 Beyond the Storm, by Dale Patterson (USA) 2019. Click image for artist site.
Guest Editor’s Note: Thank-you to all of the writers who entered the DALE PATTERSON CHALLENGE; I was impressed by the quality, quantity and variety of the interpretations to Dale’s masterwork. An over-arching apocalyptic theme emerged as I read through the responses. It seems flying fish and quaking buildings inspire contemplation of doomsday scenarios. I hope all entrants continue to participate in future challenges, keeping this unique publication vibrant. I know I will. Jordan Trethewey ** It Happened Almost Overnight We all saw it coming, but did nothing much, hid in our houses. Already there is no internet, no TV, no smartphones, no video games. The sky itself aflame with an eerie light, not the metallic grey-green from before the storm, not the hot-red sky celebrating forests fires or New York in flames. But a poison yellow never before seen. A yellow that curdles the blood. A yellow that passes through the empty windows of the skeletal fronts of houses that once rang with the laughter of children, the barking of dogs, the scolding of parents. The waters blackened by oil and soot, not quite boiling. There isn’t much time for evolution, The birds fall out of the sky. The fish grow wings. Rose Mary Boehm A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of Tangents, a full-length poetry collection published in the UK in 2010/2011, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals (online and print). She was three times winner of the now defunct Goodreads monthly competition. There were other prizes. Recent poetry collections: From the Ruhr to Somewhere Near Dresden 1939-1949: A Child’s Journey and Peru Blues or Lady Gaga Won’t Be Back. Her latest full-length poetry MS, The Rain Girl, has been accepted for publication in June 2020 by Blue Nib. ** Poem, as Abstract Aphorisms for Yahia Lababidi and Carl Terver our milk gets infested with ants we spill more than we rein it is like a wave – arrives quickly as it leaves – moments curdle powdered sky on tuscan terrain ghosts stalk angular tips of roofs the mountains have risen from salt pink as sea-rock windows are washed in medallion gold; birds have fled concrete sills houses swirl in kinetic pools when the ocean lost its gravity inside the safe harbour of our minds winds clang nervously as clumsy bells our milk has spilled – ants canvas territory the tar on roads sweat their foreheads heat has melted in its pot of indifference our skins are red bricks of graffiti dissipating as aerated cans of paints summers have caramelised fish wings in thick waters the sight of blue is a site of grey forage: ships hunt as water escapes Sheikha A. Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her works appear in a variety of literary venues, both print and online, including several anthologies by different presses. Her poetry has been translated into Spanish, Greek, Arabic and Persian. More about her can be found at sheikha82.wordpress.com ** Turquoise Dorsal Fins The storm’s itself a beard— red herring, if you will— for wild shenanigans that take place in its murk and turn the normal order fairytale and topsy-turvy under cover of the squall. Put on these spectacles, and see beyond the gale— town houses snug as peas in pods as flying fish put the uakari screeching gulls and Christian power poles to flight in flaxen glare. Or don’t. How partnerships of odd men out are balanced, sins become resolved or sausages amassed is not for queasy stomachs, lily livers and faint hearts. Let blue skies reappear. Tom Riordan Tom Riordan continues living and writing -- in Hoboken, New Jersey now. If you see him swimming in the river, don't call the police, he isn't drowning. ** Eager to Stay Airborne We, the scaled birds of the oceans, are eager to stay airborne. The tumult below might drown every gilled one of us. Poseidon just heard some Mediterrean sailors praying to some god called Neptune for smooth seas to sail. The wood from these houses will soon become rafts for those who denounce Jupiter & driftwood for the coffins of those who choose Pluto. The blue of our right wing-fins passports us to both sea & sky. We believe we float forever on the horizon when we die. Mike Casetta Mike Casetta has many poems published in many small presses. ** Nature’s Plan As flying fish fall from the sea to the sky in a capsizing world where the oceans apply all the anger of currents which swirl into storms, winding faster and faster, their violence forms a great onslaught of tides, wind, and rain in their race to remove mankind’s blight from the land, from Earth’s face, and restore to its atmosphere air which is cleansed as volcanic upheavals and lightning amends with their hot, smelting furnace of natural power pollutants which plague every forest and bower, each crevice on Earth, on the land, beneath oceans, the aggregate muck of insidious motions which feed our fierce need to consume all we can as man, in his wisdom, exterminates man. Ken Gosse Ken Gosse prefers writing light verse with traditional meter and rhyme. First published in The First Literary Review–East in 2016, also in The Offbeat, Pure Slush, Parody, The Ekphrastic Review, and others. Raised near Chicago, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years. ** Love in the Land of Flying Fish Summertime, and the livin' ain't easy, fish are jumpin' high as the sky -- 1. Like birds of a feather fish fly together their wings held steady in the yellow sky. Beyond the ocean's tarmac waves the island has survived in a painting with 28 cap-shaped roof tops and 28 roof top trap doors all leading upward to the sky; and 28 cut-glass cisterns called practical chalices (a fictional alias) filled with rain gathered from a storm before the sun flames at sunset and you begin to make Cou Cou the island's favorite dish -- Authentic Barbados Flying Fish. So many of our friends have said "the fairy tale is over" I'm afraid to tell you I'm tired of being Princess Rustika my room beneath the tower unfinished bare beams and all the paint used up for the roofs; with your message I care Rusty, I care about us! And I'm ashamed to say I answered The way Daedalus cared about Icarus? But I was tired, and the towers were too narrow for over-indulgence -- second helpings of flying fish -- and the floors were too narrow to dance and the beds were too narrow for -- well, you can guess; and the fish in the legend were coming home to sleep (some had jumped into boats to sleep in the bay, lullabye-rocking in the tarmac waves); with fish on my mind I decided to sleep outside -- what they say, in Barbados "flying fish" means fish sleeping on land outside of the sea -- outside where my hands could reach up for their wings (like birds of a feather the fish fly together!) when stars are rising in random locomotion to put forgotten dreams in motion, leaving their sparkle for fish scales -- 2. & I asked you to hold the narrow ladder steady in a narrow tower with a purple trap door if you please hand me fish nets hand-made in Barbados where this fairy tale is written though I've never been there to dream about fish wings like flying mirrors reflecting my future in the shape of a sail -- when wings fill a fishnet my heart holds on -- carried by love beyond the storm. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston, Texas. Her poem won second place in the Houston Poetry Fest, Ekphrastic Poetry Contest, 2018, and her work has appeared in Gulf Coast, Nimrod (runner up for the Pablo Neruda Prize), AIPF, Isotope and Dogwood. A graduate of the University of Houston Creative Writing Department in Poetry, she enjoys reading at Archway Gallery and at various museums and art installations with Art & Words. Recently, she is pleased to have discovered the Ekphrastic Challenge (her first online publication) as poetry, art, archaeology, travel, dogs, horses (actually all animals) and family are her passions. She fished with her grandfather as a child but has never captured a flying fish. ** Fish Out of Water The birds swooped and dived, “listen carefully to us”, they sang to the fish. “We lived in water. Then we wanted to change so we came out of the water, left it below. Then we swopped scales for feathers, exchanged fins for wings. We soared on the thermals and perched in the trees so come fly with us now it’s your turn to leave.” The fish listened carefully they were intrigued. “How do we fly?”, they mouthed in response. “Come up and join us, we’ll teach you to fly”. “If you fall from the sky we’ll teach you to swim” the fish called up to them. But the birds didn’t hear until they joined in. 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 and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ ** Warm Snow Stormy opinions run down the flagpoles of our TV aerials And cause our roofs to rattle as they discharge within and without us. Bold views colour our imagination and our selves, making us clash or complement with our neighbours. We reward our tribe with glowing stickers and like moths, we circle this artificial light. And then as quiet as the dew new ideas condense, coalesce and crystallise. Still chaotic and pastel they cast little shade, and we, blinded by comfort and compromise fail to see them. But there is hope. First our eyes need to be convinced that their vision is incorrect. Then bravery or foolishness both act as lubricants to necks made stiff through inaction. Next our legs propel us to the door And finally our arms stretch outside, and instead of hawk or dove, what settles on our wrist Is a fish. Graham Hartland Graham is a science teacher who enjoys writing and wordplay. He occasionally wakes up early when inspired to write, and has yet to win any prizes or competitions. ** The Dreams of Fishes The fishes leave the wide salty seas Follow tributaries Leading through estuaries Of swamped land and marsh-- Crisscross entanglements of Riparian buffer strips Nibbled by run-off and wind And time and space. No longer knitting together The underpinnings Mother Earth Edged her shores with. Earth—its people swimming in a work-a-day World, hands glued to wheels Or bits of silicone from valleys far off. Night and daydreams lost on greed, lust. Nothing in the name of Love moves them. The fishes draped in sky-startling blues Seek this new land where air becomes water And the aerial ocean, the bubbled haven Encapsulating this blue marble at its core, To their delight, fills with water. And the gleeful fishes swim among the glassy-eyed peoples In this newly deepening blue sea Past houses-- The flags unfurled—and yes, The flickering lights-- Extinguished One By One. Taylor Collins Taylor Collins writes and paints in Dover Delaware. She writes almost daily in fragmented forms usually taking the form of poetry. She has been published in two anthologies for prose. She makes small chapbooks and larger collages incorporating her poetic work. Taylor has participated in many poetry readings. She is past National President of National League of American Pen Women, is a member of the Mayor’s Art Council in Dover, and assorted arts advocacy related groups and paints and writes daily in her art gallery in the historic district. ** The Audacity of Storms I look at the sky and wonder how I can stick my feelings in it. the storm clips a nerve, but I don’t hear any thunder; my ear, a shell on the sand, fills with echoes, an inaudible scream shattering to a million answering lights. the tumult in the sea below begins to rise causing a ripple of extinction; a fury cast and unwound from the mouth blowing every living thing out of the water; rooftops dance to the cacophony of gulls, skyfulls of fish spawn new fairgrounds-- the chaos mirrors the litter I’ve made of my life; so many canvases washed in yellow defeat, the mauve-coloured glasses and failed affairs thrown at the wind’s salt feet. tarnished crowns of disappointment hurl from the clouds, I’ve worshipped all the wrong gods. my spine, like the easel sloped on the beach, sinks to the weight of dreaming, to disbelief, to grieving— I don’t need hope or flesh or sea-wind; possibility alone paints the torment in my heart, this unrequited muted tone of tuna, crushed in a tin of nacreous oil; an emulsion of longing darker ever than storms or skies. Jennifer Jenkins Jennifer Jenkins is a Canadian writer from Victoria BC, who lives and works in Central Ontario. Her poetry has been showcased in several publications such as the I-70 Review and The Blue Island Review in Kansas, USA, with a recently published book of poetry and prose. ** Sea Change Never expected the flying fish to take to the sky. So many centuries of evolution – building fin strength, growing auxiliary lungs. Have they adapted to escape the oil spills, the tons of plastic choking the sea? Or did they follow the example of those first whales who strode on four legs into the waves to stay? Across miles and years, the sea calls me back. I chose the right day to return. Some of us just know we’re living in the wrong time, place, or body. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille graduated from the University of Virginia in the first class admitting women. She’s now lived more than half her life in Kansas City, where she serves on the Emeritus Board of The Writers Place. Her latest poetry book, Waking on the Moon, contains many poems first published by The Ekphrastic Review. Please visit her at alariepoet.com. ** Jams on the Freeway Second Sunday August chaos without parallel beach houses on the freeway jammed gable to gable, tight with headlamps on full beam going nowhere fast expletives in profusion loud and offensive not what realtors promised though when do they deliver just swarm round the periphery avoiding the obvious oblivious to the discord but intent on more bucks while covering their butts in stretch lycra and cotton chinos while a proxigean tide gallops the coast like headless horsemen in this age of global warming water levels rising as yeast talked about ad nauseum by the incompetent, the impotent with God’s children crying, loud for action in our time as a murmuration of Beach Boys harmonise overhead carrying saffron flavoured rock candy once available at the 7-11 now liquefied to a ranch dressing by the nouveau riche of America with every vacant lot converting into slivers of beach frontage creating disturbances in profusion loud and offensive to generations gone deaf with headaches on full ahead jammed grudge to grudge, tight life parked through freedom second Sunday August chaos without parallel. Alun Robert Born in Scotland of Irish lineage, Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical verse achieving success in poetry competitions in Europe and North America. His poems have featured in international literary magazines, anthologies and on the web. He is particularly inspired by ekphrastic challenges. In September 2019, he was the featured writer for the Federation of Writers Scotland. ** See Here We are not the only ones who dream of reaching escape velocity here by some radical magic fish are flying not in a slow glide skimming the waves not in leaps ecstatic with release like whales and dolphins flinging their bodies up entirely into the unfamiliar atmosphere they still can breathe even though they must return to water no–these have no mammal lungs to meet the stringencies of air and yet they rise above our rooftops into the bird contested sky without wings or memory of flight nothing but hope and defiance reaching past the limits of their biology to know the feel of air everywhere around them the bright caress of an unfamiliar element a shout of joy miraculous in that eternal dance between desire and definition we recognize so well Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a writer who was also a Registered Nurse, whose work has appeared in many online and print journals. She has been a Pushcart nominee and has an electronic chapbook, Things I Was Told Not to Think About, available as a free download from Praxis magazine. ** Sugar Beach The city grows, it is frantic and furious, there is no stopping it. I will rise in its fury. I have always been that fish that could fly; I have always upturned runes and talismans like sandcastles sweeping out to sea. My trident is a rake for shells and barnacles. My fins are stardust, crackling sapphires. Well, your mouth was full of gummy bears and bottle-cap sours, but mine was a pillar of salt. I looked back, and my dusty fins found eternity’s gaze. Look, the sky is yellow, and the houses are wooden Monopoly toys, or Lego. What if these black fossils beneath us were a lantern, instead of whispers of extinction? What if these leaping sardines were luminaries, instead of omens? The swallows falter in the low distant light. Lorette C. Luzajic Lorette C. Luzajic is the founder and editor of The Ekphrastic Review. She is an award winning visual artist whose works are collected all over the world. Visit her at www.mixedupmedia.ca. ** Accidental Ginny had asked Davy to move the bird feeder before she saw the blood red bird with dusty black wings. “I changed my mind,” she said. “Maybe you should leave the feeder where it’s at.” Davy blew on his coffee. He didn’t look up from his phone. “How come? Those sparrows are crapping all over the deck.” Ginny got more coffee. She looked out at the bird feeder balanced on a crooked pole a few feet from the deck railing. She remembered how she and Davy had jammed the rusted pole into the soft ground, not thinking it might be too close. “You’re right,” she said. “About the sparrows, I mean. But there’s this weird red bird coming by that I’ve never seen before.” Davy shrugged. “So what? A bird’s a bird. It’ll crap, too.” “I guess,” she said. “But it looks kind-of sick and dirty and lost. We should help it.” Davy stood up from the dinette table and put his phone in his back pocket. “Not really,” he said. “It’s probably just here spreading disease. I’ll move the feeder this weekend. Last thing I want is some deadly virus.” *** Ginny sat on the sofa and watched the birds after Davy went to work. The red bird with black wings showed up around 10 a.m., the same time it had the day before. She noticed the bird’s tail was ragged and that its head looked scaly. She paged through a dog-eared Roger Tory Peterson book and paused on a picture of a scarlet tanager. Flipping to the range maps, she saw that the robin-sized bird wasn’t native. She had heard some things about “accidentals” and jumped on the Internet to look it up. “It’s a scarlet tanager,” she told Davy when he got home. “It must’ve gotten caught up in some awful weather thing—you know, like a wind shear.” Davy walked by her to the stove. He lifted the lids on the pots. “This ready?” Ginny nodded and held up the picture in the Peterson book. “See,” she said. “Look.” She waved the book near his face but he didn’t look up from scooping macaroni into a bowl. “Yeah, I see it.” Davy ladled chili over the macaroni and sprinkled cheddar over the top. “Want this?” Ginny shook her head. “No. I’ll fix my own.” Davy grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and sat down. “Quit thinking about that bird,” he said. “And stay away from it. You’ll get Avian flu or something.” *** Ginny slept in the next morning even though she usually got up with Davy. She laid in bed and listened to the songbirds and metallic clap of leaves. When Davy came in to slip on his shoes, she kept her eyes closed until he nudged her. “You’re not sick are you?” he said. “I told you that bird was no good.” Ginny turned over and pulled the blanket over her ears. “No. I’m just tired,” she said. “It’s not the bird.” Davy stepped away without saying goodbye. She waited for the door to shut and kicked off the sheets and pulled on a robe. Going to the kitchen, she poured the last cup of coffee and stood by the window in her bare feet. Shreds of pink clouds crossed over the sun, scattering thin shadows on the ground. She blinked as the sun grew brighter, then saw the striped tabby as it prowled on the deck. “Hey.” Ginny rapped on the window. The cat stopped and stared. Ginny cinched the sash on her robe and stepped outside. She threw a stick. Then a pebble. The cat skirted away. “Get the hell outta here.” Ginny shook her fist. A breeze blew her hair over her face as the cat raced into an overgrown yew. Turning to go back in, she noticed a stray candy wrapper from the neighbor’s garbage and bent down to pick it up. Before she could grab it, the wind tossed it toward the feeder and toward the red bird, laying twisted and twitching near the edge of the deck. “Oh no.” Ginny hurried to the red bird and knelt beside it. The bird tweeted violently and spun in a circle, one wing stretched fully, the other crooked and sticking up like a sail. “Be still,” she whispered. “Sh-sh-sh.” Peeling off her robe, Ginny mounded it in a pile and sculpted the edges to make a soft pocket in the center. The bird blinked, its gray beak half open. “Here baby.” Ginny cupped her hands under the bird’s belly, feeling the rapid beat of its heart. The bird’s broken wing fluttered as its good wing slapped her forearms. “Here you go. Sh-sh-sh.” Ginny set the bird on the robe, watching it struggle to pull its wings back in place. She noticed the missing tail feathers, and the pimpled skin on the back of its head where feathers had been. She wiped the grit from the bird’s back using the tip of her pajama top, and removed a tangle of short dry grass from the bird’s tiny talons. “What ‘cha got there?” Ginny turned when she heard a raspy voice. A man in an over-washed bucket hat and crooked aviator glasses was peering through the slats of the deck. “A scarlet tanager,” Ginny said. “It’s hurt.” The man stood on his tip-toes and gripped the rail for balance. “You don’t say.” The man cleared phlegm from his throat. “They don’t usually come up this far.” The bird chirped as its legs curled toward its belly. “It’s really hurt,” Ginny said. “I think that cat did it.” The man shook his head. “Could be,” he said. “Damn cats.” Ginny stroked the bird’s downy belly. “It’s heart,” she said. “It’s beating so fast.” The wrinkles deepened on the man’s face. “Best leave it be,” he frowned. “I can’t,” she said. “It needs help.” The man smoothed the oily gray hairs that stuck from his hat. He gazed at the sky and pushed up his glasses. “I wouldn’t,” he said. “Birds like that. They don’t belong here.” Ginny crouched as the splinters from the worn deck pierced her knees. The bird cheeped quietly as its eyes began to close. “Better wash your hands,” the man said grimly. “Those migrating birds carry disease, you know.” Ann Kammerer Ann Kammerer lives in East Lansing, Michigan, where she works as a freelancer for business and higher ed. Her short fiction has appeared in several regional publications and magazines, and has received top honours in fiction writing contests. **
1 Comment
Sylvia Vaughn
1/26/2020 03:08:29 am
Interesting poetic responses; kudos to all. I especially liked the final 2 lines of Alarie Tennille's Sea Change; they succinctly capture contemporary headlines. Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
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May 2023
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