The Laughing Place by Tara L. Masih
“The Laughing Place” by Tara L. Masih You need a place like this to go to, I tell her, like my sister and I had when we were young. It’s called the Laughing Place. You cannot be in that place without laughing. No matter what is going on in your world, in that space, only laughter is allowed. You start in the spring, sowing morning glory seeds in a circle around the sticks you’ve erected to form a teepee. Part...
Black Cat in a Field By Beverly Lafontaine
“Black Cat in a Field” by Beverly Lafontaine If you see a black cat in a field, stop, let the world go by while you and the black cat explore the field. Smell the morning air, suburb air, full of traces of gasoline, burned wood, diesel, dog shit and the raw remnants of wandering skunk. Smell it, inhabit it. Know that you are alive. Know that you, the cat and a dozen mice occupy this field, where the long...
Airy Humus by Lynn Tudor Deming
“Airy Humus” by Lynn Tudor Deming So it goes on a good afternoon, screening this top soil by the drive, jostling it over the mesh so the clean loam drops through, sifting out delicate cobwebs of roots, tendrils of weeds limp in slime, my sweat salting the collards of this stew until everything unwanted— little green bowls of splintered pignut, broken twigs, earth-caked stone, is left behind; better still to sift the...
Saint Flower by Ann L. Carter
“Saint Flower” by Ann L. Carter Zinnias are like some special kind of saint smiling in the face of my transgressions. They forgive me when I don’t water them though the Kansas sun beats down like hell. They accept it when I uproot them to some godforsaken spot I need to brighten. They keep face when I cut them down in full bloom and let them slowly wilt on my sunroom table while the cat nibbles at them and the vase...
Familiar by Sue Churchill
“Familiar” by Sue Churchill The stray cat in the loft owns the barn. Though the farmers shoo her, she returns, claiming her place through her own knowing. She knows its long blanks of silence. she knows the fullness of its motion from swallow to owl to snake to mouse to spider to fly. She has caught what moves in the soil under the manger. She knows how to slip behind the barn door in a pinch. She knows the...
Snake Molting by Lora Keller
“Snake Molting” by Lora Keller The itch starts at her eyes and sweeps down the pulsing muscle of her body. She swells and shimmies around fossil-pocked boulders, silvered driftwood. When she can’t find a bristled surface, she loops into her own strained and crusty flesh and peels herself from herself. She’s a single-limbed ballerina tugging off her tights, a wrinkled pool of inside-out skin coiled beside her, traces...
Look for Raven Pairs Flying in a Pre-Mating Ritual by Karen Skolfield
“Look for Raven Pairs Flying in a Pre-Mating Ritual” by Karen Skolfield How they would nest in our bones if they could. Inhabit a skull, wind-scrubbed, sterile, line it with the high desert plants, that extra hour of sunlight, the elevation. Bones bleach because there’s nothing better to do, no books waiting to be read. Ravens love every little dead thing, a fur-sack smashed against the road, a body curled...
The Cows by Elizabeth Jacobson
“The Cows” by Elizabeth Jacobson Now that I have read this story about the cows I think of them at night when I cannot sleep, how they are so still in their grassy field, seemingly suspended like animations of themselves. Even though there are only 3, I count them over and over, envision them as if I were floating above their pasture, observe the different stances they choose: the 3 of them standing bottom to...
Snake Pit by Berwyn Moore
“Snake Pit” by Berwyn Moore Tote-‘em-In Zoo Wilmington, NC Camera clenched in hand and pencil wedged behind my ear, I followed him in – Samson the Snake Handler wearing enchanted khaki pants and a safari helmet, and me, daring reporter, in summer sandals. Not one stirred as we entered, their stillness tangled in shadow. Heads, tails, indistinct. Sleepless eyes guarded every corner –...
Greenman by Maureen McQuerry
“Greenman” by Maureen McQuerry It was this way, in the heart of the forest: green sea deep and light, leaves like rippling water, a steady heartbeat of silence. It was this way, a mere tickle an itching of the scalp and suddenly every movement becomes a rustle as tufts of hair unfurl to leaf, a flourish of jade moustache sprouting and curling from raw, nude skin. My legs and fingers swollen wood, ridged and...
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August 8-9 | immersion | noon to noon EST
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. Creative sisters are invited to join us at any point and remain for any length of time during our full-circle offering.
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The Deepest Place Jul 26, 2025
