Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing 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 The Skt. Wandanna Cathedral in Band Hain, by Adolf Wolfli. Deadline is July 8, 2022 . 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. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click below to share a five spot through PayPal or credit card. Thank you. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. 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 WOLFLI 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. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, July 8, 2022. 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 will no longer send out sorry notices or yes letters. 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. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. 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! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. 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! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. Outsider Art: an Ekphrastic Discovery Workshop
CA$30.00
Join us on online on Thursday, July 7 from 3 to 5 PM Eastern Standard Time to learn about "Outsider Art," a problematic umbrella term for self-taught art, Art Brut, prison art, art of artists with mental illness, art of artists who are not literate, remote artists' art, some folk art, "raw art," and more. The world of outsider art- art outside the mainstream of the art world narrative- is a fascinating tapestry of human histories. Writers will find endless inspiration in the biographies of trial and triumph and in rich and curious paintings, sculptures, and art environments of artists like Bill Traylor, Sister Gertrude, Henry Darger and many more. We will take a visual tour through outsider art's history, highlighting some fascinating pictures and stories. There will be some creative brainstorming exercises to spark imagination and ideas, and a chance to start or write a poem or story. Doors open at 2.45 PM EST, for those who wish to meet and mingle. We prefer to end our workshops organically after our last discussion and exercise, so they may go overtime. No refunds for cancellations, sorry. We will happily move you to a future workshop if you cannot attend. Our workshops are all about community, creativity, and conversation! We encourage discussion and sharing. We strive for an environment that is both challenging and supportive, to grow your writing practice in unexpected directions. Join us to learn more about "Outsider Art," a fascinating voyage into the struggles and triumph of the human imagination. Outsider Art is a problematic blanket term that refers to remote artists, self-taught artists, artists inside of institutions like prisons, orphanages, or asylums, visionary artists, and other people "outside" mainstream art society. This field is a personal passion of Lorette's!
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Why? Swords, axes fly sink into soft flesh eyes wide fear emanates why? Torn from mother’s arms they fall they cry hearts broken pierced from under desks sound of whimpers drowned out tears streak faces why? Teachers’ arms spread wide to protect shocked faces bullets fly into youth innocent blood spilled death reigns gun, swords kill the same but why blank stares crowd, school slaughtered voice shouts there’s one alive over here Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a poet and writer of YA fiction, often addressing teen issues of bullying, abandonment and alcoholism. She shares her home with two rescued feral cats, quiet companions that indulge her poetry recitations. A Pushcart nominee, Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, working in-home with seniors. Her work appears in various journals including Misfit, Open Door and The Ekphrastic Review. ** Good Karma "In esoteric religions, Karma is the sum of a person's actions in this and previous existence, actions that decide their fate in future generations." -a definition of karma "The child is father to the man." Wordsworth, My Heart Leaps Up The basket was empty. The lights outside the window had calmed her night terrors and she had seen his face in the patterns of the stars. If you have loved, you will be loved her grandmother had said and a photographer had taken her picture with weavers braiding fibers lining baskets with cushions of soft grasses; smoothing fabric -- almost transparent in its thinness -- over the once-green filaments, rhyming nature with the impossible emptiness she felt trying to imagine herself in the arms of a myth, a man, half sun god (or so the stories said) and part as human as the bully who chased her around the playground because "he liked her" -- what would he have done if his motivation had been hatred of her color? Of her hair, filled with fake diamonds when she dressed up for a dance? Her mother had said Karna (on a bad day, his storm predicted) had lifted her from the basket; how the basket was whirling in the waters of a creek, fast and gentle fractured in currents of possibility & sorrow how she was adopted like a debt conceived in innocence: He called her Karma, his hands unbraiding the vast uncertainty of chance. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp has been honored with multiple acceptances by The Ekphrastic Review. LIsted as one of ten Fantastic Ekphrastics and nominated for Best of The Net, she lives and writes in Houston. Fascinated by Hindu Mythology, she spent hours of her life in Rice University's Fondren Library, compelled and challenged by the Sanskrit Dictionary, where she found descriptions in the Gita comparable to those in early Irish legend. (Karma is a major character in the Gita, half god and half man.) As a mother and grandmother, she found it almost impossible to write about Rubens' Massacre of The Innocents, the Challenge picture selected near breaking news of American tragedy, the massacre of innocents in Uvalde. ** Walking to School Let me pull on your cotton socks, just so. I know how your soles react. Look, look in the mirror at how the curls crowning your pale forehead spring back after each stroke of the brush. Let’s go. Step outside and wonder at this stick, this puddle, that dog. Hold my fingers tight when we cross each road. Nestle snug in my arms against the wind that threatens to lift you. You are delivered. Give me a soft kiss, just here. Listen hard. I wear red because I am not afraid. Mama is ready to bare her chest and fight. She will gouge the eyes that flash evil, so, when the man comes with the gun, don’t wait, run. Run. Eithne Longstaff Eithne Longstaff: "I’m new to the poetry world and looking forward to MA study later this year. After a career as an engineer working in industry, poetry is opening my mind and twanging rusty creative strings." ** Cry of the Innocents Herod, Hitler, Putin. Bethlehem, Auschwitz, Mariupol. We cry to Heaven for sanity. Sound sleep the angels. Stephen Poole. Stephen Poole served for 31 years in the Metropolitan Police in London, England. He has written for a variety of British county and national magazines, and his poetry has been published internationally. ** In · no · cence /ˈinəsəns/ noun 1. The sky was not a thunderstorm, the sun was shifting blue to gold peaceful, for what do the heavens know of the ambitions of man? How were the clouds to know they were supposed to gather in knitted judgement, to help wash the blood down the streets, to flood the city until the foundation of the walls were permanently stained red? 2. Chubby ankles are flung into the walls; I will never question where Cherubs come from, or who their makers are. A mother bores her eyes into the whites of her child’s, attempts to untangle his soul from hers and transfer it back to him, but she hasn’t realized he’s just a memory now and that their next moments together are already gone, replaced with midnight funeral rites and the carrying of his small body to get him there. 3. Guards change their synonyms from protectors and escorts to slayers and pawns. Look at how they fall, all swords, hands, and babies. Mothers claw and curve their backs over their children, and the earth does not shake for them. Mea Andrews Mea Andrews is a writer from Georgia, who currently resides in China. She has just finished her MFA from Lindenwood University and is only recently back on the publication scene. You can find her in Vermilion, Rappahannock Review, and others. You can also follow her on Instagram at mea_writes or go to her website at meaandrews.com ** The Mothers Rachel wept unceasing for her children were no more Rubens' mothers struggled yet fought back arms muscular and desperate tearing at their faces... the killers of the children. Would mothers who had no chance to confront the attacker envy those women a chance to die for their children a luxury the ruthlessness of the killer not granting? A blood tornado sweeping little Bethlehem repeated in so many towns-- Columbine, Sandy Hook, Uvalde-- a litany of teddy bears hover near a pool of light. 19 voices sing no more their desperate cries hollow echoing crying for help from men who failed them. I weep for my own child relive her passing a shiver passes over me I grab for air as I know if the mothers had been the other side of the door they would have taken the guns from stunned men and raged, raged, raged into that day. Carol Lee Saffioti-Hughes Carol Lee Saffioti-Hughes is a retired professor and former librarian in a log cabin in the north woods of Wisconsin. Her publications include work in Poetry Hall, Poetry Quarterly, The Greensboro Review, The Malahat Review, and Moss Pigletas well as many others. Work has been anthologized in UnSettling America (Penguin Press), and Root River Voices, and Artery anthologies. She has participated in ekphrastic readings at several art galleries. Her chapbook The Lost Italian and the Sound of Words is no longer in print, but queries are welcome. ** Rubens’ Anatomy Lesson His first version of The Massacre of the Innocents (1612) is an unapologetic display of Paul Rubens’ anatomic acumen. The composition is appropriately chaotic, the scene frenzied. But the frame is carefully posed to provide the artist an occasion to explore from different angles the subtle play of muscles beneath exposed skin. The anatomist will astutely point out the elements: See, here in the figure just left of center, we note the flexed deltoid and elevated scapulae, the contracted rhomboids between the shoulder blades expressing the tension of the upper back. And there, in the figure on the right, a fine study of the extension of the upper arms, lifting the child. Observe the well-positioned triceps, two of its three heads visible in each arm, and the extended pectoralis. Note how the artist contrasts these muscle positions with those in the more relaxed posture of the figure to his right. The artist has some difficulty with the abdominals, you can see, and hence they are mostly obscured in the three male figures. The obliques for example are concealed in shadow and by a curiously contorted abdominal wall in the figure to our right. But there is fluidity here; no hint of the static tension in over-contracted muscles. Rubens has done well also in contrasting the fleshier texture and lighter hues of the central female. He errs greatly, however, in the adult-like muscularity of the infants. It is exuberant self-indulgence. *** Rubens’ study is largely a success in anatomic position, proportion, and balance. We cannot be certain how serious he is about the massacre itself, though. The faces of the women are mostly passive, with fear creeping in on the right margin alone. Torment is reserved solely for the frozen expressions of the dead—but no blood, anywhere. There are no signs of trauma. The sword does not yet penetrate, the hand resisting it not yet slashed. Nor is any moment of death revealed—only its imminent proximity and its sullen aftermath. It is a scene frozen as if in cinematic preparation. Violence is left to Rubens’ second effort in 1638. Here, blades breach and blood flows. Death is kinetic, validating the work’s proper title. Ron Wetherington Ron Wetherington is a retired anthropologist and university professor living in Dallas, Texas. He has a published novel, Kiva, non-fiction in The Dillydoun Review and The Ekphrastic Review (forthcoming), and fiction in Words & Whispers and in Flash Fiction Magazine. ** Massacre of the Innocents I heard them inside my head. Those terrifying cries. The sound of them moved the brush in my hand with painful exactitude. If there could be no virtue in this world, there would be on this canvas. That was my innocence. Twice, history says — twenty-five years between — I drew from my palette this protest in excruciating colour. Against the slaughter of children, who barely know life. Against the anguish of mothers, who can only scratch the face of evil. Against the destruction of flesh by flesh. But history is wrong. Not twice, but every day I make this painting in my mind. Because they offer me no choice. Those who kill for gain. Those driven by personal demons. And those who watch the death of innocents. This is the death of innocence. Raphael Badagliacca Raphael Badagliacca is the author of two books (Father’s Day: Encounters with Everyday Life, and The Yogi Poems and Other Celebrations of Local Baseball) and 17 produced plays. He has written and performed nearly a hundred monologues. He writes in many genres: poetry, short stories, essays, book, movie, and theater reviews. He wrote English subtitles from Italian & Sicilian for the film, Many Beautiful Things (“Tanti Beddi Cosi”). Samples of his extensive business writings can be found at www.thewritingfactory.net. Author page: (https://www.amazon.com/~/e/B0053HM2R4) Reach him at raphael@thewritingfactory.net ** Irresponsible Uncle “The party got a little wild,” Brutus said. “The wailing, the moaning – all because some baby got tossed in the Baby Tossing Contest that hadn’t been registered by a responsible parent. An irresponsible uncle, apparently drunk on wine and mead, deep in the cups, deeper at the tables. So he signs up his nephew, who lost horribly, grotesquely even. Then the bloke starts stabbing people, getting his purse back by bleeding theirs. Got what he wanted, plus a few nights in the morgue with a bunch of spirits that didn’t like him.” Tony Daly Tony Daly is a Washington DC/Metro Area creative writer. His poem “Sunita Soars” (first published in Utopia Science Fiction, February 2021) was nominated for a 2022 Dwarf Stars Award with the Science Fiction Poetry Association (SFPA). For a list of his published work, please visit https://aldaly13.wixsite.com/website or follow him on Twitter @aldaly18. ** Our Calibre of Prayer Oh dear God, how can we hold it all in the palms of our hands, stained red like targets? We should have nailed it by now. We live with our faith overflowing, we praise the Almighty Weapons in our hands. Witness our children witnessing. Oh dear God, how have we led our children to slaughter, falling one by one, their little palms bloody? We stick to the script, sure, moral high ground and hollow points. We conceal our guilt, screaming for mercy. Still, we teach our children Amen. Heather Brown Barrett Heather Brown Barrett is a poet and member of Hampton Roads Writers. She lives in Virginia, mothering her young son and contemplating the meaning of life, the universe, and everything with her writer husband, Bradley Barrett. Her poetry has been published by Yellow Arrow Journal, OyeDrum Magazine, AvantAppal(achia), Defenestration, The Ekphrastic Review, Superpresent Magazine, Backwards Trajectory, and by SEZ Publishing. ** The Gospel of Saint Matthew No evil could be laid more bare than senseless act to leave despair those torn from nurture never know as seed we bury meant to grow allegiance we will hold above the liberty far more we love than innocents we give as price to be the blood of sacrifice -- all those we've sent to keep us free well knowing they might never be and those forsaken bearing scorn whose only crime was being born forgotten as the reason why the crowd insisted "Crucify!" Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. 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 ** Slaughter of the Innocents Reubens painted this nightmare twice, this desperate knot a storm of flesh on the canvas women fighting hand to hand with armed men, over the bodies of babies they can’t save the ground slick with blood littered with the newly born, newly dead Teaching us there is no mercy for the small and weak so easy to break, so hard to save While we repeat the nightmare like a bad habit, a ritual of anger and despair of losses we swallow so often we forget to choke Even now, on this ordinary day when the boy comes carrying his new guns into the classroom of children half his age and begins to shoot Where the children try to hide curl up, play dead cover their faces with their classmates blood clutch their phones and beg No one comes They are already ghosts rising like smoke above bodies torn to rags On this ordinary day no one makes it home again no one is rescued, no one saved the scent of their short lives burning like incense before an unnamed god Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, and recent issues of Earth’s Daughters and Third Wednesday. She has been a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. ** convocation before is a word that conjures after breath creates life death is a burning silence that has no end broken the membrane between spirit is an idea that exists beyond matter sheltered embodied vesseled a gun is an instrument that stills the heart bones ashes dust Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Her poetry is usually written in conjunction with her artwork. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/, and see more of her work on her website http://kerferoig.com/ ** Questa è Guerra: Musings on Peter Paul Rubens’ Massacre of the Innocents I pull up Peter Paul Rubens’ Massacre of the Innocents on my computer and for a few seconds I admire the expertise of Rubens’ brush; the dynamism of the composition; the influences of his travels through Italy, the vivid saturated hues so reminiscent of Raphael, the animal physicality that recalls Michelangelo’s paintings on the Sistine Chapel. But this feeling does not last. I cannot help but see the infant corpse whose face has turned blue; the old woman grasping the blade of the sword aimed at her bare breast; the child about to be dashed against the ground while its mother reaches out her arms pleading for her child’s life. I don’t know who can look at this painting and not feel sickened. I can’t. These last months alone have delivered a surfeit of war, a glut of massacres. There is no beauty in butchery. Most art, it seems to me, and painting in particular, is in the business of wooing the eye and spirit with a seductive dream of harmony and wholeness. This canvas is cut from a different cloth, a reminder of the poison at the heart of humanity’s terrible bewildering history. Rubens, like Goya and Picasso and Salvador Dali and Eugene Delacroix and Maruki Iri and Maruki Toshi, and so many others, has used art as a way to say, Look; don’t turn away; see what war has done. I blink, and I am standing in front of Picasso’s Guernica, holding my mother’s hand at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. I am only a child, five or seven or ten years old, and I do not understand what I see. On my mother’s face, though, are tears. I blink again, and I am a grown woman, with children of my own, and I am in Paris, standing in front of Picasso’s Massacre en Corée, the artist’s response to the 1951 Sinchon Massacre of Korean civilians by American troops. This time there are tears on my face. I blink and turn away. The TV is on, and the news is of the dead and dying in Ukraine, whole cities demolished, rubble now. My grandfather was born in Ukraine. Nobody knows the number of Ukrainian dead, or the number of Ukrainian children stolen from their parents and taken hostage into Russia. A third world war has been unthinkable, but few of us living in Europe believe Putin will stop at Ukraine. I blink and turn away, and in front of my eyes are the children killed in mass shootings across the United States. Twelve killed at Columbine High in 1999. Twenty killed at Sandy Hook Elementary School in 2012. Nineteen killed at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas, just over a week ago. Another mass shooting since then, even before the Uvalde children were buried. There are so many other deaths, an impossible number. The parents of children who have died in mass shootings have created a support group. They call it “The Dead Kid Club.” We watch the news from our apartment in Amsterdam. Our friends here cannot understand how the U.S. allows this to continue. We try to explain, but there is no explanation. There are no paintings of the children killed at Columbine, or Sandy Hook, or Uvalde. We have been spared that. I blink again, and I am in Padua, Italy, in 2015, in a museum hosting a photography exhibit. Questa è Guerra: This is War. My husband and I hadn’t planned to spend our afternoon looking at black and white photos of such brutality. When we boarded the train in Venice that morning, we expected to explore beautiful old churches with frescoes and colorful open-air markets, to sit in cafes over espresso and gelato. But the path from the train station to the central market took us past the banner announcing the exhibit and we looked at each other and went in. My pace through the exhibit is initially slow, leisurely, lingering here and there over particularly moving photos. But soon it is too much: there are too many photographs of too much carnage, wall after wall after wall of war after war after war, and I walk rapidly through the rooms until I reach a bench and sit down. A short documentary film is playing on a large screen facing the bench. It is by Henri Cartier-Bresson on the prisoners of war in WWII. The film plays, finishes, and people get up, but I cannot move. The film begins again, and again I watch. My husband finds me, sits down next to me. Tears are going down my face. I cannot speak. My father was eighteen years old when his plane was shot down over the Netherlands and he was taken to a POW camp in Germany. My father would never speak of his experiences, although the reports of others — which I delayed reading until years after his death — tell of atrocities and starvation. My father returned to New York looking like a survivor of a concentration camp, but the more serious wounds were internal, and these never healed. By the time I sat on the bench watching Cartier-Bresson’s documentary, my father had been dead for almost a decade and there was no way to tell him I was sorry for judging him so callously with all the blind self-righteousness of youth. What was in Rubens’ mind when he planned The Massacre of the Innocents? What was Picasso thinking when he began work on Guernica and Le Massacre en Corée? What was Cartier-Bresson’s intent when he photographed the prisoners of war? What can art do in the face of humanity’s barbarity, its endless appetite for power and violence? And how will we respond? Kimmen Sjölander Kimmen Sjölander is an evolutionary biologist, writer, and professor emeritus from the University of California, Berkeley. Her creative work has appeared in The Moth, Still Point Arts Quarterly, and the Buddhist periodical, Lions Roar. She lives in Amsterdam, Netherlands, with her husband. ** Depravity Wars, battles and bodies, Piled like garbage in a dump Limbs askew, eyes begging Blood soaked canvas of depravity Nowhere to go but die. Where is God? Where is grace? Nothing but a figment, or fragment Of imagination. Look again and weep, no yell At depravity for It remains until today. Weep, weep, weep. Ellie Klaus Ellie Klaus was born and raised in Montreal. She has lived different selves over several decades: daughter, wildlife biology graduate, vision quest traveler, family life educator, president (of her son's school committee), friend, confidante, lover, wife, mother, caregiver and now caregivee, if there is such a word. Each has contributed to a different perspective of living, of life. The pieces of the puzzle are evident and coming together, although the final image is yet to be revealed. So, writing has reemerged as a creative endeavor to release some of the angst that arises from living a confined life, or any life for that matter. She has a poem entitled 'Bones' that appears on NationalPoetryMonth.ca April 9, 2020 and poems published in The Ekphrastic Review and Pocket Lint. ** Fighting For the Lives of the Innocents we wince we’re numb Rubens calls us to bear witness to a slaughter on this main street of mothers’ screams The artist pleads STOP this 17th century’s version of King Herod’s massacre last week in Texas tears fell on the sidewalk of Robb Elementary parents waited for the innocents whose laughter will cease to echo in the streets as they ride bikes jump rope it used to be safe at schools movie theaters grocery stores malls churches now young killers roam the halls filled with venom and their assault rifles these horrors will never stop nor will the heroes who die fighting for the lives of the innocents Jennifer B. Kahnweiler Jennifer B. Kahnweiler: "I am a non-fiction business writer based in Atlanta, GA but found my true creative calling during the pandemic when poetry drew me in. I received the 2022 Natasha Trethewey Poetry Prize from the Atlanta Writers Club for my poem, "While Waiting for Her Name to Be Called" and have been taking poetry workshops, attending readings and buying poetry collections to my delight. Ekphrastic poetry is a true find and has helped me rediscover the joy I felt when the lights went out in my art history classes." ** Villanelle: Massacre of the Innocents Too late, too late! Already it occurs: naked, armed, and strong, at Herod’s command, the soldiers have begun the massacre. In the streets, mothers and infants slaughtered; their shrieks and cries echo throughout the land, and it’s too late! Already it occurs: all of Bethlehem is filled with horror. Into innocent breasts, daggers are rammed; the soldiers have begun the massacre. In the middle of the chaos and the gore, a woman, her red dress torn, claws a man, but too late, too late, already it occurs: while a dying woman falls against her, she cannot hold her boy with just one hand. The soldiers have begun the massacre. The future king of Jews, Jesus, savior, must be found. On this day, babies are damned. Too late, too late! It already occurs: the soldiers have begun the massacre. Gregory E. Lucas Gregory E. Lucas writes fiction and poetry. His short stories and poems have appeared in magazines such as Blue Unicorn, The Horror Zine, Yellow Mama, and in previous pages of The Ekphrastic Review. He lives in Hilton Head, South Carolina. He can be contacted at GLucas6696@gmail.com. ** Massacre of the Innocent Innocence is an inborn flight, so, why on earth, someone would hit the only winged human wealth?! You wouldn’t watch such film, but since it is the book of books, you undertake the pilgrimage to the biblical meaning and battle incredible Old Testament impediments, such as fratricide, incest, misuse; in search. Hence, when you get on the New Testament highway you expect a smoother ride and a fresher hue of life. You join shepherds, magi and angels rejoicing at the messiah’s arrival in the manger, but an inauspicious word soon shades the wonder: Herod, the mighty king, decides to make extinct the prophesied conqueror of the Royal throne, and since the magi do not return to inform him who exactly is the god’s son, he orders to be put to death all the male children in Bethlehem and its vicinity at the age of two and under. At the same time, the messiah’s worldly father follows the advice he receives in sleep and takes the mother and infant to Egypt. The butchery proceeds with no effect, yet, the insane horror spills mammoth in Rubens’ canvas turned beast’s paw where small and giant bodies are antithetically cramped, tender tissue is adversely crushed, no pose, no gap, no vistas, just untouchable heat of hell; unlike visions with more lingering spell such as that of Raphael, whose cold suspense delivers swift sward offence on an arena of spiked chaotic run, where horror scratches the air, pain and hope hang on a piece of hair, even sliced in two, in this high renaissance portmanteau. Rubens, instead, ties it all in a baroque knot, flesh, tissue, skin, heads, bodies, limbs – gruesomely pressed in predator’s clench, goliathic muscles flatten baby cells by hand, no allusion of escape, all swallowed by a pale gasping colorscape with just two respiratory hues – red, stamping the earthly blood and blue, upholding the heavenly clue, that they didn’t die in death, instead they live in higher world in bliss. Rubens reaches this higher spot in six years, untying the massacre knot and releasing the Holy Innocents to enfold The Virgin and the Child like petals trouping around the pistil, this parabolic flower dipped in a leaped quantum cloud – curating thus the martyrdom allegory: in physical terms this baby army is no stronger than a flower, but sacrificed for God it gains higher lot than all kings’ armies on earth – a quantum leap setting the meaning in an eye’s blink. These monstrous muscles raging massacre, tearing babies from mothers’ breasts, causing milk-spill over hairy butchers’ sweat, this atrocious act deconstructs the macabre might and wings the innocence’ rubensed flight. No more no less – quantum exactness. If Rubens’ baroque passions deliver the salient dramatic power, his real diplomatic skills procure the exchange rate mechanism of the essential energy dynamism maturing the type of physical installment as quantifier of the metaphysical elopement. The rate that sets armies on their knees, believers in meditative tears, nonbelievers as converts. Like the daily leap when you breathe a blossomed flower in a moonlight hour, but see an altar’s incense burner and Rubens’ parabolic bloomer: no mort no birth, just the winged exchange rate of the two currencies of quantum holiness. Ekaterina Dukas . Ekaterina Dukas has studied linguistics and culture at Universities of Sofia, Delhi and London and authored a book on mediaeval art for The British Library. She enjoys studying Sanskrit. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review and its challenges selection several times. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni, 2021. ** A Scene of Chaos Such a scene of chaos greets my eyes--muscular men, well-fed babes being dashed to death soldiers, women trying to save their children entangled in a ball of horror. I note, though that the scene is bloodless, that the buildings are intact. Rubens had not wanted to horrify his audience to their core. Buildings are crushed into piles of disconnected stones. I look across the room at a small figurine, bought for Christmas, then kept for year-round display—“The Flight into Egypt.” Three people and a donkey make up the statue—the ones who fled the scene, the refugees the Romans sought, the ones the false rulers feared. In Ukraine, the Russians, seeking to be rulers where they are not wanted, have no such qualms. They leave a scene of death and despair dripping in blood. As the Russians bomb, blast, burning Ukrainian books, spill the blood of the innocents, in an effort to destroy their world, their futures, I weep. But my tears will not wash away the blood. My hands are not capable of replacing, rebuilding stone on stone, to rebuild the world, rewrite their books. I cannot quell the chaos. I can, however, look to refugees, and so many holy families who flee the massacre. I can be their Egypt. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta tells tales on page and stage. Her writing has been published in The Ekphrastic Review and other journals and she appears on stage telling stories of social justice, strong women, food, and family. “Encouraging words through Pen and Performance” is her motto. ** Innocence Aftermath Nothing new here. Hasn’t it always been so, this othering? Desire to rid ourselves from threat to the kingdom of self. Murderers might be armored with righteous fervor or crowned with orders to obey. Perhaps untethered voices scramble one’s mind and a rapacious quest to still them. Some baked-in-trait, trick or taint in our genes commandeers our heads. Centuries of bloodshed. Blood as dictator and treasure. More valued than gold. Yet, it’s the naked violence against children, slaughter of the defenseless we seem unable to quell. We are sick. Of it all. Aren’t we? Suzanne Edison Suzanne Edison’s first full length book, Since the House Is Burning, by MoonPath Press was published in 2022. Her chapbook, The Body Lives Its Undoing, was published in 2018. Poetry can be found in: Bracken; Michigan Quarterly Review; The Lily Poetry Review; Scoundrel Time; JAMA; SWWIM; and elsewhere. She is a 2019 Hedgebrook alum and teaches at Richard Hugo House in Seattle. ** The Innocents on My Street I live in a major city in Texas, in a craftsman bungalow built in 1926, situated half a block from an elementary school. Each day, parents and children pass along the white picket fence in front of my house, walking to and from school the way I did sixty years ago. What could appear more wholesome and innocent, more Normal Rockwell? Every day, a letter or postcard arrives in my mailbox: “We will pay cash for your house.” Well-to-do young parents make over-the-value offers to live in this revitalized neighborhood where mammoth two-story houses replace small cottages. They want their kids to attend this school that is winning awards for its achievements in educating the young. But Texas is a state of open carry, concealed carry, permitless carry. How long will these innocents be safe? How long before someone walks past my home with a gun? Or maybe people walk past my house with guns every day. After all, they don’t have to have a permit to obtain one. They can legally conceal it. Texas has a governor and a host of politicians indebted to the National Rifle Association. In a world where actions speak louder than words, they support increasingly lenient gun laws in the face of increasing tragedies. As though firearms were their most valuable possessions. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg is a devotee of ekphrastic poetry. Her poetic and prose responses to art have been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Words and Art, and three volumes of ekphrastic poetry from Friendswood Public Library: Do You See the Way The Light, Still the Waves Beat, and Words Become Shadows as Our Spirits Rise. Her poetry also accompanied an art exhibit at Houston Jung Center in 2019. In 2018, she co-edited Echoes of the Cordillera, published by the Museum of the Big Bend, ekphrastic responses of 39 poets to the photography of Jim Bones. ** The Ghost Shall Return The grey was everywhere Squeezing through the meshed doors and windows, Growing into a giant shadow with a troubled soul. Thrusting like the lightning splitting the sky, Shutting eyes, piling bodies over bodies. The ghost shall return tonight Of horror avenged by the mother- A child knows no fear Holds no grievance As were you once, a wish Held in someone else's arms- The bloodlines shall scar your face Writ your palms with curses Tell tales of laments and disgrace- In dreams you shall be the child Grieving in arms Over the blood that had flowed then. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing the most. 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, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing 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 Factum 1, by Robert Rauschenberg. Deadline is June 24, 2022 . 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. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click below to share a five spot through PayPal or credit card. Thank you. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. 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 RAUSCHENBERG 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. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, June 24, 2022. 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 will no longer send out sorry notices or yes letters. 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. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. 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! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. 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! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. Moretta 0. No going back. It is black on white: he is a cheat. Horizon crumbles bleak. Moretta abandons its mystique. Water quits its belly dancing. The silhouette is licked up by the mist. The edifice towers like a bully’s fist. The stair leads to nowhere. 1. I believed that mother earth wouldn’t be able to make a move at such a dreadful news. I was sure our favorite canal, where he took me for the ball, would fully dry at my soul’s dire cry. I imagined our august Serenissima sinking in gloom at such a doom. No. None. They all mumbled their usual sailing song as if nothing under the sun was wronged. I’m hurt more by their neglect than by his double mindset – yesterday inamorato, today maledetto. Fake. Awake. 2. How – what – why?! My thought is rocking mislead like a gondola banging the canal’s end. My breast is bouncing like fish out of water splashing the air with vaulting despair. My blood is flooding my heart like Aqua Alta the square of Saint Marco. 3. It turned phantom, his small sandolo, that used to take me at midnight colluding tight like sardines in it and ferry me beyond the world, now sinking in one single word – infidelity. There is only one answer to that – vendetta. This is the tide of the rattle! This is the heart of the matter! I can never restore my virtues better but with a proper vendetta. I will never cool my blood without striking vendetta in his heart. I will never find sleep unless I dip in vendetta. 4. I will put on my moretta – eyes flashing flames, lips dancing poise, hands gliding silk, and with a siren’s sprezzatura will lure him in silent bravura by the dark side of our canal where at the corner, I am sure, he will attempt to tear my shawl, to plant his inamorato’s kiss as before, I’ll then pull my moretta and treat him like maledetto: I’ll kiss and bite, hug and strike, look and char, speak and spike – gusting syllables shall rain flame, petal and thorn, as a red rose under a storm – if this doesn’t force him to jump in the water ready to drown his dull adultery clatter, though this canal is shallow for that matter, then he is beyond cure, even by vendetta. 5. Vendetta would matter for a romantic trespasser who kneeling confesses his sin and rising gets on the ladder of divine accent; not for the habitual go-getter who randomly sinks his own stature. If this turns to be the case, I’ll then leave it all to Fate. I’ll save my tender heart from hate. I’ll keep my sweet soul elate. Eventualmente, under my trusted moretta I may befriend vendetta as my future playmate. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas has studied and taught linguistics and culture at universities of Sofia, Delhi and London and authored a book on mediaeval art for The British Library. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to meaning. Her poems appeared in Ekphrastic Review and have been honoured in its Challenge selection several times. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021. ** The Year I Went Without Having Sworn Vengeance I had first worn it instead like a mask. As black as a thought denied air. That still only hinted at death. The same death that worriedly rid itself. Of loose threads. And souls forever lost on the world. When it thought no one looked. And the same mask I tried out on another. As the evening cooled. And the stairs rested for a time. But it asked far too much of me. Made too damning a case for my guilt. And then had worn it like a veil that had lived. Its entire life in the shadows. Until that moment it might be. Kissed back into the light. Free of desire. Or references to desire. And I had worn it another time like a shawl. That betrayed little of its own needs. Only mine. Its forlornness washed again and again. In the lunar blue waters. Only to be reborn. As the lunar blue waters themselves. And had finally worn it like a dress that said. Nothing of the body that had worn it. Never mind itself. Mark DeCarteret Poems from Mark DeCarteret’s manuscript The Year I/We Went Without have been taken by The American Poetry Review, Hole in the Head Review, Meat for Tea, Nixes Mate Review, Plume Literary Journal and Unbroken. ** Vengeance is Sworn the spying sun receding at dusk diffuses yellow suspicions across calm canals spotlights her flawless face her divine décolletage her darkened eyes and flushed cheeks beauty admired by him in yesterday’s first light of love canals wait patiently for the traded words to sink like a millennium of words before her to carry vengeance to the depths of Aion’s memory to merge with the eternalised cycles of failed love gliding and twisting through time’s flesh in a flash in La Serenissima, she is not serene she saw him at Carnevale with her Cara, la maschera, her friend pleads she is not afraid to show herself Dammela, she demands, la lettera my quilled words are not hollow this Kairos moment is mine in the last light of this day Caterina Mastroianni Italian translations: La Serenissima: refers to the Republic of Venice Carnevale: carnival Cara, la maschera: dear, your mask Dammela, la lettera: give it to me, the letter Caterina Mastroianni is an Italian-born Australian poet living in on the land of the Cadigal and Wangal people of the Eora nation. She has published poetry in various literary magazines and four Australian anthologies, most recently in the Live Encounters Poetry and Writing Journal and in the Poetry for the Planet: An Anthology of Imagined Futures anthology by Litoria Press. ** When the Mask Comes Off She pecked his cheek, extended the handle on her bag, and glided out the door. Her coat tails and wavy mahogany tresses floated up to wave goodbye. Katelyn furrowed her forehead. A nagging sensation persisted, but she still left Truman for her best friend, Scarlett. Venice awaited the pair. It had been too long since the two best friends traveled abroad. From the curb, she hailed a cab. The worn vinyl sang when she got in. Following the key and notes composed by her fidgeting, the tune continued. When the car shifted out of traffic to make its second stop, Katelyn noticed a woman waiting on the sidewalk, her wild hair piled atop of her head, set ablaze by the setting sun’s rays. With her hip, Scarlett held up her overstuffed bag. As the trunk closed, the new passenger slid in, and the cab drifted back into a lane. On her lap, Katelyn rested her clenched hands, but Scarlett pulled them apart, intertwining her fingers with her friend’s. “I cannot wait. Venice, here we come! Are ya ready for us?” Scarlett interrupted the mundane silence with a splash of exuberance. In the rearview mirror, the driver eyed the pair. He nodded and winked, wearing an understanding smirk. Katelyn loosened her friend’s grip, “God, when was the last time we took a trip? Just us?” “Leaving the guys behind. This is going to be freakin’ fantastic.” As the cabbie pulled away from the international terminal, he yelled from the open window. “Have a good time, ladies.” On board, the friends settled into their first-class seats. As they organized their in-flight necessities, the two chatted about nothing in particular. Lurching back as the jet left the runway, Scarlett grabbed Katelyn’s hand. “Here we go. I know how nervous you are when you fly.” From the window, Katelyn watched the distance grow between land and sky. “You remember most everything, don’t you?” Her fingers burned in her friend’s grasp. No escape. **** Spring had yet to arrive, but the festive atmosphere warmed Venice. The pair didn’t waste time becoming acquainted with the city. After dropping off their luggage in their shared hotel suite, the women began their exploration. “We need to find out about that ritzy ball. The one George told me about,” Scarlett said. Her handbag swung on her forearm while her hands animated each word. “Can we eat soon? I’m starving.” Katelyn’s voice grieved for a peaceful, solitary moment. Scarlett rolled her eyes. **** Late into the evening, they returned to their lodging’s rented comforts. The conversation may have faltered with her traveling companion, but Scarlett found a listener on the other end of a phone call. From the bathroom, a repulsed Katelyn listened to long-distance wet puckers. Throwing her clothes on the bed, Katelyn said, “I need to give Tru a call. How is Alastor?” Scarlett’s eyes never left the screen as her fingers sped through a maze of letters on her phone’s keyboard. She muttered, “Al is fine.” “Who are you writing to now?” “Um. No one. Nothing. I had some messages I had to answer.” While Scarlett started her preparations for the night, Katelyn relished the silence and picked up her phone. She whispered. “Hey. We made it.” “Buttercup!” She inhaled Truman's sweet voice. “Expecting someone else?” “Nope. I’ve been waiting for your call. Everything going well? “It’s going.” “Ahhhh. You can always come home, you know.” “Venice has a special, infinite beauty. I may never come home.” “Okay. I’ll catch the next flight.” The lightness and familiarity in his voice relaxed her. “We may have to think about that. Baby, we were out all day. Do you mind if we talk tomorrow? What’s your schedule like?” A scrubbed clean woman came out of the bathroom and climbed into her bed. Her eyes avoided Katelyn’s. “Ciao, Babe. Isn’t that what they say? Love you.” Rolled over on her side, Scarlett faced the wall. Katelyn tossed it on the table, then flicked out the light. “Night, Scar.” A muffled response escaped from the mound of covers. **** Costumed and coiffed. Painted faces and nails. The week ended with the grand gala, infamous because of stories recounted by past invitees. During the week, Scarlett had cozied up to some influential Italian and procured two tickets, promising, in return, something she would never pay. “Black?” Scarlett growled. “It has a red petticoat. It leaves something to the imagination.” To traverse the canal, Scarlett ordered a gondola, desiring to make a sublime entrance, given her inferior floral costume. An attendant assisted them as they stepped up onto the marble landing. Two ornate doors of a Renaissance-aged villa opened and allowed them entry. Inside, the ceiling opened to the marvels of a starry sky as disguised guests feasted on food, drink, and other merriments. The women frolicked and danced until a lull fell upon the crowd. Stepping outside, Katelyn gazed over the Adriatic, hypnotized by the city’s lights. Lost in imagination, Scarlett startled her with a touch on the shoulder. Shoulder to shoulder, Scarlett moved closer, her rambunctious voice turned angry, and she scowled. Cheek to cheek, she narrated a tale to an unwilling audience. The redhead’s heated words branded her friend’s loyal heart. “He loves me. I have the proof. Truman wrote me this letter.” In her shaking fist, she displayed a crumpled letter. A weary Katelyn leaned away, attempting to escape the onslaught. When the barrage faded, Katelyn ripped the mask from her face. “You fool, Scarlett. Does Alastor know? He’s too good for you. He doesn’t deserve this.” Scarlett reeled. “I wrote the note. It was me! All this time, I’ve known.” “You’re lying." “What the hell are you thinking? That he would leave me for you? You’re out of your mind. And those text messages? We answered them. Yep - me and Truman — together.” Adjusting her mask, Katelyn, poised in her determined posture, returned inside – and never looked back. Cheryl Ferguson Bernini Cheryl Ferguson Bernini, originally from Connecticut, lives in Italy where she and her husband, Giacomo, share (use that term lightly) their home with four felines. You can read her stories, both fiction and nonfiction (in English and Italian), online and in print. Follow her on Twitter: @FergusonBernini and Facebook: @CFergusonBernini. ** Should I Listen to Her Advice? "See, I said that it was so," you whisper, sibiliating, into my ear, as you try to slide the letter into my sleeve. I push your palm away, preferring not to know. Curiosity overcomes me, though. I grasp the letter greedily, clasping it with my fearful fingers, then remove my mask to read and reveal the truth. I recognize his handwriting, the loop of each "l," "g," and "p," the slant of every "r," and "s," and realize that I have been deceived, definitively. The scent of his cologne emanating from the pages assaults my senses, just as surely and assuredly as it seduced her. I want to inquire how you obtained the letter, yet conclude that it perhaps is better not to know. "You must denounce the scoundrel!" you insist, hissing again into my ear. "Denounce him!" I wonder if revenge really is a dish best served rather cold, or, maybe, "if it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly." Oh, such are the seducing powers of suggestion and persuasion. Renée Szostek Renée Szostek's poems have been published in the Seven Hills Review (2022 and 2021), Panoply, Peninsula Poets, the Pi Mu Epsilon Journal, Integra, and several anthologies published by the Moonstone Press. She won the Third Prize for Poetry at the Westminster Art Festival in 2020 and 2021. The University of Michigan Arts at Michigan Arts Info email newsletter selected four of her haiku poems as "Haiku of the Week." She is a member of the Academy of American Poets, the Poetic Genius Society, and the Poetry Society of Michigan. ** Black Veil The black veil covers the queen’s silky complexion as it blows in the wind atop the castle roof. Her daughter places a gentle hand on her mother’s shoulder, a comforting touch, as she lifts the veil revealing her mother’s solemn expression. Below war looms and the king rides in battle. His crown gleams in the sun light and his horse neighs. Mother and daughter bellow as a sword plunges into the king’s chest, his blood staining the ground. He looks up at his wife and daughter as he takes his last breath. The women cling to each other, weeping, tears drenching their purity and watch as their beloved king is still and silenced, the enemy cheering. The queen pulls her daughter’s veil over her face and the princess pulls her mother’s veil covering her mother’s face once again. Only sorrowful blue eyes appear through the blackness. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published and The Importance of Being Short, in 2019. Her most recent book, In A Flash, was published in the spring of 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** The Cruel Cost of Love You have taken my heart, but your theft will not go unpunished. For all you hold dear dies by revealing the contents of this single, damning letter; I now hold it, and you, in the palm of my hand. It is I who will now be giving the commands. It is I who will now be the real ruler of this land. Behind your glistening golden throne, my puppet, I will be the one pulling the strings; in all but name, I shall be king. Why the fiery eyes? Why the long face? Why the look of shock and horror, Your Grace? Who did you take me for? Some dumb, illiterate whore who would not know, who would not catch on to your crooked plans? But your lips are sealed now because you know as well as I do that they’ll have your head on a platter should this letter ever make its way into their hands. Spare me the details of why you did it. But I must know-- Was she worth it? Justin Farley Justin Farley is a poet and author from Indianapolis, Indiana. He has been published in journals such as Calla Press, wrkwndr, and The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press. He has released three collections of poetry, all available on Amazon. Follow him on instagram @justinfarleypoet or visit his blog @ www.alongthebarrenroad.com ** Banish from Her Heart So Vile a Thought and yet, unmasked and having consumed the fire of her love’s letter to another (the wretch!), a deceit revealed by her Rachele, how could not this Maria succumb to blood vengeance, the bleeding desire, the sharp tip of a cold dagger through his breastbone…to vital Hell? Is anything more inevitable than the shriek of indignance, the bloodshot eyes, the steely stare away from betrayal's bold, bald fact, toward fury’s object, this man (the clod!), the fated force of her swift reprisal for his lies? Sworn vengeance swallows and swells all her beauty into a shadow, hard knot. It sticks in her eyes, her stiff limbs, her throat, as it will into him. Darren Lyons Darren Lyons was born and raised in Akron, Ohio, and received an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from The New School. His poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, The Inquisitive Eater, and Chronogram, among other journals, and a poetry/painting project of his was featured on The Best American Poetry Blog. ** The Betrayal She insisted that I meet her here, away from narrow passageways and bridges, where Venetians transitioning from one side to another observe life on the canals and on the streets, where careless whispers hang in the air indiscreetly, as rumours and innuendos flow back and forth with the tides. Here, we are inconspicuous. It is secluded and quiet. At first, I was reluctant to meet but Eleanor, my childhood friend and one-time confidant, persisted. Once, we had pledged undying love to each other, but our relationship cooled when she became jealous and possessive. Wearing a mask, her head and shoulders draped in a shawl, Eleanor arrived incognito. Wasting no time on pleasantries, she didn't break it to me gently. Edoardo, my lover to whom I am secretly betrothed, is having an affair. My heart sinks. I feel nauseous, faint. Turning away from her, I push her back. She grasps my shoulder, insisting that it is not a meaningless fling but a serious relationship bound to end in matrimony. Accusing her of lying, I send her away. Yet, seeds of doubt are planted in my mind. As she flounces off, a note falls from her pocket. I am about to call out, when I notice Edoardo's writing. Trembling, I pick up the note and read it. He asks Eleanor to stop writing to him, to stop pursuing him. I am his only love. He will never betray me, not with her, not with anyone. Roberta McGill Roberta McGill grew up in Ireland where she loved reciting poetry as a child. She immigrated to Canada with her husband and lives in Orillia, Ontario. Her poetry has won several awards at the annual K. Valerie Connor Memorial Celebration, Orillia, including a first prize award, and has appeared in several anthologies. She is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society. ** Voice The advances he makes are measured as even a lioness wouldn’t move half as stealthily towards her prey ... his movements were gradual, allowing the young girl to get used to a few touches, here and there, that she didn’t even think anything was amiss. a lily plucked - the deeper murmurings go unheard Kala Ramesh Kala Ramesh, a haikai poet and mentor for the last 17 years, is the Founder and Director of Triveni Haikai India, Founder and Managing Editor of haikuKATHA Journal. She is the haiku editor at Under the Basho. Her third book – the forest I know – published by HarperCollins, was launched at the Jaipur Literature Festival 2022. ** Endings The words crowded her mind. She turned away, trying to clear a path between future and past. She wanted movement. Instead she felt trapped, confined on all sides by lies, betrayals, contradictions. She had been held by desire, standing on the precipice of ecstasy, a wave of immanent consummation. Who pulled back first? Did it matter? And now these words, words, words, blocking her breath—ravenous rumors and insinuations that permeated the very air. Were they real, or just an accumulation of hearsay, whispers composed of scraps of gossip collected by those who would never forgive her for the beauty bestowed upon her by fate. What action to take—and against who? Was there actually talk of murder? Was she the intended victim, or was she to be the one to wield the knife? What impulse had conceived of such treachery? As the walls grew louder, closer, outside became more and more distant, unrealizable—a dream, a fantasy, a painted transparency of sea and sky. the mirror cracks, falls, shatters, becomes opposite-- the final act shifts 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/, and see more of her work on her website http://kerferoig.com/ ** Vengeance is Sworn The reason for vengeance: suffocation Tongues may wag with the widening of eyes when hearing the story behind her muffled cries in the toilet you see for she can't cry out loud as it is against the rules to make a sound. What have they done to you to make you cry Did they ask for money or were their requests sky high? All they did was ask for you to cook some food and make you wear clothes in colours suiting their mood. They also requested you never talk back even if what they wish for verged on the unreasonable track. You have to comb your hair this way, not that and stop showing your emotions like a spoiled brat. You were asked to stop working as it was getting in the way of all the tasks they had assigned for you every day. A house is never clean, you know, without constant care so when we said you could work, we meant for just an hour here and there. So is it any wonder she cries soft and low for each step she takes has become such a chore that her dreams too are filled with a thousand buzzing gnats she just can't seem to flee. Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford. She is an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer and published poet. She also loves writing stories. Her poetry has appeared in Glomag, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet (Christmas, Childhood, Faith, Friends & Friendship, and Adversity issues), The Ekphrastic Review, Visual Verse, The Bamboo Hut, Eskimopie, The Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, and Trouvaille Review. Her microfiction has been published by The Potato Soup Literary Journal. She also regularly contributes to the open mics organized by Rattle Poetry. She currently resides in Gurgaon, India, and works as a senior associate editor. Her first book of poetry, She: The reality of womanhood, was recently published by Notion Press (available on Amazon). ** Floral Shackle Pray, do not speak- The stream is a streak of grey And the iron gate a witness. The cracked earth murmurs Of arching shadows where absence rests. Favors hang in shreds, desires etched Thin on the walls like the worms Creeping upon a forgotten grave. Pray, stop- I am unmasked in the hurrying wind. Antiquity trickles in the hallowed ways With the rising scent from the ruins. I believe, I choose to be a floral shackle Taking root in the middle of a twisted tree In a tornado, a torment until eternity. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing the most. 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, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** I Explain Some Lilacs You ask, should I squat in this repossessed house? Inseparable from who appear in it frameless and tacked to the clay where grows a white lilac reads a screed that begins the night, empty streets. And I will tell you all about why I will not hate a song that aborts April rains song that breaks spells that is, I cannot promise stone tiles of a dream fugue. Shop shutters across the city unrested, filled with chimera lacuna that lulls the naïve. And I will tell you that I will learn how to plant the moon that will entwine itself in those lime washed walls tinted taupe grey a walled garden that say, this is a house, these are the children these are Pa’s fists the mythmaking shilling screenplays rhyme and lyrical vagary staircases to the dunes the sedge grasses wetlands and a river. Ilona Martonfi Ilona Martonfi is a mother, an activist, an educator, literary curator, poet and an editor. Born in Budapest, Hungary, she has also lived in Austria and Germany. Martonfi writes in seven chapbooks, journals across North America and abroad. Curator of the Argo Bookshop Reading Series. Recipient of the Quebec Writers’ Federation 2010 Community Award. Martonfi lives in Montreal, Canada. The Tempest, Inanna Publications, Spring 2022, is her fifth poetry book. ** Not Here “Let's just keep this between ourselves, but I think you really need to know.” Not here, I thought. Not now. Do I want to know? Once spoken I know it cannot be unheard. I'm conflicted, wanting and rejecting at the same time. Whatever it is there are always going to be consequences. It doesn't matter if there's any truth behind the babbled story - gossip's the most prized gold, the most valued currency at court. She blurts the sordid details, words tumbling over themselves. How ironic that one so skilled in duplicity should be betrayed. My pride it at stake, I must stay composed and in control. Yet fire rises in my veins and bile chokes my throat. I'll have to put on both my masks - first the veneer of icy coolness then slip the velvet one back over my eyes, knowing it won't conceal the black flames of ire. First I must deal with this tattler, a tell-tale too keen to drip her poison. Next my betrayer, who behind my back makes me look like a fool. Something creative, cruel and long lasting I think. Something that will take time to stew. Vengeance is a dish best served cold. Emily Tee Emily Tee spent her working life wrangling numbers. Now retired, she has recently started writing poetry. She has had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review challenges and in print with Dreich magazine, with some others in print later this year with Dreich and elsewhere. She lives in England. To celebrate our SEVENTH anniversary in July, we are trying something very new- an ekphrastic marathon. PLEASE JOIN US for this intense and fun experiment! The incredible queen of microfiction Meg Pokrass will be our judge for fiction, and the brilliant, one of a kind Brent Terry will be our poetry judge. The marathon itself is a writing experience. You can then take your seeds, sparks, and drafts and polish and work them out to submit to the contest. Click image above to view more details and sign up!
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