Dancing on One Foot by Shanti Elke Bannwart
Dancing on One Foot by Shanti Elke Bannwart is a memoir about a woman’s lifelong journey to understand and absorb what she experienced in war, and what she came to understand about her country’s participation in a great crime. There is great magic in AROHO’s Retreats at Ghost Ranch: the setting enhances the power of the encounters with fellow writers. We were there during the nights of the falling stars and I...
“A Strange Woman,” by Laura Brown-Lavoie
In her home there are no kinfolk, only unexpected visitors whom she always sees coming long before the usual portents, a certain species of moth splayed out in the wax of a candle, or the wax itself pointing a knobby finger towards the door. There are no kinfolk, which is to say everyone who stays with her quickly forgets that he was born in a place where women could pronounce his name, and leaves in the morning with her kitchen...
“A Woman’s Glory,” by Ashley Kunsa
She’s at the island with a knife. Body bent over the cutting board, like a diver taking leave of the land. In one hand, the golden bale of her hair; in the other, her santoku. “Oh,” I say. “No.” A rush of warmth washes over me as I think of the softness of those strands in my fingers, on my breasts, my lips. “It has to go,” she says, face flush with the wooden plank. “Let’s talk about it.” I edge a painted toenail onto the kitchen’s...
“Six Bright Horses and the Land of the Dead,” by Jen Silverman
[excerpt] When I first saw your picture, I was twenty years old. Winter 2005. I was coming off a Chicago street, smoky with December cold. Sheltering from the wind in the arch of the Smart Art Museum, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to go in or not; then all of a sudden a sharp gust cut around the corner and sliced at my eyes, and I shouldered the door open and slipped into the startling heat of the lobby. From the moment I came upon...
“The Green Season,” by Jennifer Beebe
The coroner asked if she drank, her throat swollen to closing, front and back embracing the shape perhaps of a mouth around a screw-top bottle, or lips sucking juice from a too ripe pear. I could have told him late afternoon worked best for her, lips to rim, her arm from the window, yardarm, her armistice with the day, the orange of her nails a slow tick of sins along the window frame. I could have told him we anchor ourselves by...
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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Immersion Aug 29, 2025
