The Vigil by Dipika Guha
“The Vigil” by Dipika Guha CHARACTERS: WOMAN: any age, true of spirit and heart, a warrior AUTHOR’s note: This play was inspired by Maxine Hong Kingston’s A Woman Warrior and Virginia Woolf’s Orlando. WOMAN The picture is finished. The clouds came last. The sea came first. The horizon line was soothingly straight; just like the eye likes it. Then the islands. A little listless. Alone. Present...
At the Whaling Museum, Point Lobos by Ruth Thompson
“At the Whaling Museum, Point Lobos” by Ruth Thompson Let us begin here: outside the one-room whaling museum at Point Lobos, beneath the dark arms of cypresses. White bones of whales lie stacked— chained together so that no one can steal them. No charnal ground, no messy metamorphoses, no vultures. Only the antler shapes of Cypress’s transcendence, and these white bones, past changing. Drybones like stones....
Promise by Barbara Sullivan
“Promise” by Barbara Sullivan Age is the great unseen divider of souls—each from the other and from its own former selves—and at the same time, it’s the one commonality that can be counted on: we have only to wait a while and we understand everyone. Time both speeds up and elongates as one ages—maybe relativity is somehow at work—and I feel close to the people I have loved and lost in a new way as I pass...
The Mirror by Lytton Bell
“The Mirror” by Lytton Bell Look into the mirror and do not flinch You can see Death now rubbing her hands together spotted, wrinkled, bulging with veins engulfing every part of you without judgment You’re a woman with no past always threading her needles on the first try a flurry of diet pills and designer jeans never to be all you might have been You could be lost and not know it a castle with...
Karma by Felicia Mitchell
“Karma” by Felicia Mitchell Saving the sparrow whose small self is wound by wire may not save the cat half eaten by coyote. It may not save even me from myself, sorrow coiled around my heart like a copperhead. I love my cat. I love the coyote that tried to eat the cat. But I am sad about the cat, as sad as a woman crying. I know it is what it is, this snake that will strike or not strike, on any given day, no...
Does the sea remember everything? I wonder.
Does she absorb everything? Does she keep it safe?
Virginia Woolf
. . .
The Q: Can you fathom the spectacle that would be created if we moved together, arms outstretched, close enough to touch?
The Q: What echoes through you that longs to take form—a poem, an image, a mark, a whisper of becoming?
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fathoms Feb 28, 2026 -
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