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CategoryThe River

The River is a representation of the Sandy River itself, which runs alongside the university and what inspired the name of the journal. It is a constantly flowing, ebbing and surging, body of content filled with contemporary work. To submit to The River please visit our Submissions page to the left or e mail TheRiverEditors@gmail.com directly.

The Real Thing

By Tom Larsen

It was always autumn when Charlie Sikes emptied the machines at North Shore. He could still recall that first year driving the lake road through flaming trees, listening to the World Series on the radio, the sun warm on his left arm and Drysdale setting them down in order. Some men would envy him, he remembered thinking.

Meeting my Child

By Griff Foxley

A lonely heart invited me over and was elated I’d seen the scroll in the bottle,
And had responded of all things, yes. Of all things, yes.

So I ventured. But frittered away on dirty stoops and dim, private alleys along the way,
Lost my way a time maybe two maybe two hundred. But here I stand at the scroll’s address.

Two Moons

By Mark Belair 

I was maybe 20
in this taut dream, not
looking back to that age or
knowing I’d returned to it, but simply

Meditating

By Z.Z. Boone

Except for the blood pressure, Parisi is a healthy seventy-five-year-old. He swims at the Y four mornings a week, his spine is straight, he maintains the 34-inch waist he carried through college. His mind is sharp; he reads historical novels and sees an occasional play, and he can still knock out the Sunday Times crossword without having to wait a week for the solution.

Night Sweat

By Marc Swan

Three in the morning,
AC howling like a banshee dancing
on a wire. I shut it down
with a punch of the button.

Twain, Found In the Ruins

by Matthew Campbell

“My kind of loyalty was loyalty to one’s country, not to its institutions or its officeholders. The country is the real thing, the substantial thing, the eternal thing; it is the thing to watch over, and care for, and be loyal to; institutions are extraneous, they are its mere clothing, and clothing can wear out, become ragged, cease to be comfortable, cease to protect the body from winter, disease, and death.”

                   ― Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court

Aluminum and Gold

By Elizabeth Kane

[This story is the official winner of the Fall 2017 Flash Fiction contest, “200 in 2 Weeks”]

She would’ve gone anywhere. Her tap shoes scraped the pebbly sidewalk, the tulle on her skirt fluffing in the cool wind. The light from her dance studio blinked out down the street as her teacher locked the door.

Transparencies

By M.J. Iuppa

[This story is a runner up in the Fall 2017 flash fiction contest, “200 in 2 Weeks”]
No one suspected that she’s the one who said, so long. Until
someone called—the sudden blast of the cell phone, ringing
like Paul Revere, like Chicken Little fearing the sky’s falling.