Blog : Beautiful-Things

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Another Workday

Another Workday By Robert Erle Barham   |  February 24, 2020
"Daddy, are you going to work?" my son asks when he sees me wearing a jacket and tie before I leave for campus and a day of teaching. Years ago my father's work boots and overalls prompted the same question from me. . .

My Sister Passes Me on a Bench at the Zoo

My Sister Passes Me on a Bench at the Zoo By Misty Urban   |  February 17, 2020
On a bench in the zoo a girl walks past me wearing my sister’s face—my sister’s smooth, pre-teen face, before acne, before irony, before the long humped shuffle of illness.

Picking Up Lint

Picking Up Lint By Mary Potter   |  February 10, 2020
My dad was an exacting man. When he ran a motor assembly plant in Belgium, he plastered the shop floor, break rooms, and bathrooms with signs that urge-warned in Flemish, WHAT YOU DO, DO IT RIGHT! At home he was equally demanding.

Eulogy for a Dog with Sad Eyes

Eulogy for a Dog with Sad Eyes By Margaret Emma Brandl   |  February 3, 2020
You were always underfoot, in fibers of the carpet, your big shape blocking doorways and chair-paths until you decided on your own where to go. You shook when there were fireworks, you barked when we got locked out, you smiled up at the camera...

Nails

Nails By Kristine Crane   |  January 27, 2020
My mother’s fingernails were sculpted and strong—not like salon nails, more like the backs of beetles. Every Saturday night she’d paint them for Mass the next day—usually deep red, her favorite color.

Atlantis

Atlantis By Angie Crea O'Neal   |  January 20, 2020
"Because, what if they don't turn out okay?" The question, posed by my 14-year old daughter, hung in the air as we drove past the park after school late one afternoon. I was talking about motherhood, and she matter-of-factly justified her plan...

Jasmine

Jasmine By Leah Christianson   |  January 13, 2020
He's outside, singing. On the record player, Sinatra spins. Next, it will be Pavarotti. Maybe a big-band soundtrack. Whatever the treasure, he will make a big show of dusting off and placing a needle upon before heading back to his garden.

Home to Roost

Home to Roost By Vivian Wagner   |  January 6, 2020
I liked the hens, with their kind eyes and soft, red feathers. I was seven, and I wanted to sleep with them, to nestle with them, because they felt like a dozen mothers, all watching out for me.

Here. Look.

Here. Look. By Ona Gritz   |  December 30, 2019
My husband hadn't meant to render us in silhouette. He was a novice, the camera new and heavy in his hands. As we gazed out the window he didn't realize that by aiming toward it, into the sun, he'd cast us in shadow, erasing specifics.

Floodscape

Floodscape By Lauren Crandall   |  December 23, 2019
On a winter's sunny day, I can see the Minnesota River shimmering a quarter mile away--past the trail at the base of our hill, over the pond, beyond the meadow, between the walnut trees. Come spring, there is imbalance--too much snow...

Woods Cove

Woods Cove By Cynthia Belmont   |  December 16, 2019
My younger sister who is dead of cancer now is returning to the tide pools soon because I'm going to bring her. I'm going to put her back, or something meaning her, which is a palmful of calcium phosphate and sodium, powdery ash...

It Happened in Brooklyn

It Happened in Brooklyn By Alena Dillon   |  December 9, 2019
They fell in love back when Brooklyn had trolley cards. He taped her photograph to the inside of his military locker. When the war ended...

Stray

Stray By Rebecca Lanning   |  December 2, 2019
She was over dogs when one appeared by their table at a beachside cafe. Strays roamed everywhere in Nosara, breedless, leashless wonders. This one had some pit bull and Corgi. Her husband thought hound. Pointy ears, long snout...

Offering

Offering By Janet Pocorobba   |  November 25, 2019
Just twelve people. People I didn’t know from Adam. I could have refused. Could've shaken my head and deferred to any one of them. Inside me, I felt a squeezing in my chest.

Home

Home By Susan Pope   |  November 18, 2019
It was just a gray concrete shell, wrapped with chain link fence. A dream home, unfinished, left to sun, dust, and rain. Around it, pastel mansions with swimming pools, iron gates, and razor wire.

A Loss for Words

A Loss for Words By Eric K. Taylor   |  November 11, 2019
This Chinese bowl, smooth in my hands, white as bone, entwined with blue dragons, reminds me of my friend Joyce's mom. Faizai she'd christened me. Fatso. (The Cantonese more affectionate than its English equivalent.)

Weight of Bones

Weight of Bones By Jennifer Filardo   |  November 4, 2019
A loon is not crazy for spending more time in the water than in the air, though the other birds may think so. He is made for it. Unlike his feathered brethren, his bones are solid. He relies on their weight to defy the buoyancy of water...

Collision

Collision By Brian Wallace Baker   |  October 28, 2019
I have questions: What would cold steel feel like on the back of my skull? How many bones would shatter? Where would I land?

Beach Day

Beach Day By Elizabeth Amon   |  October 21, 2019
Blue skies, blazing sun, of course. But honestly, it was a perfect day for fleeing steaming city streets, freezing corporate offices, our apartment, where a stuffed hippo and a crocheted blanket menaced. Everything had changed.

Scent's Memory

Scent's Memory By Tricia Theis   |  October 14, 2019
"What's the word where it reminds you of a long time ago?" I'm trying to get us out of the house and I know I sound impatient when I respond. "Nostalgia?" "Yeah," he says, "I love that smell."

Clementine Time

Clementine Time By Anna George Meek   |  October 7, 2019
There is no time but the time in the kitchen. My father loses track of days, and I buy a "clock" whose only hand moves from Monday to Tuesday to Wednesday, as if distinguishing between the days were important.

Simplify, Simplify

Simplify, Simplify By Jan Priddy   |  September 30, 2019
This could be the morning I slide out the door instead of back under sheets and escape before I drink my coffee. My arms unburdened, no one calling me back, no shame or remorse to shadow my escape. Away.

Chosen for Something

Chosen for Something By Stacy Boe Miller   |  September 23, 2019
Sometimes as a child I would brush my grandfather's thinning hair. He was a long haul trucker turned Pentecostal preacher who mostly showed affection through prayer and cash money, both of which he handed out at random to his grandkids.

Footfalls

Footfalls By Andrea Marcusa   |  September 16, 2019
On the plane home, out the window, all I see is empty sky. As a girl, when talk of dying arose, I always gazed up to where I am now, drifting past the tops of snowy clouds.

Sneakers in Sand (repeat)

Sneakers in Sand (repeat) By Dina Relles   |  September 9, 2019
The baby's shoes were nowhere. That morning was spent in the chaotic swirl of cleaning and packing the vacation house

Ritual (repeat)

Ritual (repeat) By Kelly Morse   |  September 2, 2019
Most nights I nurse my four-month-old daughter to sleep. The internet connection is terrible in our bedroom, the light thrown by the little green glass lamp not enough to read by, so I end up sitting in the semi-dark, looking across the bed to the window, or down upon the face of my baby in her steady, drowsy pleasure.

Mars and a Reflection of Mars (repeat)

Mars and a Reflection of Mars (repeat) By Carolee Bennett   |  August 26, 2019
"There are two red planets tonight," I say. And you reply, "What a brave universe." And I feel brave. Two 30-lb packs hang near the tent we pitched just before it got dark enough to need headlamps. It’s Night One of this backpacking trip.

The End of the Movie (repeat)

The End of the Movie (repeat) By Christopher Bundy   |  August 19, 2019
Today: summer afternoon on the front porch as thunderheads grow over the top of a giant oak. In the yard you perform perfect cartwheels, your legs long and straight in the air.

Bare, Naked (repeat)

Bare, Naked (repeat) By Andrea Fisk Rotterman   |  August 12, 2019
Rain falls, dimpling puddles. I kick off my clogs. My toenails shine like sparkling pumpkin peel. I slide my underwear and jeans down my legs, unsnap my bra, pull my sweatshirt over my head, lay my folded clothes on my shoes.

The Teacups (repeat)

The Teacups (repeat) By Pamela Rothbard   |  August 5, 2019
At the boardwalk, everything is past its prime: sweating hot dogs, mashed bags of cotton candy, melting ice cream. The workers move by rote--lifting and lowering the gate, pulling up on harnesses, scanning tickets. I slump in line.

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