Hollow Egon handed him a scalpel. It had a slender grip, a sharp blade that slid upward. He thought about people in horror films, fates at the hands of a monster. How many lives could be saved with this scalpel? How many girl-eating goblins gutted, dragon-toothed piranhas slashed, brain-starved zombies decapitated? He wondered. Carve out your collarbones, Egon told him. He drew one smooth arch in the air. Like this, Egon said. But he knew it would take more than one cut. That night, facing the mirror, he took off his shirt. He placed the scalpel on his shoulders and slanted it inward, away from his neck. He moved the blade in then out, ending a breath away from his sternum. The severed skin looked nearly egg-like, lower flaps bloated with yolk. Red dots stained skin like seeds from a gashed pomegranate, little cracked milk teeth. He faced his reflection, jutting his torso open. He could see the cabinet from the mirror, the bottom of a spinning music box. The tiles started to sog under him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. From his window he could see the cutting board on the table with slabs of a fish carcass dangling from rope. The belly had shrunk to half its size, molding the fat and sangria flavour. So much to lose, he marveled. He slit up the other collarbone, his hand more practiced, the cuts smoother. He looked through the hollow of his collarbones again. This time, through the hollow, he could see the entire music box. It sputtered out a small note. He withdrew the scalpel and slipped it back inside the cabinet. The hollow seemed to be getting bigger as blood trickled out. How much blood can the body lose before it fails? He wanted to ask Egon. But Egon had left already, as he always did. He arched his head downwards and fitted his index finger between his collarbones. Neither his finger nor his knuckles touched the wounds; the hollow was not even as wide as the scalpel blade. But he felt like he could be chewed into the opening, spit back out, find himself no different from when he started. He faced his reflection again. From the depths of the mirror, he could only see the hollow in place of a human, the mouth shaped like a black hole. Christina Pan Christina Pan's short stories and poems appear or are forthcoming in Vagabond City Lit, Eunoia Review, and Interstellar Literary Review. She lives in NYC.
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Moon-themed artwork from early to modern times, curated for your ekphrastic writing practice.
Click on image above to purchase the ebook. Or come to our moon-themed ekphrastic writing workshop on Sunday afternoon! Our two hour online ekphrastic workshops have been marvellous. This is our second themed workshop- the first was Writing Sex with the incredible Alexis Rhone Fancher. This time, we will look at the moon in art history and do some intriguing writing exercises together. Join us! Another fantastic TERcets Podcast episode is up with our host Brian A. Salmons.
Click on image above to listen in on Spotify. Brian features Alexis Rhone Fancher, Susan McLean, and Abbi Flint this time, each reading their own work. A lot of work goes into making this podcast and we cannot thank Brian enough. Please help get the word out about this ekphrastic podcast by sharing on Twitter, Facebook, etc- let's get more ears on the work of these writers! Listen to all of the TERcets podcasts here. www.ekphrastic.net/tercets-podcast.html Read an interview with Brian about making the podcast, here. Rembrandt’s Anatomy Lesson “When we are stuck, most of us look for a way out in the work of others.” from Three Roads to Quantum Gravity, by Lee Smolin Strip way the Malmsey and lye, the theatric alarm tripped by the Dark, warm ghosts of mace and tobacco and breath, the urge to grimace at the laid back cadaver whose public demise lives on as Brooding’s centerpiece-- and we’re left with another way to think: See for yourself. What is real is the work we do with our eyes, Prying’s rude science. As if to say Behold the beholders, Rembrandt paints us, not unlike you, without a clue, giddy-eyed as to what matters most: Doctor Tulp’s cold forceps or is it Vesalius at Kindt’s cold feet or—over there—the unseen who sees a work of art? Shelley Benaroya This poem was originally published in Ekphrasis. Shelley Benaroya is founding director and teaching artist for the Writing Center for Creative Aging (https://writingcenterforcreativeaging.com/), launched in 2008. Her poetry has appeared in all the sins, Burningwood Literary Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, Letters Journal, The Lyric, The Road Not Taken, Thirteenth Moon, and elsewhere. In 2017, she received the Ekphrasis Prize and a Pushcart Prize nomination. The Abandoned Doll My precious Mimi lies on the floor, beckoning me to pick her up and hold her to my now-budding breasts. I haven’t abandoned her. Maman says I am no longer a child. That it is time for me to “Put childish things away.” As she dries my back, I look into the mirror. Is is me or Maman that I see? I don’t know anymore. I do know this: Just as my back is turned to Maman in this moment, it shall be forever turned to her. If I’m no longer a child, and not yet a woman, I am alone in this world. No more will I allow Maman to hold me close to her breasts, if I am not permitted to love my Mimi, as I have so many years. I now see the pretty pink bow on my head in the mirror. Mimi also wears the bow I lovingly made and tied around her sweet head long ago... So, after Maman goes to sleep, I shall pick up Mimi off of the floor, and walk to the river, where I’ll give her one final hug so, so tight, that it will be painful to my swollen breasts. Then, I will kiss her on her cheek and say goodbye, as I place her in the flowing waters along with my own childish pink bow. I’ll watch as my beloved Mimi and pretty pink bow float down the moving and constantly-changing river, until I can no longer see them. I will not cry. Only little girls with bows in their hair cry. Rather, I shall smile to myself, knowing they are floating freely to the land of forever-children. And then I’ll run home, and give Maman a hug, and let her wipe away my tears. Lisa Molina Lisa Molina is a writer and educator in Austin, Texas, where she earned a BFA at the University of Texas at Austin. She has taught high school English and Theatre Arts, and later served as Associate Publisher of Austin Family Magazine. Molina now works with students with special needs. She can usually be found writing, reading classic novels, playing piano, or hiking and swimming with her family on the beautiful Barton Creek Greenbelt in Austin near her home. Her writing can be found in numerous online and print journals, including The Ekphrastic Review, Beyond Words Magazine, Trouvaille Review, Neologism Poetry Journal, Ancient Paths, Amethyst Review, Tiny Seed Journal, and Down in the Dirt. The Yellow Chair My husband calls me to it like a child. Come and sit. No matter I am in the garden or mopping floors. Today, another in a year of days, I must settle on the hard tufting, shoulders back, hands folded, my toes scraping the wooden floor. And we begin. Wasps flit the windows, August bakes the air. His brush worries the canvas – so slowly. Thirty strokes in an hour. Nestled like an apple in a china bowl, I count them from my spot. Until the light is gone. Then at last we must stop. And there is the chair, its rough brocade forever at my elbow. My face always flat and dull — squinty eyes, teacup ear, harrow-parted hair. My long fingers that once pleasured him, a twisted jumble falling from my sleeves. His composition never changing more than the tilt of my head, a deeper blue for shadows. My red dress. He asks for it each day. Though the heavy fabric stinks with sweat and others in my closet are more branché, he cares only for its deep colour and soft drape. How it plays against the yellow chair. Iris Rosenberg Iris Rosenberg has worked in factories, nursery schools, rehab centers, newspaper offices, corporate bullpens and college classrooms. She has an MFA in Painting from Pratt, and writes both poetry and fiction. She was a long-time poetry reviewer for Library Journal. She lives in New York City and has studied with Mark Wunderlich, Patricia Marx, Hermine Meinhard and other writers. Join us tomorrow afternoon for our monthly Sunday Session. We get together to write together! We have a great lineup of art prompts and inspiring exercises for poetry and flash fiction writers (or any kind of writing you want to pursue.) Our sessions are relaxed yet challenging. Check out upcoming theme sessions as well, like Moon Gazing and Ghost Stories.
https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrasticwritingworkshops.html Ekphrasis at Le Swamp Dancing afterhours at an art show in a basement. Knock-off dragonflies from a Tiffany Lamp pollinate the grey petaled sprinkler as water showers down on the paintings. Battery lighting captures the pigment drips. Into the nothingness of the ground I went. The process of dissecting nostalgia is tricky—a lot of moving things around like a paragraph, Or a neon tower in the desert that reads: Coloratura I tie the strings to a rusty water pipe that runs a staircase angle out of the brick wall. Diagram of frog organs blueprint out the gallery. I didn’t know glass could be fluffy. The pink insulation of DNA, Looks like the inside of my skull would feel if I knew how I felt. The Tiffany lamp is a glowing orb, Sporting an unaffordable stain glass mosaic that fractures Into bone marrow with shards of figurative insects. I tend to think better in that light, when I have these creatures burrow my soft edges And my hands don’t look so vivid. Dragonflies’ sanguine eyes expand, pulsating rubies With every lie I call truth, with every stanza of Faerie Queene. One painting in the exhibition is of a thatch roof cottage in Brittany. Other portraits are of other bourgeois symbols of jouissance: Birds, flowers, parks and dogs. I picked them out at the store as puppies, paws on the cage. I can’t get the numbers right and a strange chord sounds off in the distant hills. The lines care where you blur. Though, every now and then, I’ll hear a 5 longing To be baby blue. To resolve to 1 in the song. In a little voice over and over. Can I please be the pastel sage Vuillard used for dresses. As the numbers dance with paint, the Particle Critic shows up in a glitch—delayed in graphics. The paintings peel off the dirty walls and dangle there lifeless. Errour crawls out my desk and eats the wood like an acid beetle: forming the glowing edges of nirvana—pulling me inside. My past life as a kite permeates into view as the house drifts off into space leaving its DNA-newsprint-shroud. I lick my lips and clinch my capo, 3rd fret, To shake off that heavy dust spewing from those Fraudulent dragonflies. Andy Demczuk Andy Demczuk was born in Oceanside, California. He studied at the Musician’s Institute in Hollywood concentrating on guitar performance. He then moved to the French Alps, where he led international volunteers in art and music workshops facilitating intercultural collaborations in an association funded by the French government. Andy writes fiction, poetry, and music, and pursues studio arts, using acrylic and multimedia, video, and sound design. In Fall 2019 he taught high school English in Spain. He is currently pursuing an MA in English at ETSU in Johnson City, TN. The Joseph Cornell responses are up! Click here or on image above.
Embracing the Waves It was the first time she believed that the sea might not swallow her whole. It was also the night Ethan explained that his brothers were going to keep calling and sending over their threats. There was an electric hysteria to his voice, as if fear from the last time had become canned laughter in his ears. It was the first time their bed felt softened by cotton, cotton inside the springs that had become softer and dumber each year—cotton stuffed up against his heart. It was the first night he told her he had been fighting the blues, and this is why he hit her harder, so that she felt the shredding of an old dream; a dream that a family like hers could make itself better—the dream worn to lint in the end. It was the first time she felt that there were ways to sneak off into a glowing green morning, when the water wants you badly, and wants you still strong. She had always been good at seeing shades in Ethan, how they blended into each other. Today she was proud of all the colours she had once imagined her young husband could become. She patted herself on the soul, said 'you did good, you did what you could do here'— told herself that setting off in the silver-green waves was different than already being dead. Meg Pokrass Read Meg's story from a Renoir painting. www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/rose-by-meg-pokrass Meg Pokrass is the author of eight flash fiction collections, an award-winning collection of prose poetry, two novellas-in-flash, an award winning collection of prose poetry, and a 2020 collection of microfiction, "Spinning to Mars" which won the Blue Light Book Award. Her work has appeared in Electric Literature, Washington Square Review, Smokelong Quarterly, Split Lip and McSweeney'shas been anthologized in New Micro (W.W. Norton & Co., 2018), Flash Fiction International (W.W. Norton & Co., 2015) and The Best Small Fictions 2018 and 2019. She serves as Founding Co-Editor of Best Microfiction 2020 and Festival Curator of Flash Fiction Festival U.K. and teaches flash fiction online and in person. Find out more at megpokrass.com. |
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