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.
by Michael Brasier
I furiously slipped on my shoes and hurried to the front room where my parents were putting on their jackets. The weather radar was on TV. A mass of red with arrows pointing in our direction on the map. A storm was quickly approaching.
by Richard Dinges
Each closed door,
windows draped, shadows
dropped from dim
bare bulbs, harbors
by Jason D. DeHart
They placed him in a low
reader class because he could
not recite from the board.
There was no special name,
not like there is now.
He was not a bumblebee, or a yellow
bird, or a raven. He was not given
a color.
Not blue, gold, or white.
These were the days before such
disguising took place.
by Sarah Kuntz Jones
I’ve been here so many times it should count as penance—sitting on synthetic fabric of spurious cleanliness and breathing cycled air—among the tired, the cranky, and the impatient filing on from the jet bridge.
by Audrey Gidman
You stay in a place too long you start making
people sick—you get stagnant.
In the active silence she is broken
as a kitchen appliance.
Faucet dripping like slow church bells.
Crumbs in the sink.
