No Radio by Sokunthary Svay
“No Radio” by Sokunthary Svay i. Sinn Sisamouth, Khmer poster boy resonating tenor of every residence off rooftops on radios a voice that chilled and warmed Beloved, iconic face decapitated pasted over bodies in posters ii. My father is lost at Gun Hill Road in the Bronx. A voice interrupts my daze sprays 60’s...
L’Orange by Page Lambert
“L’Orange” by Page Lambert I’m having a pedicure at Ivy’s Nails and Spa. The shop owner is Vietnamese. Her seven sisters and one brother work here too. The shop is immaculate. Ivy and I talk about her homeland while she files my toenails. When her father, a prosperous businessman, lost everything, he was given $200 to start a new life...
The Late Afternoon Crashed All Around by Karin Cecile Davidson
“The Late Afternoon Crashed All Around” by Karin Cecile Davidson Excerpt from “The Late Afternoon Light Crashed All Around” – first published in Iron Horse Literary Review, Father’s Day Issue, June 2011 My daddy, Charles Royal Blackwood, III, was ranked a Sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps, his uniform sleeve decorated with three chevrons and a pair of crossed rifles. Mama had long since dubbed him Royal...
The Last Diary Entries of Septimus Warren Smith by Katherine Orr
“The Last Diary Entries of Septimus Warren Smith” by Katherine Orr Like an attic full of books. Like a gymnasium. Like sorrow. Everything is always so big. But I’m not afraid of the silence that follows what I came to say. So instead of talking, I watch my wife work on her bonnets – feathers and flowers, violets, vegetables, birds. All the ladies come to her, now that it’s Spring. * Explosion in the park...
Silence on a June Morning, 1944 by Tracy Davidson
“Silence on a June Morning, 1944” by Tracy Davidson Soldiers lined up in perfect formation beside the egg, its skull cracked, peeled back bit by bit, white matter exposed and discarded. The soldiers move in, drowning themselves in gold treasure. The metal tool enters the fray, scraping up every last vestige of life. Ejected shell casings lie scattered about amid crumbs of debris and puddles of dripped butter....
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
