My grandfather let it slip like a joke that years ago in Widener’s Valley, back in that Virginia sawmill town, Grandmother drove herself to the…
I washed your clothes that smelled of urine and vomit, twice through the cycle, with colorfast bleach and the hottest water. I folded them, matching…
The kitchen smells of cleanser, bread and spices. I sit among them when we talk, my elbow on the table, window ajar despite the cold…
Once I drew the conclusion that love is a loosely officiated charade, I pooh-poohed any notion of ever being worthy of redemption. I felt I’d…
In my fairy tale life my friend would never have hung herself. My other friend would have survived the self-inflicted bullet she shot through her…
No hiding from it. That Sunday night I had to ride the forty miles, reckoning I’d outrun the storm grumbling up behind. Ambushed at half way,…
My fingers fit perfectly in the spaces between his. At night he would wrap his arms around my shoulders, I’d lay my leg across his…
River & South Review is a student-run literary journal. We seek new work by emerging writers of any age who have not gone on to a…