The Fourth River


Essay: “We Move the Chicken Coop: Chickens Inform the Creative Mind,” by Sherry Rind

By on February 15, 2012

According to Howard Gardner’s book Multiple Intelligences, our society prizes logical-mathematical thinking above other kinds.  It follows that I did well in school because my talents fall in the linguistic-mathematical range beloved of givers of standardized tests and late twentieth

Fiction: “Woman in the Woods,” by Adam Reger

By on February 1, 2012

Bruce had been asleep under the table when the phone rang. An old phone, its bell rattled loosely, sending tremors down his hand: in the midst of a bad dream, he had gripped the table’s ankle. As the phone rang

Poem: “Light, Pinned and Singing,” by Jessica Reed

By on January 7, 2012

I am finally present. As Virginia said, My eyes are hard. Years ago now, in optics lab, my partner’s strange pronunciation of ‘frosted glass’. We were looking at spectra then: glass- shattered light lines. But I couldn’t focus. Those radiant

Poem: “The Canyon,” by Candace Black

By on December 7, 2011

Beyond the strip of backyard grass, further than the rim of ice plant’s succulent green spears, past the firebreak bulldozers shaved each spring across tufts of scrubby chaparral and mustard, exposing once

Fiction: “Wish You Were Here,” by Geeta Kothari

By on December 1, 2011

The night is endless, with one request after another, songs they can’t play, songs they won’t play. “No,” Red Puppy says to the bride’s mother, a troll in a green dress with a sash. “We don’t do ‘YMCA.’” He makes

Poem: “Daffodils One Sunday Before Snow,” by Shaun T. Griffin

By on October 31, 2011

Already the bulbs croon the silent damp, the edge of spring not days from here, land of the thin green necks that sprout before the last white morning— because, of course, it will come. Helpless in another silence, my father-in-law

Fiction: “42°33′N 0°33′W,” by Tina May Hall

By on August 28, 2011

When they lived in France, they had ducks in the yard, fat pillows of noise and stink.  Their ridged feet scratched over hers in the mud.  She was a child then, and she always went barefoot and drank the cream