“The Flat and Weightless Tang-Filled Future,” by Lyn Hawks
Ronalda lights a Camel but leaves it burning on an egg-crusted plate. Everywhere she sees what needs doing: stovetop glazed with grease, counters studded with crumbs, corners laced with cobwebs. She swabs the counter while the boys’ jeans clink against dryer walls, while the baby squalls from the living room, while her head spins as fast as that silly, don’t-go-breakin’-my-heart song jabbering on the radio. Thank goodness Diane’s...
“Tin Man Tick-Tock,” by Alyssa Cooper
It’s like someone forcing you wide open with metal hands that can’t feel. (I sure do love redheads, sweetheart.) It’s like that Tin Man grabbing around on your insides and wrapping your intestines all in his hard cold fingers that never numb you but just slice like ice. (You’re just pink and red everywhere, aren’t you now?) You reach out to grab him back but his razor sharp skin leaves shrapnel in your fingertips that grabs onto your...
“Learning to Talk,” by Patricia Henritze
Truth is for Sissies My father never uttered three honest words in a row. He lied like it was a gift, like it was his right, like there was no difference between truth and lies and it was petty and small minded to think otherwise. He taught me to parcel out truth in the smallest increments – grains of truth, layered between lies to confound the listener and make them doubt themselves. Or maybe I’m lying, because fathers...
“Secrets of a Wooden Saint in a Church in Jalcomulco,” by Mary Ellen Sanger
The mothers look into the lake and see the whole sky. They believe I can keep their children safe. They come, photos snipped to stamp size, and pin their daughters’ faces on my robe. Carmela, Rosamaria, Inocencia, Flor. They come with a lock of their sons’ hair, a snip from his work shirt, a prayer. Roberto, Marco Antonio, Anastasio, Gil. The mothers come with snot and tears to beseech me to caress my feet to leave me field...
Cut Away by Cathy Kirkwood
Edmund White Award Finalist and Pushcart Nominee, Cut Away by Cathy Kirkwood expertly entwines the lives of three characters struggling to understand the meaning of identity and its seeming mutability. First there was the pure desert silence in which the quietest voice spoke in dry, still air–one which took me over completely in the coming years and became the driving force of the novel. Then there was the surge of women,...
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
