel to the edge of the world, to the Fields of Asphodel to wander a grey spirit bereft for all eternity of the rites of burial? How small, how ignoble seems obedience compared to Justice, to know that even in the face of death you did what is right. My sister pulls me back to my woman’s role that little world of spinning, servants and child bearing. I raise my handful of dust in farewell, in blessing but in defiance too. You will meet my spirit, Polynices, as one who risked all, for that handful of dust. Sarah Das Gupta Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK, who has long been an admirer of the Pre-Raphaelites but knew little of this artist. It has been an interesting challenge.  Rain on the River, by George Bellows (USA) 1908 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 Rain on the River, by George Bellows. Deadline is July 19, 2024. 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. 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 BELLOWS 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 19, 2024. 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.  Snack, by Daphna Kato (Netherlands) contemporary. Inkspired Languorous lie, less stretch as loose, acute, obtuse round island rug, a carpet fringe, frieze hieroglyphs - by fall of things, a pattern type. Though parallels do not conform, accoutrements of lazy life, of physics serendipity, here’s surreal to mark our ways. See flex as spring, aerial view, curl fronds, though not acanthus, phew! Framed heavy dark, yet flecks, grain, rain, what midnight hour for fairy tail? Of mermaid form, those weightless legs, her limbs a tale of trailing lithe, line crested spine of dorsal fins, a stegosaurus costume break? A piece of cake, this inkspired plate, or is it pizza, box wide eyed? Do snakes snack after jaws engorge? No apple of that Eden’s eye. Remote at hand if surf the strange, defy the gravity of all, break out the order of the day to dream beyond the pre-set staid. 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 ** Relaxin’ Nothing so appealing than chillin’ and readin’ or watching the telly ‘bout dinos, my favorite beasties. Wearin’ my spino pjs, sippin’ cocoa, eatin’ pizza and ice cream, alone in my cozy room on a rainy night, thunder gives me a fright but I’m ok warm and inside, if I were to see a T-Rex, I’d hide or offer him pizza, he might enjoy pepperoni and cheese, you never know, it might please him and he’d stomp off and leave me be. Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson loves to write from prompts, especially Ekphrastic poems. Her long history of writing reaches back over 50 years; her poems appear in various publications including Niagara Falls Poetry Project, Medusa's Kitchen and The Ekphrastic Review. She has served as guest editor for three journals, as well as curating several volumes of poetry. Dickson is an avid reader and writer who shares her home with two rescued cats, Cam and Jojo. ** Itinerant Dinosaurs don’t eat ice cream or keep pet echidnas in a cup - granted, if they weren’t extinct, who knows if they’d buy androids or a smartphone or order pizza in a box or lie on rugs and watch TV or wallpaper the house in prison stripes or buy a sofa or a creeping plant or hang a set of Tibetan prayer flags between the window and the public toilet stall called home. Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda lives and writes poetry in Lake Tabourie, NSW, Australia in traditional Yuin country, and enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various literary spaces. ** A Late Night Encounter Hello. Please, sit down and join me. I’m finally getting a chance to relax after an exhausting evening. I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Millie. I work here in the McCormick’s home. The McCormick’s? No, they didn’t actually hire me. In fact, the mister and missus don’t believe the likes of me walk the earth. Why, yes. Thank you for asking. Having them deny my very existence does hurt my feelings a bit. I mean, I work very hard at what I do, and I never get a single night off. They’ve been told – often several times in one evening – that I am here. And yet? Consistent denial on their part. But as you can obviously see, I do exist. I eat. I drink. I rest. I watch TV. And, of course, I work. Do? Exactly what I’m on this earth to do. Nothing more. Nothing less. Oh, you want specifics? What if I give you a demonstration instead? Here, lie down on this sofa. Hold this stuffed hedgehog. A little tighter. Now, dangle your right foot just a bit. Do you feel yourself getting sleepy? Good! Good! Now, close your eyes while I turn off the light and scoot myself under here – ugh, tight fit. And grab your foot like so. Ouch! I bonked my head due to your dreadful screaming. My fault? You are the one who asked for the particulars. No, of course I didn’t expect such antics. For goodness’ sake, please calm down. There is no need to carry on like that. Oh bother. Now, look what you’ve done. All this noise woke the children. And I never got to finish my snack! Ah well, as my mother always told me, an ‘under the bed’ monster’s job is never done. Teri M Brown Teri M Brown is a wife, mother, grandmother, Online for Authors podcast host, and author who loves word games, reading, bumming on the beach, taking photos, singing in the shower, hunting for bargains, ballroom dancing, playing bridge, and mentoring others. Teri’s debut novel, Sunflowers Beneath the Snow(Jan 2022), is a historical fiction set in Ukraine, her second, An Enemy Like Me (Jan 2023), a WWII historical fiction, and her third, Daughters of Green Mountain Gap (Jan 2024), is an Appalachian granny woman tale. Learn more at www.terimbrown.com. ** Superhero Halloween, long past, she can't bear to surrender her cunning disguise, cloaked in its magic her legs are weightless her gumption limitless her force endless. Go ahead, grab the remote, try to change the channel but be warned this dragon's superpowers heighten with every bite of pizza slurp of cocoa nibble of cookie, who knows what can happen with all three at once? Prepare yourself to find out. Elaine Sorrentino An enthusiastic fan of ekphrasis, Elaine Sorrentino has been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Writing in a Women’s Voice, The Poetry Porch, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Gyroscope Review, Haiku Universe, Sparks of Calliope, Muddy River Poetry Review, Panoply, Etched Onyx Magazine, and at wildamorris.blogspot.com. ** Friday Night – 7pm Stop. Stretch out, lizard like. Unearth the pleasure of the rerun, proudly mouth words learnt by heart. Disconnect. Send your unapologetic apologies. Ignore your digital self, desperate for attention and let the phone battery die. Savour. Relish in that dreaded word: solitude. Revel in the sight of it; the taste of it; the core of it. Slowly exhale. Stephanie White Stephanie White is a teacher from Nottingham, England. She has recently taken tentative steps into the writing and submission of poetry. When not indulging in writing, she is a regular wild swimmer. ** To Daphna Kato Regarding Snack You've drawn a dream where you confide illusion and the truth reside and each within the other seen becomes perspective you convene to mesmerize beholding eye that cannot help but wonder why a bygone era went awry as you in black and white imply by walls that never seem to form around a simpler joyous norm now gone forever but for you whose cleverness creates the view you revel in as realm of queen who draws what cannot be unseen. 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. ** Partygoer I was all dressed up and ready to go! The spiny snake had seemed a great idea, it fitted my pricklier than a hedgehog mood when I chose it yesterday. I imagined myself slithering round the drinkers, the canapé eaters and the dancers, snapping at their ankles. I imagined their surprise and how I would laugh! I thought in passing about the Health and Safety issues, all those feet ready to trample me, such negative thoughts, but they passed slithered away like snakes in the grass. I decided to practice a bit, found some snacks to nibble and lay prone to work on my slither but somehow I became distracted lying there, so comfy, eating cake, so comforting, and a little drink, so calming when taken with mindless TV. I’m not ready to party now. I shall just lie here dreamily dreaming. Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud War Poetry for Today-competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com. ** A Contemplative Crocodile Her body and her mood lie unnaturally flat. Somehow she fits into her daughter's early-teen crocodile Oodie. It's tight at the seams but she's made it work. Her daughter has left it behind, along with Friday pizza and movie night. The teeth on the crocodile Oodie are for show. Don't be fooled, they're only made of foam. She doesn't bite. She's just a little sad. No, more pensive than outright sad. You see, her daughter, an only child, has left home, again. She lies on the rug her daughter brought home from Athens on her last trip. She can't relate to her daughter's wanderlust. She’s never traveled herself, not really. Family camping trips as a child don’t count, crammed in the back of the family station wagon with her annoying little brother and her ‘too cool for school’ big sister. Somehow, because she was the middle child, she always had to sit in the middle. And overseas trips? Forget it. She never had the money for that. ‘How do kids these days travel so freely?’ she ponders. The steady rain has a ruminative effect with her big world thoughts laced with ‘woe is me’ on loop. The tub of gourmet ice cream is strategically placed within arm’s length and looks just the right suppleness, momentarily stealing her attention. Wild raspberry swirl. She takes a small spoonful. She knows she will devour the whole tub tonight, but she is patient. Frozen in time. Adam Stone Award winning lyricist from Australia who since 2023 has gravitated towards short story and flash fiction writing. Member of Writers Victoria, Geelong Writers Inc and Bellarine Writers. ** A Brief History of the Rebellious Teenager Post War- she slips out the back, slips into a booth at the coffee bar to the juke box, a cola in her hand and a High School boy - his arm carelessly snaking her waist canoodling in corners of red PVC. Mid-Sixties- she powders her face in clouds of Dusty Springfield white, spider-lashes clumped in black. She stiletto-staggers along the road to hang with rockers, leather-clad, the cloy of engine oil alluring. Skip forward in time- late 70s, she bops to songs on Top of the Pops, arguments play loop on loop as she flounces from rooms in platforms and flares to the club, where Travolta clones strut their stuff. Millennium just around the corner she needles and nags until at last her mother caves, buys tickets to gigs- Steps and The Spice Girls at the O2 all grown up, swigging white lightning and puffing on fags with her clique. She slips into Lockdown all flame-fizz, emerges like flat-pack, black and white. Pizza-box grease lolls on the floor, she drinks Netflix through a cable-straw and scrolls the world with iPhone eyes, the occasional flash of dragon fire. Kate Young Kate Young lives in England and enjoys writing poetry, painting and playing the guitar, ukulele and mandolin. Her poems have appeared in various webzines, magazines, and Chapbooks. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond the School Gate have been published by Hedgehog Press. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet or on her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk ** When the Whole World Wears a Costume Late June night, on your living room floor, slatted white, and each moment in dinosaur outfit is not a failure and the tasseled carpet talks cheap: I’m the Captain of fun, honeybun. You see the cliff marks of the present dressed up as an ice cream globule-- all creamy soft and wavy. What hums the glow of bare light bulbs dangling from the ceiling slants the lighting, or buzzes the camped-out horizon above the pepperoni pizza slices and the plants with spindly, dark vines. They breathe what oxygen is here, behind the TV animal-like, or beside the baby porcupine staring from a striped cup as if puzzled while asking, “Why are you home this often?” Here, a cup might house your animal delight richly, weighing down passages of ever-clear sanity or did sanity take root twelve hundred miles from here on Waldorf Drive in Akron, Ohio where the backyard black cherry tree canopied seven good years with you quaffing tire-scented air and burnt leaves. Home to grass-bladed tents to hide bumble bees which don summer as stinging crimson. Memory doesn’t voice how many miles anymore. Open the future behind you in a black drawer. John Milkereit John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer. He has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals such as The Comstock Review,Panoply, San Pedro River Review, and previous issues editions of The Ekphrastic Review. In December, Kelsay Books published his fourth collection of poems entitled, Lost Sonnets for My Unvaccinated Lover. ** A Letter to the Past The scent of cheese, the aroma of ketchup pervades the air, invades my nostrils. I’m too hungry to peel off the tight costume that sticks to my skin. So, I turn off the distracting glare of television and settle down on the Persian rug. The delivery guy had said my order was straight from the oven. He was not wrong. The steam does a sprightly dance as I uncover the pizza and the cookies. I feel the crust of each bite on my tongue, the tanginess of olives, the spice of paprika and jalapeños, the crunch of the onions, the bell peppers, the cherry tomatoes travelling down my throat and into the cave of my ravenous stomach. The pair of incandescent bulbs overhead shine through the night’s song of darkness. The festoon of sepia-tinted photographs oscillates gently against the wooden wall slats, in tune to the rhythm of the rain’s pitter-patter. Your gift of love, Rancho, watches me from his coffee-mug perch while I recline in crocodile pose, stretch, reach out to comfort in the warm cocoon of this moment. Preeth Ganapathy Preeth Ganapathy is a software engineer turned civil servant from Bengaluru, India. Her recent works have been published in several magazines such as Star 82 Review, Panoply Zine, Visual Verse, Quill & Parchment, Shotglass Journal, Sparks of Calliope, Tiger Moth Review, The Sunlight Press, Ink, Sweat & Tears and various other journals. Her microchaps A Single Moment and Purple have been published by Origami Poems Project. ** How to Snack with a Dragon Black scaled dragon lying in its lair stretched out - relaxed - surrounded by its treasures the business of cleaning its hoard complete now time for a snack at its leisure its sharpened the spines on its back all the way from its head to the tip of its tail now it’s time for a dragon to relax so approach it as slowly as a snail or quiet as a mouse if that suits you best it’s a risk like crossing the Rubicon stealth is the test to not rouse the beast be on your mettle from minute one and don’t expect a share of its Snackage a dragon is as protective of this as its trove it has a monster-appetite for pie and ice cream better to be prepared by taking your own it takes up a lot of space as it lays there it’s back legs stretched almost to the door step cautiously and avoid all the obstacles then wait to be invited to sit on the floor don’t show that you’re scared or nervous when it looks you in the eye look right back only speak when spoken to and with these rules you’ll avoid being its next favourite snack! Better to not meet a dragon when it’s hangry if it rumbles and grumbles it’s not a perfect storm let it have its snack on its favourite treats and it might turn back into its more reasonable human-teenage form! Peter R. Longden "My passion for poetry began over 25 years ago: my way to record how I see the world. I am married to Sally with two grown-up boys (and a granddaughter). I submit to competitions, one poem shortlisted for the International O'Bheal Five Words Poetry Competition in 2022, others published locally." ** Saturday Night Dreaming Watching my snack In front of the telly Wearing my dino Flat on my belly Perfectly happy Perfectly me I spy with my little eye A soap unseen My private dream Stien Pijp Stien Pijp lives in the east part of the Netherlands. Some years ago she and her family moved there to a house in the woods. As a dreamy urban person, comfortable with the rhythm of the city, she is now getting closer to nature every day. She works as a language therapist. She reads stories and poems of friends and sometimes writes herself. ** Cookie Dough and Tic-Tac-toe the X’s the O’s the hash and the tags # the sweat the blood the stain and the tears `` drip drip drip in the center, the core, the heart. my heart, to be exact. which was somewhere near austin by now. or at least traces of it settled there in his pockets dusting up against his thighs wrestling with his keys and whispering why. i lost the Tic the Tac and the Toe. all the Xs and every O. he loves me. he loves me not. pigtails and schoolyards and kissing in a tree. he carved our initials with a plus +plus +plus and an arrow —> right through it. he bled me, gut me, drained me. he sliced open my arms milked my veins sucked out the red licked the last drop and fled. but left the black Xs instead. left the black to the sheep to the gin to the wig. left the black to the man to the john to the cash. left the black to the A to the D to the C. left the black to the horse to the cherry to the tree and left me. left the black of the mug of the hedge of the hog. left the black of the rain of the love of the blind. left the black of the za of the box of the stripes. left the black of the spikes of the footed of the jams. stamped inky fingerprints on my belly and planted charcoal-stained kisses on my neck. tattooed graffiti on my breath for me to choke on the stench and all the rest. ring around the rosie he left the hell the hath and first comes love then comes all the FuRyyy! ashes ashes we all fall down black marker winged out the window, where the caw caw caw of the crow drowned out crowded house on the radio. don’t dream it’s over, they sang. oh, it’s over, i grrrowled. and crawled out from under my bed left the black of the night of the wild of the things. left the black of the horns of the claws of the teeth. left the black of the king of the crown of the carol. left the black of the tin of the foil of hat (-wearing) tornado-ripping t-rex sized terrible things we do for love in tomorrow’s trash. gathered the O’s grabbed a spoon and gobbled down a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie dough. Michelle Hoover Michelle Hoover is an aspiring poet, graduate student, and professional wiseacre. Living near a mountain on unceded Ute territory with her ornery feline, Stevie, the Magnificent Marshmallow, she loves how language, when constructed in unique, beautiful, and even dark ways, can become an elixir for tired souls. She enjoys her toes in the grass, a hardy laugh, and a backstroke under a starry sky. Her work can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, on her phone, her friends’ phones, and now, presumably, your phone; enjoy! ** Curiouser When Mr. Prickles popped up from the cup he huffed as hedgehogs are wont to do it's late it's late for canton tea & crumb pets Alas sighed Alice with her siamese smile I have but a slice of peyote pie & wee droops of shroom tea oh dear oh dear gruffed Mr P but that wouldn't dew nicely Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes at times from an off-grid cabin in Quebec where she communes with the loons and bathes in the moonlight. ** Witch’s Night In the wind howling / this potent night / you want to walk out in it / do a rain dance / but it’s chilly wet / and you remember how / you frightened your neighbour / the last time / so you stay in / play dress up / eat ice cream / ignore the phone / watch a paranormal thriller / you already know who did it / your familiar beside you / ensconced in / a glimmer of togetherness / your space made sacred / the comforting pelt of rain / surrounding / your haven womb home / small but perfect / your creeper plants wave at you / as you try and glean / creepy guy’s next move / damn this series is good / so is your life / Nina Nazir Nina Nazir (she/her) is a British Pakistani poet, artist and avid multi-potentialite based in Birmingham, UK. She's had work published in various journals, including The Ekphrastic Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, and Unlost Journal to name a few. You can usually find her with her nose in a book, writing in her local favourite café, or on Instagram: @nina.s.nazir and X (Twitter): @NusraNazir. She blogs regularly at https://sunrarainz.wordpress.com ** The Best Day Today I made the best day…maybe not the best day of my life, but it was up there as one I’ll remember. Every hour was filled with my favorite things. I lounged in the grass to watch the clouds transform into shapes and created stories for them. I let the warm sun bake my skin. I ate hot dogs and macaroni and cheese for lunch. I blasted boy band music and screeched every lyric until my neighbor rattled my apartment door with an irritated fist. When I opened the door, I stared into his purple face and told him that I listen to no man. It was exhilarating. The color of his face inspired me to paint the walls of my bedroom fuchsia. As a final touch, I stuck plastic glowing stars above my bed. When the fluffy white clouds of the morning turned into stormy gray, and I took myself for a walk, splashing in every puddle I passed, ruining my white shoes. Now after a warm bubble bath, I lay on the ground, too close to the television to eat pizza and ice cream. The soft glow from the screen makes the snowy silk of the dress shimmer, and it catches my eye. I have no regrets about calling it all off. He would have hated today if he’d had been here. Samantha Gorman Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel about witches in the wilderness of Pennsylvania. ** We Serve a God of Second Chances "Tiger shark vomits entire spikey land creature in rare sighting!" Computer News, June 8th, 2024 She called her daughter "Bundle of Love" -- bunde liefde -- as she dressed her for winter in a furry cap with ears. New mothers don't always think about confusion, and how soon their daughters would want to run in packs; while she, growing older, was called a "dinosaur." As a child, she'd loved nature: her playmates, crawdads and green lizards. Adolescence was hell. Acne and lost love, the boyfriends who would confess they'd walked on ledges to watch women change their clothes. She'd bought a blow-up Godzilla taller than she was, and her young children had watched her dance with him on lonely weekends. Then the garment industry had realized a new kind of intermingling (zoanthropy.) Dressed in a lizard suit, lying beside her faithful companion, a retriever she'd shared all that was left in the student-sized fridge (a gift from an African American student who knew she didn't have a kitchen.) Reality had taught her that those who don't have money can be much kinder than the "haves" who probably toss filets on their new grills set up in cabanas beside swimming pools, chefs watching water spill over blond herds in bikinis. She'd seen food giveaways on the news, heavy-set drivers, their bodies wedged behind the wheels of their new pickup trucks as they sat in line waiting for free food. Lying beside her on the SPCA blanket (a gift she'd been given with membership) her dog -- a gentleman -- waited patiently for his next bite as he stared at the broken television set -- picture with no sound. Or was it sound with no picture? He looked at her from time to time, confused by the change in what he'd grown to expect from TV the video with jungle animals she'd given him for company when he was a puppy. Did he miss the trees, branches swaying in the breeze, the marmosets, squirrel-like so he barked at them? When had their lives together changed? So much broken like the antiquated television with its nouveau repertoire, heavy investments with 2nd chances, jails as a second home; a way to meet a second husband... When had fraud become a kind of fun, a pretense -- a way to pretend that anyone could be anything they wanted -- a chameleon in tight black leather pants, decorated with dinosaur ridges running down the seams? A chihuahua in a green bandana with a picture of a tiger to celebrate International Tiger Day on July 29th? She remembered her daughter before she was old enough to walk, lying on a rug, stretched out, full-length, beside her "animal sister," the family cat. On the news, a large (very large) man parked at the food giveaway rolled down his truck window to tell the person dispensing food that he'd come to get free food for his auntie -- "por ol' hongri thang." Beside her in her lizard suit, lying on their animal allegiance blanket, her dog, forever loyal, sighs. The snack plate is as empty as the broken TV screen. Her daughter, now grown, doesn't return emails. Yesterday, a little girl in a hair- band with ears had danced, holding up a cell phone for a selfie to get attention at the grocery; the woman in line in front of her asked if there was free food for pets; and she, who had loved best children & animals who is culturally crippled, her house taken by squatters, wonders if her 2nd chance is a bad fairy tale -- if it was warm and comfy for Jonah in the belly of a whale? Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. With degrees in literature and creative writing (Poetry) she has been honoured many times by the Ekphrastic Challenge. Among her loves are children, art, animals and the Romantic Movement, including William Blake's iconoclastic reversal of traditional literary perspective with such poems as "Tyger, Tyger, burning bright, in the forests of the night: what immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry?" ** Morsels Every moment has a surprise story. Every breath traces a line I can taste. What are objects but an unexpected encounter with myself? My companions are whatever random images grow secret gardens in my anxious soul. Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig plays with words and images both in combination and juxtaposition, looking for new ways to see the world.  Morsels, by Kerfe Roig (USA) contemporary  Antigone Giving Burial Rites to the Body of Her Brother Polynices, by Marie Spartali Stillman (England) before 1927 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 Antigone Giving Burial Rites to the Body of Her Brother Polynices, by Marie Spartali Stillman. Deadline is July 5, 2024. 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. 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 STILLMAN 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 5, 2024. 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.  Young Woman Seated, by Antônio Rafael Pinto Bandeira (Brazil) 1896 Moça Sentada (Seated Young Woman) Nossa Senhora! comes to my mind, Our lady! I was raised by ladies like her, in Brazil in the fifties and early sixties, Black and White and Indian and other names of the races of women who were brought to these shores or from lands in the interior. In Brazil they were more than six million slaves raped from Africa and the Indians who would not serve yet remain, in the cast of a face and the crook of an elbow. She is seated and convoluted twisted so to show this is not her usual way to be the flower has escaped across her dress, no longer between her fingers, it is posed. Her head bust and legs form a z, the doe caught in the headlights and in contortions to escape not the man painting her he was the grandson of slaves! and a hopeless melancholic. She is the Algerian women Marc Garanger shot in 1960 with his camera the colonial registrar forcing each to uncover her face raping their intimacy while Marc sheltered their ferocity at colonial outrage in film. Some eye the camera in undiluted fury others just this side of fury, silently call out and wonder where are you taking me? Our moça is resigned no longer defiant like the Algerians, all and also brown skinned and bangled bright red shirt and almost a pout as she looks askance. The background is Da Vinci-like but with a little white boat breast high, no bigger than a moth, surely a psychopomp returning her soul to distant heavens. Slightly bent Lourdes cared for me, somewhere Indian, as a child she carried children on her back, twisting her spine, Black Domingas told us stories of one legged Saci-pererê, pipe-smoking, mischief-making child-sized Black man who ambushed travelers, at bedtime she lullabied me the boi da cara preta, the black-faced bull who ravished disobedient children and put me to sleep and here is our moça ravished and pinned down from three directions Indian and Black and White and now what genes what other trails will make themselves known? That information is trivial, three paths, no decisions, and in her twisted body and dark face and fleeing eyes she says see me here, preserve this moment, reshape my destiny for all eternity. David Herz ** On Canvas I lie with her like lovers do her whisper a longing against my skin do you love me not at all I laugh I lie to capture my love’s sorrow on canvas Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes from Montreal Canada. May peace find us all. ** Pachyptera Amazonica Fernanda An aggressive vine native to the Amazon basin. Rooting in the jungle floor and growing into the treetops, it strengthens the forest. Named for Fernanda, a maiden who became jungle. The pachyptera's scarlet flowers recall her colourful garb and its sour fruit, her legendary pout. Folklore, like vines, has roots. This tale's origins are in the coming of European settlers and the clearing of the rainforest for their villages, cattle and rice. In it, young Fernanda sat along the dark river each day. Sat arranging her skirt just so. "You are idle!" scolded her mother. She nagged, "Daughter, plant! Tend the fire and stir the pot. Find a man. Birth a babe!" Said Fernanda, "Leave me." Along came Boto, the mysterious Amazon River Dolphin. Inia geoffrensis. Charmed by Fernanda's beauty, it playfully splashed her, and bubbled, "Come, human. Love me in the black waters." "I wish to sit," Fernanda said with a sniff. "Leave me." In the Pirahã tongue, Boto then cursed her and her arrogant kind who burn and chop the Amazon. "Father Jungle, take this one. Grow upon her." Pachyptera Amazonica Fernanda attaches with sticky tendrils before coiling around and around. Mothers still whisper to daughters how it will spirit them away forever. The tale ends with Fernanda's end, the vine creep-creeping towards her. She turned, saw it, and was unafraid. Karen Walker Karen Walker writes in Ontario, Canada. Her most recent work is in or forthcoming in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Misery Tourism, Centaur, Cosmorama, Overheard, and Bending Genres. @MeKawalker883 ** Zeferina I sit on this stone bench with a view of the baía, thick tropical heat holds me in place. So many evenings, I waited here for you, watched for your boat, listened for your footsteps. Now, even the setting of the sun provides scant relief, even the whisper of a breeze gives nothing more than a taste of salt. I can hear the waves lapping at the shoreline, but I no longer gaze toward the sea. There is nothing for me there. Não há nada para mim lá. The gold that encircles my wrists, my fingers, a symbol of devotion, you said, you promised, as you caressed my limbs, kissed my eager lips. There is nothing for me there. Não há nada para mim lá. The future lies within me, this child who grows more active day by day. I will not turn to the sea. There is nothing for me there. Não há nada para mim lá. Torrential rains will come to banish this oppressive air, and like the plumería, whose blossoms fill the night with sweet perfume, I will find beauty in the darkness. Jennifer Hernandez Jennifer Hernandez teaches immigrant youth and writes poetry, flash, and creative non-fiction. Her writing can be found in poetry walks and publications. Some recents include the Tucson Haiku Hike, Sleet Magazine, Mom Egg Review Quarterly, and Heron Tree. Jennifer enjoys performing her poetry because the interaction between word and audience is where the magic happens. She recently received her first Pushcart nomination. ** Grieving Are you? In the nothingness of spring. By the nest where the bulbul sat over the eggs. Grieving, are you? For the forsaken flowers- that must wait to wither. 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, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** Sunday River "More than a distant land Over a shining sea More than the steaming green More than the shining eyes... Oh, what a night, wonderful one in a million -- (Oh, what a night) Frozen fire Brazilian stars Oh Holy Southern Cross --" James Taylor, Only A Dream In Rio A white sailboat floats in the background of the canvas, visible behind the tower of a castle, the location of the last royal ball in Rio de Janeiro. Called January River by the Portuguese Rio declared its independence, did the artist dream of freedom as he painted the girl he'd chosen for Young Woman Seated? She is dressed in vivid colours, gold & garnet; a skirt with sea-green ribbons; and a bodice, chili-pepper red, or crimson-red as blood... She pouts, petulant, in her portrait seated on a shelf of hard stone, granite from the Corcodova Mountain that borders Guanabara Bay. Is she annoyed with the artist her lips fixed and sulky, her expression both determined and sexual? And where had she picked 2 wild blooms -- anemones and memories -- in pink and purple as if hers might be a love story unexpressed, though she presses the flower petals in a diary, on the page where, it is noted that he has drowned. Does she think of his art how she watched him paint, one hand manipulating a paint brush; both hands hoisting a sail that looked like the white wing of an angel? It is 1896, the year he paints her picture; and the year he dies at 33, his body lost for 2 days in the Bay. Did she ever wonder if his fate could have been different if the Cristo sculpture had spread His arms above Bandeira's boat, blessing the waters? If the Cristo Redento of the Andes could create a miracle? Bandeira rising, gasping for air, alive as he surfaced? But the mountain top is empty in 1896, uninhabited by the Redeemer an Ikon that wasn't built until 1931, a year she could follow steps up the mountainside; witness the view of Rio as it stretched beneath the Cristo's open arms. Did she pause in her walk to pick 2 new wind-flowers (nature's name for the anemones) thinking of her pout, the way she'd been impatient, ill at ease, sitting for a portrait -- how he'd captured her young face -- as if the broken art of dreams is woven into fate. Laurie Newendorp Honoured many times by the Ekphrastic Challenge, Laurie Newendorp's book, When Dreams Were Poems, explores the visionary world of art as it is related to poetry. She lives and writes in Houston. ** Ingenue They say patience is a virtue. Do you think of this while you wait? Do you hold your thighs tight against the want? Do you listen to the cardinal singing in the tree behind you, oblivious to the howl deafening the beat of a heart betrayed? If only all the other loves, who will one day stroke your cheek and twine their fingers in your hair, appeared before you. Now. You’d never think of him again. Your frown would curve into a smile bright as starlight; blinding as a forest fire. The pale sky above you would burst into a symphony of blue. The rising breeze of joy would fill the sails of a boat adrift. Quicken the blood of a heart bereft. Suffuse the faded flowers on your skirt with red and peach, soft as the fingers of a lover’s hand. Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda lives and writes poetry in Lake Tabourie, NSW, Australia in traditional Yuin country, and enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various literary spaces. ** It’s Come to This I can’t make you kiss the clouds whispering over the calm blue skin of the ocean. Looking away from a sailboat in poutiness— a memory of our future no longer buoying. Not as flower stems that rest in your lap, the tide of a gold skirt. It’s come to pass. Your white-laced wings jut from red silk. Each silent moment is a fabric. Te amo-- no matter. I fell from the cliff nearby, but I’ve come to never lose sight of you. John Milkereit John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer. He has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals such as The Comstock Review,Panoply, San Pedro River Review, and previous issues of The Ekphrastic Review. In December, Kelsay Books published his fourth collection of poems entitled, Lost Sonnets for My Unvaccinated Lover. ** Face Down Wisdom At noon when my stomach is full and hot and round like the beguiling sun above is when I’ll raise my eyes across a plain unseen-- you are far too young now, and hadn’t been born then-- and with flowers lying across the stripes of my skirt, like hostages tied to a railroad track, I’ll draw my face gaunt and low and stared down a sniffing, self-impending sense, blowing through my hair, like it is wind, it dies down, to grow tall and assured, as if there is immediate victory in strength. My stomach full, but the cavity for my heart, it is sick and shallow not as something which has never been filled, but as something burned away, all the excitement I once had with my youth having gone, probably wasted, and yet I say to the tall wisdom: I am young, I am far too young. But of course look to my face now, see wisdom. Patricia K. B. Manley Patricia “Tricia” K. B. Manley is a former third-year student of the creative writing program at the Fine Arts Center in Greenville, SC, and a rising college freshman at Western Carolina University. She is the former design editor for Crashtest, an online literary magazine run by the writing program at the FAC, focused on promoting the works of high school students internationally. ** Zenia in February 1869 Be sure to smile, mamãe said before bundling me off with this lunatic skin darker than mine and not a photographer like the one in the new shop in Ipanema We are not animals, mamãe said you get painted in your third best dress borrow my bangles, hold these flowers under that brush we’ll drown the past year find you a husband to replace the husband you never had, descanse em paz as if paz has ever set foot in this house Actually, I don’t mind the carriage ride or a day out on Praia Vermelha, cliffs climb behind me like the back of a throne said this painter, even though mamãe told him don’t put the cliffs in, just pretend she is somewhere the fiancé didn’t leap to his death but here I am, lap full of zinnias so some fat man sweating in the parlor will guess my name’s Zenia, think himself clever I don’t miss him, the one gone or to come let this day out last forever me with this turpentine-smelling stranger who I could grow to love because he keeps saying not to smile even though the tree is perfeita I don’t tell him why this expression sits so easy on my face — see that boat small and white in the distance I already know it is death coming for him I am his last painting, alone, surrounded by men who can’t stay alive Angela Kirby Angela Kirby earned a BA in Creative Writing from Duke University. She is the 2022 Second Prize Winner of the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry and a double winner of the Anne Flexner Memorial Prize. Publications include Nimrod International Journal, Roanoke Review, The Light Ekphrastic, and Humber Literary Review. ** Autopsy A wistful sadness, looking back, reflecting on what might have been; the open flower is soon to fade, and half closed bud to never bloom, potential yet unrealised? Those bangled wrists, by metal form, and glinting ring an index of the slavery descendancy that bore a son unrecognised. The tailor’s boy knew how to clothe, from bright puff sleeves, lace collar trim, vermillion of tie wrapped top to yellow flow with blue stripe fall. Was that to flag El Salvador, the host of his professorship, and where, near to, century on, he made his stamp with home Brazil, diplomacy established then? His medal, gold, art history, might seem fool’s gold as hopes foretold were thwarted, Europe, own art school, despite success, exhibiting, design and landscape brought to nought. Attempted launch was cause of death, both school and boat, more thwarted float; a fortnight cold Bandeira tossed amongst the shoals, fish teeming schools. A shoulder hunch, rejected such, the face surrounded, bordered locks, that indrawn breath, once hope now shade, a rock dark cove ’gainst sea and sail. How sad that skill, enfolding cloth, serenity in graceful arms, set scape of sun hint, fruitful leaves, should end by waves of being lost, no autopsy of body, soul. 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 online 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 ** Tarnished Expression He drowned in Guanabara Bay though it’s apparent his boat launch may have been his attempt to end pain beyond measure --the right corner of his canvas has no horizon but a triangular sail reflecting a pearly white that moves between sky and water. His seated woman frowns at his abridged future--no oil palette to mix auspicious shades of primary colours--no contests to enter granting him a study in Europe She is on the verge of standing--pushing up and off from her passive position. The broad open planes of her face invite me inside her I squint at her gold and silver bracelets the ring on her index finger. I too wear a tarnished bangle-- a slender heirloom from my godmother--meant to ward off evil and sadness of unknown origin Jenna Rindo Jenna Rindo trains for races from the 5K to full marathon and arranges words in rural Wisconsin. She worked as a pediatric RN and an ELL teacher and now tutors and mentors refugee students. Her poems and essays have been published in AJN, Calyx, Tampa Review, Verse Virtual, One Magazine and Relief: a journal of Art and Faith. ** Girl Seated brushed-beige dusky girlpoised to run, belied by the yearning in her eyes, she longs to stay be with him the portulaca slips from her fingers forgotten, like her heritage. Wait here, he says, I'll be back. He runs off, answering his father. Hidden love, will she run? Sandra Rogers-Hare *Note: Portulaca. Moss rose, Portulaca grandiflora, is a drought and heat tolerant annual native to hot, dry plains in Argentina, Uruguay, and southern Brazil. Antônio Rafael Pinto Bandeira, a Brazilian, is a descendent of slaves. After a career in education, Sandra has been writing books. She facilitates a writers' workshop, travels, studies history and takes photos of street art. Her memoir, Salmagundi, The Story of a Mixed Race Child Growing up in New York and Minnesota, was published in 2017. She is presently writing prose-poetry about her experiences in the controversial utopian cult, Synanon, to be published in 2025. Sandra has six grandchildren, one of them canine. She lives in San Leandro, California. ** Harvesting Silence Is she waiting for them to walk together by the sea where the gleam of wet slate dissolves in hours? Lost in thought her eyes vacant, her lips tight, her face forlorn, outlined in long black hair while expressionless, she sits perched on a cliff yards from a ragged coast. She no longer listens for the timbre of his voice, while her focus creates a yearning for his touch as a cloud-laden sky retains her regrets. Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) copies are available [email protected]. His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He is a full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** Olive Season Misery you’re a woven thought, spiteful bracelets on my wrists. you’re a wilted fern I water out of pity, and I liked you better before our encounter in olive season. your past transgressions interfere with my chosen solitude. how long, I wonder, before I can imprison your name in a cerebral cell and throw the key away? you missed your ride, I watched the sailboat leave. now, here you are with me-- a blotch on my sunset, a smudge on my horizon, and I want you to leave so I can despise you in peace. sometimes, I pity you, but I wouldn’t hate it if you tripped down your mama’s stairs-- past her olive trees-- and onto the red cobblestone. your cousins’ cruel laughs at your bloody knees tattooed with the ferns you can’t be bothered to keep. Claudia Althoen Rooted in the vibrant cultures of Edmonton, AB, and Minneapolis, MN, Claudia Althoen finds solace and inspiration in the written word. For her, writing is not just a form of expression but a way to navigate and understand the complexities of the world and the human experience. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review. ** He Kissed a Flower In honour of the almost 200 Welshmen who fought with the International Brigade in the Spanish Civil War. Among them was Victoriano Esteban, a member of the Spanish community in Abercrave in the Swansea Valley, who worked in the International Colliery. Born to Spanish immigrants he grew up speaking Spanish and Welsh. He was one of 289 volunteers killed in the Battle of Brunete a day after they took the village of Villanueva de la Caňada from Nationalist rebels. They came to Villanueva in the night. So many of them, thirsty, tired, wounded, into the ruins of our village here. The others fled. We were frightened, throats sore from screaming. There were bodies everywhere. Tia Elena lay bloodied in the dirt: one of the sublevado human shields. We ran as they came, calling out in languages we didn’t understand. I tripped and cowered but one man stopped. He smiled. I feared the worst. He spoke to me in Spanish though his accent was strange. His speech was gentle though his hands were rough from mining coal in a place he called Wales, Cymru, Gales.. He said his name: Victoriano. I gave him water and we talked like friends, a kind of peace when all around was war. As they moved off he kissed a flower he’d found and handed it to me, then stood in line, waved, and shouted Volveré, fy nghariad. I cannot dare believe he will return. I watched him march off, sad and sure none of us knows the price of victory; the flower he gave me, wilting in my lap. Carolyn Thomas sublevado - the name used for the Nationalist rebels. Volveré - Spanish – ‘I will return’ fy nghariad - Welsh – 'my love' Carolyn Thomas is from the Neath Valley in South Wales. She is now retired after a career of teaching in Further, Higher and Adult Education. She has reviewed for Stand magazine and her poems have been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Dreich, Impossible Archetype and other magazines. Her stories appear in two anthologies, Lipstick Eyebrows and Painting the Beauty Queens Orange, published by Honno Welsh Women's Press. She currently lives on Tyneside with a misanthropic cat and, being Welsh, proudly sports a dragon tattoo. ** Second Thoughts I’ve stayed till you became a fingernail of pale paint on the grey horizon. I’ve waved till my arms caved, though I’m sure you’re too engaged to make me out – drowning in sails, salt spray and splash. I’ve rubbed the ring you fixed on my finger which fits like a padlocked corset. I’ve plucked a purple daisy and you love me not, so now I’m tucking this second bloom in my hair and turning my head the other way. Helen Freeman Helen Freeman loves trying her hand at the prompts on The Ekphrastic Review. She also has a beautiful Brazilian sister-in-law who had no second thoughts about her brother. She has poems published on various sites and magazines and currently lives in Durham, England. Instagram @chemchemi.hf ** Feijoada Gabriella dreams of her mother’s Feijoada, remembering the steam fogging her glasses as she inhaled the wafts of rich earthy black beans, salty pork, and tangy tomatoes. Sometimes, her mother would throw in bits of fried bacon, which would add a pop of smokiness. Sunday's Feijoada was the best. On Sundays, Gabriella and her mother would walk to the fruit stand after church and pick up a few laranjas, oranges and carry them back in their bare hands. Gabriella always wanted to eat one on the walk home, the morning sun quickly running up the sky, but Mama always said saving it for the stew would be worth the wait. She was right. A little bit of fresh orange zest and a slice or two on top of the brimming bowl imparted just the right zing, each spoonful a hug for Gabriella’s stomach. Gabriella still remembers the cooling feeling of her bare feet standing on the smooth wood of the footstool when she was still too small to reach the stove. The varnished slab was a welcome relief to the blanket of heat wrapping her as she hovered over the pot to stir while her mother cut up the carrots, the tomatoes, the cabbage, the pork trotters. Mama would let her taste it every so often, making sure the melange of flavors was singing in perfect harmony. “Cauteloso,” —careful, she’d say as she blew a gentle puff of breath right over the ladle. Then she’d carefully guide the sip up to Gabriella’s watering mouth for a test. “Delicioso!” It was always delicioso to Gabriella, but sometimes Mama would add more salt, more farofa, or even some coriander anyway. Then, when Gabriella was still small enough, her Mama would lift her from the stool and whirl her around the kitchen, her hand-sewn apron dancing like a superhero cape. They’d laugh and laugh until Mama was laughing too hard to hold up Gabriella any longer. They’d both crumple to the floor like marionettes, Gabriella’s head on her mother’s chest, listening to her heartbeat, listening to the delicious melody of the Feijoada bubbling on the stove. It was Sunday’s symphony, one that outdid any church hymns, any organs and voices singing to the heavens. Gabriella’s favorite part was when the family finally sat down to dinner to enjoy the final masterpiece after it had simmered and simmered all afternoon. They’d both sit across from Gabriella’s father, who never stepped foot in the kitchen except to eat. Papa always got to have the first spoonful while Gabriella and her mother watched in anticipation of his approval, their growling bellies begging for it to come quickly. Papa would close his eyes and lift his face towards the ceiling, holding the stew in his mouth like a secret. Sometimes, it seemed to take so long for him to swallow that Gabriella would look up at the ceiling herself, trying to count the dead flies resting in the domed glass covering the bulb. Finally, Papa’s throat would squeeze. He’d smile and say it was the best Feijoada he’d ever had. “My girls have outdone themselves again!” “It was all Gabriella,” Mama would say, and then give a loving wink, the gleam of light catching moisture in her chestnut eyes. “No, Mama. We did it juntos!” Gabriella always dragged out the last word--juntos, together, partly to set the record straight, partly because she’d never wanted it any other way. “Well, someday soon you’re gonna be a better Feijoada master than me!” Gabriella’s father would always follow up with his same silly suggestion that they try a cook-off to see who could make the better Feijoada, but the battle never happened. They were a cooking team. Though Gabriella could now easily reach the stove without the old footstool, it wouldn’t be possible to compare Feijoada recipes; she never wanted to anyway. She hasn’t allowed herself to bathe in the intoxicating aroma or felt the steam kiss her cheeks before the first savory bite since her mother died. It’s been just too painful to think about making it alone. Even if she wanted to, it’s been too long to remember how Mama seasoned the offal or the right ratio of black beans to tomatoes. She’s nearly forgotten the velvety chorus of the pot simmering on the stove, Mama’s grounding heartbeat, and the echoes of their riotous laughter filling the cozinha. What she does know is that it’s still the loveliest melody she’s ever heard. Amber Sayer Amber is not new to the world of writing, as she is a professional health and fitness writer by trade. However, she hasn't done any creative writing in over 20 years and is excited to start exploring the depths of her imagination and taping into the power of expressing her feelings through words. ** Dear Womanteen, I really want to know what you mean with that perplexed gaze with no soul around to impress with your dazzling dress made under your grannies oracular spells. and meant only for your Destino’s fantasies, It took them a life of faithfulness to create it as a visual potion for the eyes of the one-and-only now waiting for you at the port – the cool foreign traveler you recently met at your village market while he was searching for a local amulet and got captivated by your rings and bangles wired as ‘dithyrambs’ as he said; and though you did not understand you took the jingling word as a compliment; more to it – since he recognized their charm your grannies, greatly awed, took it as a sign that he was the one and let you go to him on your own, as if it was to collect heaven-dropped manna from your garden. You were just fifteen, but your grannies bet on your amulets and prophesied your life will be spent in a far away land. So, for that anticipated momentum you dressed to the best: this splendid blouse was made on the day you were born by your maternal granny out of joy that you carried her name, and she made it from untreated cotton, so all natural spells of elements, miracles and events that happened to the plant were meticulously preserved as stamped – each oscillation prompted by bees’ flickering, each nightingale’s song echoing, all the sun and moon kisses, the rain’s whisperings – all that produces the manna of bliss was saved as it was and is; and just like the frame concludes the painting so the dress wrapped your body to impress even with suspense - the red application enhanced your oracular defense. Your fraternal granny made your golden skirt when you turned thirteen to proclaim the opening of your new blossoming page; and thus they conceived to the fringe your coming of age honeyed hinge, someone was about to open to the last inch. But, it’s said, we never know the fate’s last caprice of flow. Bandeira appeared on that spot, placed his easel ad hoc and thought of capturing the might of the rock against the mood of the sea as best as his eye can see; but as she emerged from behind framed in her oracular apparel, her hair curling the wind, her eyes penetrating the horizon, his attention turned off the radar from the sea’s blue infinity and in his thought he began brushing her dark mane as a divinity; while all he could mumble was ask her to ‘just sit and look at him as she liked as she deemed’. She stopped and turned her face with that perplexed gaze: “I don’t get you Sire, but I can watch whatever the almighty sends in front of my eyes; I wanted to sit, any way, to gather myself from the pushing slope of the mountain battling rolling pebbles and thorny shrub, like a vicious brush”; while thinking to herself: “Grannies didn’t foresee this man’s omen; nevertheless, I’ll just let my feet rest, come to their senses and then take me to my waiting destino’s fancies”. She withdrew herself in the nest of that thought and left her baffled pose to its own accord – feet hanging, hands loose, flower elapsed, eyes absent in the outgoing moment, mystifying the play of marble and sea – in fact, the best posing act he was ever to see. When her look trembled it was understood she was about to go, so, he approached to show her what he saw. She had a look and went numbed, froze like the rock in that pose. The only thing she could do was poke her finger onto the canvas to check if it wasn’t her doppelganger her grannies kept telling her exist in a parallel twist of fate and do malice to our mindfulness. She couldn’t move. Her feet were glued. He had brushed away their senses unto the canvas’ fancies, smuggled between the folds of her dress-to-impress, in the unimpressive cracks of the rock, on the waving branches of the tree on the top. Her amulets powers were brushed aside. His filbert strokes took over their places. For better for worse, a cotton-soft canvased bond turned out to be a magic wand. Bandeira got lost in brushing her hair. Her irises glided along the soft strokes with pebbles’ flair. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have been frequently honoured by TER and its challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon has been published by Europe Edizioni, 2021.  Our third annual ekphrastic marathon is coming up soon! Click on image for details and to sign up!
 Snack, by Daphna Kato (Netherlands) contemporary. Click 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 Snack, by Daphna Kato. Deadline is June 21, 2024. 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. 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 KATO 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, June 21, 2024. 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.  Nkisi Power Figure, by the Kongo Peoples (Angola or Democratic Republic of the Congo) 19th century The Warrior This then the shrapnel from the war we survived. I, the crowned victor, carry the plaque psoriasis, encased in the armor of post-covid fatigue syndrome. Karen FitzGerald Karen FitzGerald is a genre-fluid writer who celebrates her every/any work of publication with a vodka martini even though she resides in Sonoma County's wine country. ** The Kongo Nkisi Nkondi and the Riding Dog This poem is inspired by the Nkisi Power Figures found in Kongo in Africa. These figures could be human or animal and are meant to ward off evil and protect the helpless. The poem is also inspired by the animals that sometimes, some humans exploit for some advantage. Walking in the rain, on the grass, at dawn or dusk. I feel calm. Only the simplest of sounds nourish my brain’s husk. No piercing cries of people or animals in agony, heartache, or menace. Wonder if we’ll have to pay a penance? Flowers smelled like vanilla, jasmine, and musk. No pain, or stain from perfumed glands removed. Am I feeling a lie? A self-created utopia? How else can we remain a bit normal without positive cornucopia? Walking, dipping my feet in summer fresh rain. Easing the stutter of life. Oh, what a gain! Incessant, loud knocking was soon heard. Was that a woodpecker or another bird? Seemed to come from the main door. Louder than an oil bore. It were the dilemmata who’d come calling again. Like visitors who came too early, too often, and overstayed. Behind them stood many Nkisi on their sturdy dogs. An army of them. Minkisi. Standing with purpose, resolve, mission. Without any human permission. Or intervention. Out to rectify, destroy evil. Gesturing me to polish my husk with coconut oil and let not my anxieties boil. Oh, they were here to ease the strain! “Are there enough of you? The world’s breaking down…we need you…” I shouted as they rode on their dogs over the backyard fences into the orange sun. Ancient sacred medicines and divine protections tied to blades and knives on their bodies. Our wrongs crucified in them, like in Jesus. Their spiritual mirrors splintering. Each reflection whispering, chiding. Oh, where do we hide humanity’s shame! One final, quick moment, the Nkisi and their dogs turned around. Keen eyed. Cautious. Waiting. Waiting for gods and goddesses to follow on their vehicles…lions, horses, camels, peacocks, serpents, bulls, dragons, and mice. I heard the message from their souls, thrice. Roll the dice. Roll the dice. Hey girl, roll the dice. Let not go of remaining pieces of smiles, kisses, touches, and memories. Oh, their magical refrain! Anita Nahal *Minkisi: Plural of Nkisi Anita Nahal, Ph.D., CDP, is a two-time Pushcart Prize-nominated Indian-American author-academic. She was a finalist for the Tagore literary prize 2023. Anita has one novel, four poetry collections, one of flash fiction, four for children, and five edited anthologies published. Anita’s poems have been anthologized in over twenty international anthologies and hundreds have been published in journals in the US, Asia, and Australia. Anita’s poem has been selected for the Polaris Trilogy, Moon project where it will join thousands of other writers and artists whose work will be delivered to the moon in a capsule by Space X in 2024. ** Maggie’s Museum Granny Maggie’s living room was a curated curiosity shop of figures, amulets, talismans, and knick knacks: a print of Ebisu, the Japanese god of the sea, all jolly and fat and riding a fish; a bronze lamp Minotaur masticating a virgin; a window hung with a hundred dream catchers with fading feathers. ‘Is this another new one?’ Mammy rolled her eyes at a blue Kali. "One woman’s junk is another woman’s treasure," Granny said, slurping Lyons tea from a Kintsugi mug made of mismatched sherds of China. When I was little, I never fancied real toy shops with their plastic dolls and polyester bears. For Christmases and birthdays Granny let me choose something from her collection. She would nudge me saying: "I get them wholesale direct from Santa." The last figure I took was a wooden carved replica of the Rahara Sile-na-Gig with her twisted plaits and toothy grimace. "I don’t know if this is appropriate for you, Annie," Mammy hissed at me. "I never dragged you up to be ashamed of your body, though those bloody nuns did their best to tell you otherwise," Granny winked at her, "and not forgetting that you even resorted to rubbing Ms Rahara's gee when you were trying to conceive my favourite grandchild here." Mammy conceded with a sigh and I gathered us all in for the tightest of bear hugs. After, Mammy looked at Granny. ‘What’s going to happen to all of this when you’re gone?’ "Well, there’s too many grave goods to be buried with me," Granny said, "so I’ll just have to have myself mummified, all dried out and stuffed with herbs, and stuck back in here. Annie can run this as a business, call it Granny’s Believe it or Not." First I belly laughed, then I gulped. "I better start on making all the labels now so." Bayveen O'Connell Bayveen O'Connell is an Irish writer who takes inspiration from art, history, mythology, folklore, and travel. Her flash fiction has been nominated for Best Microfiction and the Pushcart Prize. ** Epistle to the Nkisi Here, we call the unknown John Doe, or a curio, a piece to appraise-- absent the nganga who knew you and your value. We know only you’re not of us, Belgium, or who turned your people Christian, or men who shipped fathers mothers, brothers, sisters like oil in the deep bellies of vessels. There is an emptiness at sea-- I’ve read—some people never fill. You smell of crude, lemon-pepper, fruit of African elemi. Are you a body of that tree, whittled, pedestaled, nailed, robbed-- ripped from the nganga’s copper hands? You look like the homeless soldier off U.S. 40, that washed-out sign over a cavity of grief. What more could we offer, Nkisi? We give you a glass case, dry air, a place to slow the rust and rot, poetry in a new language your people have never thanked us for. Can you heal me, Nkisi? I need to know your value. I’m American. Robert E. Ray Robert E. Ray is a retired public servant. His poetry has been published by Rattle, The Ekphrastic Review, The Muleskinner Journal, The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press, Wild Roof Journal, The Nuthatch, and Beyond Words Literary Magazine. Robert is a graduate of Eastern Kentucky University. He lives in rural southeast Georgia. ** Self-Sacrifice I weep, knowing my power comes from sharp edges, fierce training, pushing compassion away. Do my people even know how much I love them? Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille graduated from the first coed class at the University of Virginia, where she earned her B.A. in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in feminism. Please visit her new website at https://www.alariepoet.com ** Sacred Medicine Bodies of pain reflect in eyes of sorrow So many in need of healing kept inside a mystic mirrored box Wounds driven deep every blade every nail a symbol a sacrifice to spirits of the dead Kathleen Cali Chicago-born and Midwest raised, Kathleen resides at the Jersey Shore. Her poetic interests include formal and modern poetry and haiku. Always the student, she enjoys poetry writing workshops and working with her local library. Other interests include historical fiction and photography. Kathleen enjoyed a career as a senior auditor and educator and served as an assistant professor of business following receipt of her MBA. Technical writing and editing were a major part of her profession; now she uses her skills to craft poetry. Her poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review; her haiku was published in her local community’s magazine. ** To a Nkisi Power Figure You have, by loving hands, been wrought to signify what time has taught -- the wrath and love without control of power still your tribes extol as presence of the unexplained creating circumstance ordained as challenge they are meant to meet and curatives they dare entreat as they embark on chosen course embracing risk without remorse in journey destined not by chance but legacy that chains the dance reminding them as remnants sewn they prove the power through you known. 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. ** I Am a Man Who Carries the World on His Back I am a man who carries the world on his back. I am a man who has done nothing but pluck tulip petals for joys and toys. And I kissed the lips of a girl who'd happily sell my soul for a bed or two sacks of coal. I am a man who has broad shoulders and a bald, worried head. Many days I have wished I were dead. But each day I grew less fussy and happier I was. With nothing to buy back my soul My heart beat steadily and was strong. I am a man who has toiled in the dirt. I am a man who has nursed others back to health—near death. I am a man who has cried all night till dawn and then cried some more. I am a deeply bereaved man. I am a man who has endured love and hatred. I am a man who has been bereft without any place to go or drift. No place to call home, no kingdom to roam in. I am a man who wears a crown made of the jawbone teeth of a lion. But I have no pride; I am just a carcass that doesn't know it's already died. I am a man who carries the world on his back. And questions the meaning and value of everything bartered and sold. Many days I have wished I were dead. But each day I grew less fussy and happier I was. With nothing to buy back my soul The best way to live and find peace is to give up all control and blow and bend with the wind. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. He has poems published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He resides in the UK and is from Manchester. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Powerman He bristles with power, unmistakable untouchable the spirits and demons held close inside him to be released at his behest. But only in Africa. When he leaves, stolen taken then he’s powerless like all the other stolen ones. So much power left behind in Africa. Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud War Poetry for Today competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com. ** Calling the Names How to consecrate time? Must it be burned to ash and extinguished into darkness in order to fertilize new ground? Must it cleave to the cries of death against the ravenousness of life? shadows speak inside the spirit of the abyss Secrets hold the future-- what do you desire? Is it wise? Can it be trusted? You reject the meanings of words and stitch instead the sound of stone-- ancient remote primal eternal-- across a bridge of incoherence like a necklace of unfinished spells. shadows speak inside the spirit of the abyss There is no symmetry in before and after-- only the contrast of what won’t fit into the patterns humans have constructed to explain the instability of transformation. The mirror lies, mocks, defies the body caught inside its fragile bones of light. shadows speak inside the spirit of the abyss 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 Nganga Smiles: His Work is Done She opens the gift box, the tag left blank. The sculpted beast nestled inside leaves her as petrified as some of the wood from which it is carved. Who would leave such a “gift”? Its body also has parts crafted from iron, a protective armour that she had not had, a shield that would have protected her human skin from the worst of penetrations. She is simultaneously jealous and reminded of being powerless. Its body is callously stabbed with various nails and shivs of iron, imitations of the blades plunged into her own human flesh, but its lack of nociceptors is the cruelest mocking of her nearly lethal pain. Its marble eyes give an eerie stare, one she cannot understand but sends her haunting reminders of…him. Its glazed expression, an echo of the deranged, piercing stare she cannot forget. The evil fixation looming over her as she lay ravished victim pinned under his hostile thrusts. Its open mouth is able to demand the same way her perpetrator did, and able to scream unlike her stifled mouth choked off to obsolescence. Its stomach is embedded with a box holding what she fears is the knife her assailant had wielded, the mirrored door showing the reflection of her own broken body, one she no longer recognizes. She is captive in foreign skin tarnished with scars. She shutters and shuts the lid of the gift box, unable to bear the site of the small bedeviling totem. She grips the sides of the box as if needing to ensnare a flailing monster, trying to decide whether to bury it, burn it, or just throw it away. But, as her forearm quivers with her mighty clutch, she feels something. At first, it’s a tingly sensation in her hands, a warmth that feels more human than her alien skin has yet felt. This heat extends through her arms, her shoulders, her neck. It’s an itch that can’t be scratched. It must be diffused from the inside. She takes a deep breath in, discovering an extensibility in her lungs she hasn’t felt since that…day. The breath plunges the sensation downward through her body, through her abdomen, which isn’t the hollow mechanical box, but a soft, organic form. It passes through her womb, her mutilated tissues, her thighs. Another breath propagates the sensation even further, reaching all the way down through her feet and toes, grounding her into the earth, her bare skin rooting into the soil. She is simultaneously hot and cold, aware that she is sentient, but not in the vulnerable way she last remembers her humanity, but in a comforting whisper of what she’s been searching for. She can hear the familiar lub-dub in her chest, but her pulse is not thundering in terror. Instead, it is drumming strength, power, and energy. She takes another breath, deciding to face the mystical statue in the box. She realizes that this time, she is in control. She can always shut the lid. She can always run away. This creature is inanimate. Her trembling fingers lift the box. At first, just a crack. The relic is unchanged, but her own lenses have adjusted. Its ghostly stare now seems soulful, almost feeble like a motherless child. Its parted lips aren’t mocking her muted shrieks but rather bellowing on her behalf, summoning help, not just for what she needed during the assault, but also for the help she needs now to heal. The iron fortress of the body isn’t a selfish protection taunting her fragility. It is a reminder that human skin means she’s still alive…that surviving was a gift. And the shanks of metal studding its surface are not sardonically jeering her. Instead, this lifeless sacrificial lamb is accepting the stabs to offload her visceral memories. Finally, she reexamines the cavern in its abdomen. She wants to look inside to make sure it is not concealing weapons. But, as she lifts her fingers to open the mirrored lid, she sees everything in her reflection she’s been needing to see: a confident steadiness in her human hands, a willful hope in her eyes. So, she places her hand over the amulet’s protruding belly and just holds it there for a minute. That warm tickle permeates her palm again. She takes one more deep breath, inhaling a sense of healing, a sense of confidence, a sense of peace. She holds the breath, each oxygen molecule ricocheting to every destroyed cell of her body. When she’s ready, she exhales, releasing the pain, releasing the anger, releasing the fear. She is no longer afraid of the effigy in her hands, she’s no longer afraid of herself. She is a warrior, holding a warrior. Amber Sayer Amber is not new to the world of writing, as she is a professional health and fitness writer by trade. However, she hasn't done any creative writing in over 20 years and is excited to start exploring the depths of her imagination and tapping into the power of expressing her feelings through words. ** Healing Illness Zozobra: anxiety and fear. Body piercing Z’s, zeroing into me, leaving me sucking on stones to survive. I experience the painful arrows of zozobra until I realize how to dispel the angst and its paralytic grasp. I grow the figure of a woman, just my height, just my girth. I interweave branches and leaves for her hair and patch together a head with cloth and glue. I ring her eyes with black grunge and plump out red lips. I hollow out logs for legs and arms, and mold wire into a round body and girded breasts. A life-sized creature stands before me; her guttural voice courses out words: I promise to spurn your negative energy and replace it with calm. But nothing happens, no epiphany of strength. It is not enough to build this figure to banish the darkness and erase regret and sorrow. I have to do more. With anger at my heels and joy in my fingers, I tear through my house gathering medical bills, journal rants, legal documents of failure, and photographs of nemesis and spite. Then I stuff the figure with shreds of worry and gloom, filling her with the vestiges of the years I need to forget. I drape her in clothing that reminds me of sickness and decay, regret and dispute. I stand back to admire my creation, but the figure frowns, her lips tighten with disgust. You have one more command to accomplish before your job is done. I seek out my labyrinth, my place of peace. I enter its sacred path asking the all-encompassing questions: What is next for me? Where do I go from here? I emerge like a bird released. I wreathe the head of my effigy in cactus and thorns and stand back like a photographer measuring light and space until I am satisfied that she will speak with soft hushes, not spike and blade. I am ready, she says. I douse her from head to toe with gasoline. . .and light the match. The Burning Woman growls and crackles, spits and sizzles. Fire leaps from limb to limb, igniting the past and reducing her to ash. I glow in her wake. Ruth Weiner Ruth Weiner is an educator, author, avid cyclist and insatiable reader. She has three published novels, Veronica Recycled, The Mahjong Mavens of Boca Raton, and Milli Finds Her Bench. ** Manifesto to King Leopold II Our arms and legs hands and feet only mean rubber to you. But we Kongolese are a spiritual people and the amputations you inflict when we don’t meet our quotas can still resist your threats. We place the nkisi nkondi before you. Feel those blades. Feel our rage. We wrap ourselves in sharp-shard shrouds to cut through your rhetoric, shred that almighty rubber and your legacy. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts and a PhD in Holocaust & Genocide Studies from Gratz College. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, Chicken Fat (Finishing Line Press, 2017) and Pounding Cobblestone (Kelsay Books, 2018). Her poetry has also appeared or is forthcoming in Cimarron Review, Nimrod, Vine Leaves Literary, Tiferet, and other publications. She lives and teaches in New Jersey. Her website is www.barbarakrasner.com.  Young Woman Seated, by Antônio Rafael Pinto Bandeira (Brazil) 1896 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 Young Woman Seated, by Antônio Rafael Pinto Bandeira. Deadline is June 7, 2024. 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. 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 BANDEIRA 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, June 7, 2024. 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. |
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