Freshman by Sue Churchill
“Freshman” by Sue Churchill She stood through the whole club meeting— the officers all announcing themselves–never spoke, as if not entitled to a word or a chair. She was small and slim—fawn-like still, where the seniors, now they were does, and they knew it. She’d had her hair streaked grey, an odd shade for a fawn, the color of ash, or a boat hull-up in the sun. She looked out and away, thinking of...
Indra’s Net by Ji Hyang Padma
“Indra’s Net” by Ji Hyang Padma In Zen, one image we use to describe our interdependence with each other is Indra’s Net. Imagine a net: its horizontal threads representing time, the vertical threads representing space. Where each of these threads meet, there is a crystal which is reflecting, not only every other crystal, but every reflection of every other crystal. In this way, we are intricately connected to...
Grip by Lauren Camp
“Grip” by Lauren Camp Sure, I was afraid of the perfunctory fucks of the person standing in grief with a hand on the subway pole of the 3 train. In my soft life, I don’t hear such a dispatch of crisp pitted slurs. The least thing I have is disaster. After that, exposure. Thugs trump love at these angles and cornices where everyone knows the arc of exhaustion. The train was confronted with her spectacular...
My South by Wendy Carlisle
“My South” by Wendy Carlisle On the left, the Atchafalaya, so black, so burnt inside, silent as a pot. Down here, my lips equal silt and common bliss. Down here, I carry my grave folded in my pocket, a cardboard hunger, a box and shards. The woman beside me in this food line wears, a skintight skirt, has a back-door man. Down south we have the right to costumes and gossip, to numbers and pawn. Down south, we...
The Jugular by Karla Morton
“The Jugular” by Karla Morton You laughed when I said I got out of the truck, pocket knife in hand, looking for the horse I just hit. “And what would you have done with that?” I would have wanted to end his suffering; to cut his throat. “As if you ever could.” I hope I could have done it, if I needed to; if he hadn’t scampered off; if he’d lain there, barely breathing in the ditch. I hope I could wring a...
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?
Submit Your Art & Writing to WAVES
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We meet each other in waves of light, waves of vision, waves of sound–a studio beyond boundaries.
Creative sisters, shoulder to shoulder, shore to shore.
This time, there is no setting our art aside. This time, there is no setting our art asunder. This is our time.
December 6-7 | oneness | noon to noon EST | dip in and out throughout this twenty-four hour wave
Recent From Waves
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seabed or ocean floor Sep 26, 2025
