Blog : Beautiful-Things

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Peanut Butter

Peanut Butter By Dorothy Rice   |  November 23, 2015
What was that feeling last night, of chasing a thread of thought from sleep to wakefulness, back into sleep again, not quite sure at any moment whether I was fully awake

Here's What Happens

Here's What Happens By Catherine Klatzker   |  November 16, 2015
HEREíS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOUíRE WAITING FOR MORE TEST RESULTS FOR THE SUSPICIOUS SHADOW ON YOUR HUSBANDíS CHEST X-RAY: You give money to homeless people who say they want food. You stick around to talk to them when they seem lonely. You allow those drivers in traffic who are in such a rush to cut in ahead of you. You admit itís not death that makes you shrivel into yourself and brings up those old whimpering voices pleading for safety; itís dread of that conversation, of giving permission to oneís life partner to take that journey alone, without you.

In Perilous Times

In Perilous Times By Tami Mohamed Brown   |  November 9, 2015
The Frank Lloyd Wright calendar hangs askew on your cubicle wall, the citrus skylights of July turning right angles into August in an attempt to create unity on a Tuesday morning when youíre wearing stripes and your socks donít match. Your feet rest on a coil of cords that tangle dangerously under the desk and your coffee cup sits too close to the keyboard without a cover. You shoot a rubber band at a window not meant to open. Itís eleven in the morning and youíve already eaten lunch. These are signs that we are living in perilous times.

Something Sweet

Something Sweet By Andrea Fisk Rotterman   |  November 2, 2015
I walk the farm of my childhood in search of the sugar maple. I want to trace the brown bark, slide my fingers down its furrows, roll its needle leaf points between my fingers. Beside me, Belle, my dadís foxhound, holds her noble head high. She catches a scent, shifts into the prairie grass. I wear a light jacket. Itís early April. Forty degrees. Cold north air is losing ground to the surge of warmer southern currents. The sugar maple stands on a ridge alongside the old tobacco barn.

For the Birds

For the Birds By Anjoli Roy   |  October 26, 2015
Birds keep getting lost in my living room. Itís my fault, for leaving the doors open. For answering the knock of valley wind so strong it rips posters off the walls, comes pounding, shaking our wood-framed house with big fists, demanding to be let in. When they come, theyíre puffed up in aerial flight, thinking theyíve found a new throughway from the construction site next door to the chicken coop on the other side of our house, only to thump-thump-thump their clavicle-breaking thump against ocean-view windows that just stand there, rude as a closed door.


Cold By Kate Hopper   |  October 19, 2015
On the hottest days in San Vicente, I sit on the front porch of my host familyís house, sweat dripping from under my arms, dust turning to mud on my salt-streaked legs. I watch the heat shimmer up from the dirt road, dissolving into blue sky. On these days, I long for snow, hunger after the numbing cold of January in Minnesota.


Mercy By Lisa K. Buchanan   |  October 12, 2015
The Italian museum had a gory multitude of blood-streaked Jesuses. But in one immense painting, he was flanked by two anonymous thieves--palms nailed, faces obscured, genitals exposed, legs cudgeled by a guard to speed their deaths. In the crowded gallery, I tried to ignore the pointy elbows of audio-tourists, the smells of cranky feet, the eye-splitting camera flash of a stealth rule-breaker--until a museum guard in brass buttons and crisp trousers stood accusingly before me.


Ripple By Magin LaSov Gregg   |  October 5, 2015
On a rusted railroad bridge overlooking Ohioís Rocky River, I stand with my father beneath an ocean blue sky and listen to the waterís murmur. My father removes his glasses and points to a large rock beside the lower bank. "Thatís Big Rock," he says. I know Big Rock from a story he has told me, a strand of his story now interwoven with mine. I know my father, as a boy, stood on Big Rock, while neighborhood boys stood across from him, on a narrow cliff ledge, and hurled rocks at him.

Resting Place

Resting Place By Kate Levin   |  September 28, 2015
When we arrive at daycare, I step out of the car and close my door gently, hoping not to startle my son awake. As I open the back door to retrieve him from his car seat, I see the bird.


Hawk By Claudia Geagan   |  September 21, 2015
Alone, I stare down the wide notch behind my house where the mountain to the east rolls inward to the west, and the western mountain rolls inward to the east till at last the two converge. A thousand feet below, a ground fog grays the Piedmont, but the sun has risen quite high and the thermals bend the spring-green hardwoods. These are worn mountains, the last mounds of the Southern Appalachians.

Dress Up

Dress Up By Peter Witte   |  September 14, 2015
We were having drinks at a friend's house when my two-year-old entered the room, pantless, sans diaper. Whenever his older sister and her friends played dress up, he'd get silly and play dress down. But this time he was red-faced and crying. I excused myself, brought him to the other room.


Duet By Gail Folkins   |  September 7, 2015
On a dirt road behind a Midwest farmhouse, John and I walk between last year's corn stalks and the soybeans to come. Although spring appeared in the form of a printed milestone on the calendar, the wind clips and scatters spoken words.

August Garden

August Garden By Gloria Nixon-John   |  August 31, 2015
My August garden has changed overnight, like a middle-aged woman looking into a mirror, asking, When did that happen, or how did this happen so soon?

Leaving Our Mark

Leaving Our Mark By Matthew Young   |  August 24, 2015
In the weeks before we end our active service in the Marine Corps my roommate, Caleb, and I slug Wild Turkey in our barracks room, and then decide to celebrate our impending freedom by burning down the thirty-foot-high diving platform a mile away off Christianitos Road.

The Killer Bee

The Killer Bee By Eric LeMay   |  August 17, 2015
My dad took me to pick it up in an empty school parking lot, at night, like a drug deal.

Stay With Me Awhile

Stay With Me Awhile By Gina Williams   |  August 10, 2015
When Pete at last called Helen to request a visit, she said yes with both reluctance and anticipation. They hadn't seen one another since her diagnosis. Pete was her last boyfriend and because she was terminal, would always be the final man in her life, the only remaining thread of sexuality, desire. She seemed angry he'd waited so long to call. "I know he's just afraid ofÖ know, it being difficult," she said. "But hell, I am too."

The Smell of Old Books

The Smell of Old Books By Pia Ghosh Roy   |  August 3, 2015
There was a row of shops where the flyovers now swirl and swoop. The shops were cubes of tin and plywood on a strip of pavement in heaving, humid Calcutta. They stood under gulmohar trees; fire-red petals with shade as cool as coconut water. In this shade, on low wicker stools, sat the men who owned these shops, playing cards, passing time. They were gatekeepers of old books.

House Call

House Call By Andrew Bomback   |  July 27, 2015
I never learned the cat's name, although Tom mentioned it when I visited him in his apartment. "Donít mind Mr. Something," he said of the cat whose name was Mr. some other word. Tom lived just five minutes away from my house, and his wife said his legs were so swollen that it would require a 911 call to get him to my office. This was the only house call Iíve ever made. A year later, Tom was hospitalized with sepsis.


White By Jennifer Bowen Hicks   |  July 20, 2015
We no longer remember the sound of birdsong or the feel of dry pavement beneath our feet, but we walk to school anyway because school is the place we're meant to walk to on Tuesday mornings. Temperatures register -23 below zero if you donít count the wind chill, and I always count the wind chill.


Crush By Abby Frucht   |  July 13, 2015
When I was married I crushed on another man. He played a pan flute while riding his bike past the reservoir and I stepped into his path feeling reckless one evening on one of my walks. Our groping shouldn't have lead to anything more. But I was wearing a coat that had just one button, a suede coat with bright scarves I'd sewn to the hem via uneven stitches, and when we spun to the ground the scarves tangled around us, the trail aglow with crushed mulberries, my babies damp in their beds in the house down the road where their dad sat reading.


Guppy By Kavitha Yaga Buggana   |  July 6, 2015
Under a sky of half-moon and stars, my husband, my son, and I sit crouched near the small pond in our garden. Moss undulates in the water. A moist breeze hints at the monsoon that will soon descend on our city in South India. My son has fourteen orange- and coffee-colored guppy-fish swimming in a thin plastic bag. He is waiting to empty the little, translucent creatures into the garden pond.

Trash Collection Day

Trash Collection Day By Melissa Grunow   |  June 29, 2015
Every Friday morning in the summer I would sit on the carpet in front of the giant picture window facing the street and watch the trash collectors empty cans and toss bags into their giant truck. The window opened low to the floor, so I could sit cross-legged with my nose just above the sill, my eyes and forehead barely visible to the road stretched in front of me.

What I Made

What I Made By Brad A. Modlin   |  June 22, 2015
I want to be a man who pays each bill the day it arrives. I want to be a man who knows the precise location of every object in his backpack. I want to be a man who knows about carpentry.

October Moon on Lake

October Moon on Lake By Sydney Lea   |  June 15, 2015
I have seen too many such moon-rises in seven decades to write a poem about this one. But isnít that what Iíve always done? Perhaps, yet I wonít write it, with its reference to Selena or to some familiar musical standard--"That Old Devil Moon,Ē say--or whatever. To imagine such allusions is to feel self-contempt, as if I had written about butterflies as tokens of fragility.

His Pockets

His Pockets By Deborah Nedelman   |  June 8, 2015
At four he is an earnest collector. He keeps his secrets in his pockets and leaves them for me in the laundry basket. As I unroll the cuffs of his too-long-yet pants, sand dribbles out, a clump of mud caking the cloth. Even if all is quiet, I remain cautious. Experience has taught me to turn the pant legs out to see if anything moves. Has he captured some critter and forgotten it there? Using my thumbs, I push the fabric inside out. Iím careful to do this over a container.

Summer Night

Summer Night By Jill Gerard   |  June 1, 2015
On warm August nights, I take out my contacts and go outside, find a spot to lie down, and look up through the basket of live oak branches.


Inheritance By Beth Howard   |  May 25, 2015
My father loved a good roaring fire and attended the ones he built with great reverence, as if viewing a cremation. But, after all, he knew his wood. In his 70s, dad bought a gas-powered log splitter and would perch on a stump for hours, loading one log after another, pulling the lever to engage the iron wedge, which descended with a crushing force to split the logs.

Taking an Art Class

Taking an Art Class By Kelley Rossier   |  May 18, 2015
We are given a project to do. Here are the parameters. Lines parallel. Lines perpendicular. Clear relationships. Mass, plane, line. No diagonals. I put the safety glasses on. I cut the wood. I use the joiner. I plane the wood. I glue the pieces together. I use clamps on every side. Make sure there is no give.

Tiny Purple Flowers

Tiny Purple Flowers By Sarah Broderick   |  May 11, 2015
My mother stands at the grocery store counter. Tiny purple flowers rest tucked behind her ear. They have wilted as we walked through the aisles, comparing prices per ounce and coupons to sales. Now, the flower petals are withered balls of lint. They droop down on spindly stems as dry and thin as discarded threads. "Isn't my mommy pretty?" I say. I plucked those lavender stars, clusters that sprout from the cow pies that litter our fields, especially for her.

Road Warrior

Road Warrior By Kim Todd   |  May 4, 2015
Someday, the newspaper photographer told me as we drove back from the fire, he was going to do a photo essay on all those raptors along the highway. "All the what?" I asked. But just like that, they were everywhere.

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