Kristen Balyeat
Bio
Words fly to me on the wind, bump into me as I'm strolling the city, splash me in the face while I rest by the river, and shake me awake in the middle of the night– I’m humbly one of the many vessels they use to come to life.
Stories (124/0)
Chef
Focus intense, beads of sweat drip down his brow as coveted stars hang in the balance of his copper ladle. Steadily, he dispenses a calculated serving of tomato consommé, 48.8°C, into a white porcelain canvas as a rich grassy perfume fills his nostrils.
By Kristen Balyeatabout a year ago in Fiction
- Top Story - May 2023
0'Dark-Thirty
I rolled over and looked at my clock– 1:55 am. After counting at least five-thousand-six-hundred-fifty-five sheep, I still couldn't drift into dreamland. “Those sheep are worthless,” I thought. It wasn’t their fault though. I had been laying in the dark for a while waiting for my alarm to go off. I was afraid I’d sleep through it, miss my car service, and in turn my flight home…well, not home per se, but back to Colorado. With only five minutes before it would blare an obnoxious beep, I decided to drag myself out of bed. I got dressed and downed a cup of hot tea, willing the caffeine to resuscitate my sluggish brain. I glanced at the clock again- 2:30 am
By Kristen Balyeatabout a year ago in Journal
- Top Story - April 2023
Earth Day | "Thanksgiving Address, Ohén:ton Karihwatéhkwen"Top Story - April 2023
In honor of Earth Day, I'd like to share a beautiful transcript that has become a staple in my weekly reading: Thanksgiving Address, Greetings to the Natural World. Ohén:ton Karihwatéhkwen (Words Before All Else). This transcript consists of the traditional Native American words of Thanksgiving from the Native Haudenosaunee (hoe-dee-no-SHOW-nee) people, also known as Iroquois (ee-ruh-kwaa) or Six Nations: Mohawk (mow-haak), Oneida (oh-ny-duh), Onondaga (aa-nuhn-daa-guh), Cayuga (kay-YOO-Ga), Seneca (seh-nuh-kuh), and Tuscarora (tuh-skuh-RAW-ruh)- of upstate New York and Canada (Thanksgiving Address, intro).
By Kristen Balyeatabout a year ago in Earth
Cloud Fleet 81
Drifting and floating at 6500 feet, Cirro readied his Cloud Craft. His hands shook as he turned knobs and pressed buttons on his control panel. Making eye contact with his reflection, he examined his white, cottony hair that swirled into a perfect cloud shape. He was pleased with himself. Slowly scanning his face, he noticed that his normally light blue cheeks had taken on a pale, chalky color. “Nerves,” he thought.
By Kristen Balyeatabout a year ago in Fiction