Blog : Beautiful-Things

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The River and How She Heals

The River and How She Heals By Amber D. Stoner   |  May 14, 2018
When the house went cold - not the oxygen and nitrogen, but the mood, the atmosphere around my parents - when that froze into stasis, into wariness, into step-lightly-quietly-invisibly, I would retreat outside where I could breathe without...

The Dancer

The Dancer By Jan McGuire   |  May 7, 2018
Mom danced with The Dancing Divas - women in their seventies proudly performing in over thirty elaborate costumes. Accessories included a Fedora with a plastic mafia machine gun, a red suitcase doubling as a small platform for tapping to...

Guavas

Guavas By A. Mauricio Ruiz   |  April 30, 2018
This morning I went out to the garden with my mom and picked up guavas, tiny yellow pieces of fruit that had fallen from the tree and now lay scattered on the ground. I bent over and picked them up, one by one, thought of the time when there was only...

Wrinkles

Wrinkles By Valerie White   |  April 23, 2018
They surround her eyes, her nose, and her mouth. She likes to touch them, to run her fingers over them, to try and count them, although it is nearly impossible to see where each one starts and ends. Each wrinkle seemed to appear with a major...

On Belay

On Belay By Rachael Button   |  April 16, 2018
When I climb, my husband catches me. Peter is younger than me, lankier, quieter. His body weaves up rock with a grace my shaky, short frame cannot yet settle into--but he's learned not to correct or coach me. Instead he holds me on belay...

Learning to Tell Time

Learning to Tell Time By Cathy Luna   |  April 9, 2018
Learning to Tell Time Corpus Christi, Texas: February 1, 1969 It will always be eighty degrees in Corpus and I will always be six when the telegram comes. For me, this day will always have passed as if it were any other. I will always be inside...

Idols

Idols By Nicole Baute   |  April 2, 2018
In September, they carry Ganesha to the river. The bedazzled elephant god sits Sukhasana, mala of flowers around his neck, unlikely to swim. My inherited religion is about a man who rose from the dead, his bloody corpse the symbol...

Reunion Tour

Reunion Tour By Renee Nicholson   |  March 26, 2018
Thud of drums, The Edge’s guitar lick reverberating in our sternums, and the first flinty sound of Bono’s voice. We never expected...

Controlled Burn

Controlled Burn By Traci Brimhall   |  March 19, 2018
Spring is the season for burning on the plains. Ranchers across the tall grass prairies of Eastern Kansas watch the forecast for the stillest days, when wind nests between mountains, before they bring the driptorches to the fields.

Pop-Pop

Pop-Pop By Chloe DeFilippis   |  March 12, 2018
If I put my ear to the hardwood, will I hear the shuffle of his steps? The velcro shoes? I never saw him with his socks off. I imagine his toes like his fingers: thin with long thick yellowing nails. "To grab things with," he told me...

Passenger

Passenger By Tamara Lang   |  March 5, 2018
I nest, my sleeping bag encircling me as I sit, skin-hot down sheltering this present happiness as if it were a round, warm egg. Clouds have erased the peaks beyond the harbor, and I feel the boat that formed my bed tugging at its lines...

Non-Transferable

Non-Transferable By Jen Sammons   |  February 26, 2018
The instant I pull into the gas station, he starts screaming, starts pummeling the back of my seat with his gray and green Velcro sneakers....

Uplifted

Uplifted By George Such   |  February 19, 2018
A memory like a dream without a face....

Afterglow

Afterglow By Elissa Favero   |  February 12, 2018
By morning, feathers had settled lightly in the corners of the bathroom. They swept up into the air, though, as I moved past. Down, up and down. One brushed the nape of my neck as I stepped from the shower, and clamped there to damp skin. A torn comforter; a small domestic catastrophe....

Little Traveling Altars

Little Traveling Altars By Olivia Dunn   |  February 5, 2018
I am calling my current situation 'vow of poverty' because that sounds much nobler than 'slumming' or 'lazy.' Vow of poverty helps me remember that the reason I will eat chickpeas for dinner for the next three nights is because there is a larger goal at hand....

Cooking for Grandpa

Cooking for Grandpa By Rhonda Owen   |  January 29, 2018
Grandpa slumps on the three-legged stool, his clouded brown eyes intent on me as I reach into a cabinet drawer to scoop flour for dredging pieces of chicken soaking in a bowl of buttermilk....

Afghan Roses

Afghan Roses By Francisco Martinezcuello   |  January 22, 2018
In Massoud's Circle, weathered plastic shopping bags are captured by the thorns of Afghan roses. Armored vehicles crisscross in formation. Liberators with their guns pointed bully civilian cars to halt. My convoy breezes by, failing to free the bags from their thorny prison....

Living With Ian

Living With Ian By Mia Aguilera   |  January 15, 2018
My brother Ian and I live in the Pacific Northwest. We have a small brick house with wooden floors and a wall of French windows, letting in plenty of light....

Ripple (repeat)

Ripple (repeat) By Magin LaSov Gregg   |  January 8, 2018
On a rusted railroad bridge overlooking Ohio's Rocky River, I stand with my father beneath an ocean blue sky and listen to the water's murmur. My father removes his glasses and points to a large rock beside the lower bank...

The Day to Day

The Day to Day By Jessica Terson   |  December 31, 2017
Sifting the flour. Squeezing the lever once. And then waiting. For a moment, it is winter again. I take my finger and make snow angels in the little blue bowl.

Wake Up

Wake Up By Krys Malcolm Belc   |  December 25, 2017
I cannot take my children hiking without them mentioning babcia and dziadek and how they like to hike. Did you know they are going to take me camping one day? they say. Our children have seen their grandmother for the last time although she is still alive in a living room in Queens.

Sometimes Life Is Like That

Sometimes Life Is Like That By Jay Wamsted   |  December 18, 2017
One morning I was riding my bicycle to work in a low drizzle, and the skies opened. I was going down a hill--water streaming in my eyes, raindrops pelting my arms and face, a nonstop stream of kick-up soaking my legs--when I saw it.

How to Envy

How to Envy By Carmella Guiol   |  December 11, 2017
In Cartagena de Indias, men walk down the streets carrying birdcages instead of briefcases, always with the same yellow waif perched precariously behind bars. It's important for the bird to see the world, one man tells me, his birdcage propped on the seawall, the sea crashing against the rocks a few feet away....

Oranges

Oranges By Sarah Dalton   |  December 4, 2017
It is a rare occasion, but I decide to eat an orange when I want to remember....

In-Betweens

In-Betweens By Hannah Cauthen   |  November 27, 2017
A tiny green lizard clings to a brick outside the window. It takes in the late-morning light, attempting to combat the smooth chill in the air. I watch people filtering in and out of the restaurant wearing sweaters too thick for early September in Georgia. 

Pigeon Prayer

Pigeon Prayer By Erica Meurk   |  November 20, 2017
Whether to call them pigeons or doves is a matter of perspective. We humans made them all one family, then deemed the white ones symbols of peace and purity, while the grey took their place in tales of plague and war....

Paris Street; Rainy Day

Paris Street; Rainy Day By Rachel Anne Murphy   |  November 13, 2017
Back then, a woman of 17 could marry a man of 37 and the men would say, good for you, old chum, what a waist she's got, and the women would say, good for you, lucky duck, what lovely diamonds.

Lick Creek

Lick Creek By Sarah Marty-Schlipf   |  November 6, 2017
My niece Charli, eight years old, is crouched in the creek, peering into the sunlit shallows, her face and arms and loose gold curls spangled with light. Around her, the shaggy green woods are alive and trembling...

Soft Spot

Soft Spot By Lynne Nugent   |  October 30, 2017
A few weeks into my second son's infancy, I've noticed that when the lighting and angle are perfect, I can see his pulse on top of his head, at the place where the bones haven't yet fused....

Signs

Signs By Holly Willis   |  October 23, 2017
In the final week of my mother's life, a duck and her ducklings traveled by her bedroom window in a wobbly caravan, declining in number with each daily pass. (The cats, I suspect: ruthless.)...

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