Mothers by Chloe DeFelippis
“Mothers” by Chloe DeFelippis green eyes & her mother’s television echoing, she’s learned to sleep on the couch. greens eyes & her mother’s brown bags full, she collects packets of salt, pepper, ketchup. green eyes & her mother’s handwriting on index cards, she cries when shredding paper. green eyes & her mother’s dead infant daughter, she’s learned to walk away from needy little girls sad...
Ethel Finds Money by Karen Heuler
“Ethel Finds Money” by Karen Heuler My adopted sister Ethel sat opposite me at the dinner table, waiting for the food to arrive in the multicolored bowls Mom had gotten long ago, to cheer Ethel up and encourage her to eat. Ethel was humming to herself, kicking her legs back and forth; I could tell because her body rocked rhythmically. She often did it. She picked up her fork, examined it, and put it down. My...
Bouncers by Linda Melick
“Bouncers” by Linda Melick Mother made me and brother go out to the apple orchard to pick up all the bouncers. The farmer got the good fruit, but we could have the leavings. We dragged them home in a beggared wooden barrel that reeked of wine. She would sigh at them as she cut the bruises out with a small sharp knife. Then she peeled their skins off in one continuous piece. We snatched up these spirals,...
Downed Limb by Karen Skolfield
“Downed Limb” by Karen Skolfield The deer’s eating an oak limb as if it were a salad or something juicier, strawberries with crème freche. Evidence of early winter’s hunger. The leaves papery brown, exact color of the deer. It looks like it’s eating itself, working away at its shoulder, not even glancing up. When we consume ourselves, we think no one cares enough to watch. The girl in high school who carved...
Driving Home by Melissa Grossman
“Driving Home” by Melissa Grossman She haunts me, this young woman I drove home one evening. Wan with hollow cheeks and mussed blond hair that fell over her face, she kept me captive in my car, told stories about the room she rented in a big house where no one talked to her. She stared at a box of Girl Scout cookies on the floor by her feet, so I gave her one. Watched her from the corner of my eye, hold it to her...
Art is my taste for freedom. I drown day and day until I pick up my paintbrush once again. So, somehow, I can tell myself that you’re not stuck in this room and that the canvas is the key.
Nina Salvadoré
. . .
Seabed or ocean floor? What is the difference?
Submit Your Art & Writing to WAVES
. . . . . . . . .
WAVES ALIVE is an immersive experience held tenderly by the ebb and flow of ritual, sisterhood, creative expansion, then surfacing to share what we have uncovered about ourselves and our art.
October 11 | expansion | noon to 3pm EST
December 6-7 | oneness | noon to noon EST | dip in and out throughout this twenty-four hour wave
Recent From Waves
-
Immersion Aug 29, 2025
