Best Friends Forever

Michael sits on the dock with his feet dangling in the water. Frank lounges next to him, his nose alert for danger or snacks.

Perhaps they will go for a walk along the lake, or follow the dried creek bed up to the moss tree. Or Michael might grab a fishing pole from the shed and spend the afternoon at the shady shore. Frank would probably rather chase squirrels and rabbits in the grassy meadow.

It's the kind of day that you want to freeze in time and make it last forever.

The kind of day made for best friends.

Watching Grass Grow

Willow loved the flowers.

Yellow lilies sprouted from breaks in old, torn tree bark. Hydrangeas shot up from the ground so beautifully. Willow waited with anticipation and baited breath as grass grew. She watched every moment of it. As tiny white tips sprouted from the dirt, oh joy of joys, the beginning was so exciting! Then, the tiny blades raised up to the sun, and Willow screamed with excitement. She couldn't contain her joy. She watched impatiently as the leaves turned from green, to yellow, to orange, then brown. The moss grew over Willow's feet. Oh, to be a tree.From Guest Contributor Eliana Diaz

Eliana is an English literature and visual art major at UCCS. She is a feature artist in the 50th edition of Riverrun. She is a large fan of mythology, fantasy, and other make-believe.

The Pit And The Stone

A mere glimmer of light reflected off the patches of clammy wall not occupied by greasy lichen and water-laden moss as he hung awkwardly upside-down, blood rushing to his head.

The darkness was dank and oppressive, and he began to wonder exactly what bacteria or even viruses he might pick up fulfilling this bucket list item. Well, he could blame no-one but himself.

He twisted a little and stretched, bracing himself against the other wall, slipping a little on the slimy algae.

A furious voice drifted down from above “If he doesn't kiss the damn Blarney soon, I'm letting go!”

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Only Flying

It was not until it hit the blade of the worst rock, riddled with femurs and water skulls, that the river split open and found the leverage to jump out of its bed. It left comfortable moss, minnows’ gossip, and the sound of its own body rubbing past stones, on or around. It surrendered, leapt without choosing, a reflection in air of the path it had known before—the meadow, the factory, the wooden swing. The cottonwoods, black and white. It had become the ocean it had always wanted to meet, silent now, still on the same path. Only flying.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook holds a BA from Vassar College and an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. She teaches college writing and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. Her nonfiction, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared in Creations Magazine, Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, and The Syzygy Poetry Journal.

Neglect

Lichen and moss had made their home on the intricately carved headstone while a ravenous community of ivy sought to embrace it.

The man wondered who Charlotte was. All the superficial dedications were there, though the surname was hidden. Who had she been? Was there no family to visit and maintain the plot...or did they believe in allowing it to age as naturally as their progenitor?

He crouched and pulled back some of the thicker growth from the bottom.

“...leaving behind...”

He read the names. One was unusual, like Gran’s.

He brushed ivy aside.

The surname was his own.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Stopping To Retrieve What Might Be Lost In The Brush, Quiet.

Late afternoon, Tuesday, I have gathered sixteen leaves into four stacks, and a dog wanders closer to my clean patch of dirt and moss, and this book of symbols is open to the first page on interlocking circles, and four hours of collecting hues through a borrowed lens feels too brief, and this final autumn egg sits askew, broken open, sticky, not drying fast enough, and the dog is coming too close, coming soon, and some winter begins collecting itself near hatchings left to wander into this too early night, and I stand, bend at the waist, and look inside.

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.