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Cicada choruses and lightningbug pulses. The smell of cut grass, chlorine, and hot dogs on a grill. Water splashing, breath ragged, rolling over a basket ball underwater, seven hands karate-ing through the water—trying to pry it from you. Palms pushing off wet concrete, bathing suit dripping. Watermelon—the really good stuff, the sweet deep taste and the crush of it behind your teeth.
Heart pumping, chest empty of everything—all the mess and the traffic—only expansive breath and easy feeling. Spent in the best way. But no, I could spend more. When the friend—you know the friend—the one who never comes empty handed pulls out the paper with rugrats printed on it. It feels. . . well like paper on your tongue. But as it sits there, so long on your tongue, there’s a slight taste like licking the end of a d volt. But subtler than that. Just a prickle and a promise of adventure. She feels it too. That girl with curly dark hair, dark eyes, walnut skin, that girl who dances like she smiles, easy and unselfish, conscious and bubbly. Like the song in her hips comes from that place where we’re going: deep in the magic forest. She slaps the mosquito on your arm and there’s a kind of giddy laughing, like the undercurrent is live now that the touch barrier’s been broken. She takes your hand.
The unfinished basement in barren except for insulation, wires—an old couch that smells only enough like mildew for you to know you’re not the first people to crash into still wet from the pool. It isn’t gross though. It’s just life. It’s just senses. But that isn’t all that’s down there. In fact there’s cheap art paper and cheaper still acrylic paints. A single brush. And as chain reactions percolate and flash in the chemistry of your heads, like heat lightning in a summer sky—as wet bathing suit strings tangle then release between pruny thumbs. . . you grab the paint brush. Thirty bold strokes because no more is needed, no more can be spared because you’re riding the current now—and this is important but there’s something so much more important rushing towards you both like a wave— but it doesn’t crash yet though it’s coming fast. It lets you put the last brush stroke down. Each of them having come in less than a minute. And then it’s there—the wave—and you’re crashing into sea foam, watermelon sweet lips, and summer.
by Zach Sheram
We pride ourselves on creating unique and accessible art for all. Pricing begins at $25 for an unframed 8×10 before tax and shipping. If you’d like to order a print, please fill out an inquiry form to get an exact quote for your piece. We offer free consults to help determine your framing needs!
Cicada choruses and lightningbug pulses. The smell of cut grass, chlorine, and hot dogs on a grill. Water splashing, breath ragged, rolling over a basket ball underwater, seven hands karate-ing through the water—trying to pry it from you. Palms pushing off wet concrete, bathing suit dripping. Watermelon—the really good stuff, the sweet deep taste and the crush of it behind your teeth.
Heart pumping, chest empty of everything—all the mess and the traffic—only expansive breath and easy feeling. Spent in the best way. But no, I could spend more. When the friend—you know the friend—the one who never comes empty handed pulls out the paper with rugrats printed on it. It feels. . . well like paper on your tongue. But as it sits there, so long on your tongue, there’s a slight taste like licking the end of a d volt. But subtler than that. Just a prickle and a promise of adventure. She feels it too. That girl with curly dark hair, dark eyes, walnut skin, that girl who dances like she smiles, easy and unselfish, conscious and bubbly. Like the song in her hips comes from that place where we’re going: deep in the magic forest. She slaps the mosquito on your arm and there’s a kind of giddy laughing, like the undercurrent is live now that the touch barrier’s been broken. She takes your hand.
The unfinished basement in barren except for insulation, wires—an old couch that smells only enough like mildew for you to know you’re not the first people to crash into still wet from the pool. It isn’t gross though. It’s just life. It’s just senses. But that isn’t all that’s down there. In fact there’s cheap art paper and cheaper still acrylic paints. A single brush. And as chain reactions percolate and flash in the chemistry of your heads, like heat lightning in a summer sky—as wet bathing suit strings tangle then release between pruny thumbs. . . you grab the paint brush. Thirty bold strokes because no more is needed, no more can be spared because you’re riding the current now—and this is important but there’s something so much more important rushing towards you both like a wave— but it doesn’t crash yet though it’s coming fast. It lets you put the last brush stroke down. Each of them having come in less than a minute. And then it’s there—the wave—and you’re crashing into sea foam, watermelon sweet lips, and summer.
by Zach Sheram
We pride ourselves on creating unique and accessible art for all. Pricing begins at $25 for an unframed 8×10 before tax and shipping. If you’d like to order a print, please fill out an inquiry form to get an exact quote for your piece. We offer free consults to help determine your framing needs!