Moby Dick and the Beginning of the End by Ingrid Jendrzejewski
“Moby Dick and the Beginning of the End” by Ingrid Jendrzejewski He says Melville was stupid because he constantly refers to Moby Dick as a fish. Moby Dick is not a fish. Moby Dick is a whale. Everyone knows that whales aren’t fish and fish aren’t whales; ergo, Melville is not worth reading....
Postcard from Sissinghurst by Denise DiMarzio
“Postcard from Sissinghurst” by Denise DiMarzio I. My hand hesitates, hovering above the clean white rectangle, the small space wide open, waiting, years unwritten. Having a great time. Wish you were here. Vita would never hesitate. In the white garden, I wanted to kneel down with you, anchor my hands in your dark curls, grow roots and wrap them around us like wild bindweed. II. The red deer wander. Shapely...
Recognition by Sandy Gillespie
“Recognition” by Sandy Gillespie We open the window to the lapping bay and laze beside the fire. Overnights are rare for grown women, uninterrupted hours delicate as artichoke petals, from which we scrape soft flesh with gentle teeth. The Cabernet is an eighty-five, and children don’t exist for us tonight. Tonight we are women talking about our lovers. Yours is new, and he moves in such a way that...
The Geography of First Kisses by Karin Cecile Davidson
“The Geography of First Kisses” by Karin Cecile Davidson Compass Points The first was Leon. A small, muscular boy. A midshipman at the academy. He knew about compasses, easterly winds, how to bring the boat about on white-capped seas. I went for his blond hair and his deep voice, both like honey, thick and golden and crowded, the waxen chambers, the echo in my chest. Summer grew brighter, and I...
Lovers in the Age of Airmail by Kelly Cressio-Moeller
“Lovers in the Age of Airmail” by Kelly Cressio-Moeller There is a reason it is called longhand. Writing takes time to winnow out the artifice in blue-black script. You write each other page after page, month upon month, year after year; your cursive cross-stitching the Atlantic, soaring over slate rooftops through the open windows of each other’s lives, entwining yourselves as Chagall’s lovers. You learn...
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
