The Gift of Veneer by Melva Sue Priddy
“The Gift of Veneer” by Melva Sue Priddy -after Li-Young Lee To keep me facing the hole in the veneered door hung just that week in our two year old bathroom where none had hung before, he sat on the side of the bed and pulled me between his legs. Had you entered, then, you would have thought you saw a man who cared. “You see that door. You see that hole.” I was transfixed his voice so unexpectedly careful; I looked...
La Guapa by Marianela Medrano
“La Guapa” by Marianela Medrano No one has ever seen a Ciguapa, but Grandma and Grandpa told me the story so many times that it became reality. Tia Ceci, Mami and Papi, told it to me so many times that it got recorded in my cells the way important things are recorded. If you don’t believe me, ask Nelly. She also heard the same story. The two of us listened as if there was nothing else to do in the world...
Sunday Morning by Jeanne Bryner
“Sunday Morning” by Jeanne Bryner Mama stands blotting her red lipstick and the tired Bible waits on our gray kitchen table. We have a nickel for the collection plate. We whine because Ben gets to carry the nickel. Ben will drop it, we say. Mama is firm. We wear strawberry pink dresses, the boys wear blue sailor suits. Bacon grease is Mama’s scent. Nancy scrapes cornmeal mush into Sam’s bowl, he gulps. Glass...
My Father on His Deathbed by Cynthia Robinson Young
“My Father on His Deathbed” by Cynthia Robinson Young …except he didn’t have one. His deathbed was an alley street, far away from comfort. He was abandoned, lonely, confused, staring at a needle he had anchored into his arm, not meaning to draw his life out. Staring into streetlights until they become stars, he wonders what will happen next In a world he believed he created with his family, and now believes...
Sweater Girl by Darlene Taylor
“Sweater Girl” by Darlene Taylor I rocked my knees, trying not to pee on myself. Thunder rattled the basement windows. Rain seeped through cracks, glistening on the wall like wet glue. I crossed my legs, uncrossed them, and crossed them again. Unable to hold it any longer, I stood. Girl, Mama said. I need the bathroom, I said. It was a good excuse. When the lady at the Woolworth counter in Richmond said...
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
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Seabed or ocean floor? What is the difference?
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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.
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Immersion Aug 29, 2025
