Ten-year-old Richie helped his mom decorate the Christmas tree with colorful red, green, and blue lights, and an array of ornaments. When he lit the tree, everything in the room illuminated.

The war had ended, and Christmas was whole again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

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.

At first, her followers thought it was intended as a metaphor. Every acorn is a big bang all its own. Every tree the mother of countless worlds.

Until a giant squirrel ruined everything.

I sighed as my breathing slowed. The sun rose over my head, and I felt the power inside me waking, like the tree in the woods that had grown into giant oaks, covering the forest floor in the summer. I would sit in the shade of those trees until nightfall, waiting for the stars, reaching for the promise of sleep. The light in the sky became a distant memory, and I could almost feel the joy that the moon brought to those born in the middle of winter or during those spring showers that brought new life to the earth.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

The giant came over the hills, his axe as lengthy as the oak trees in the playground stumbled upon. Amid the outrage and terror, someone called the mayor. The police put their hands to their guns, waiting.

He left as quickly as he came, taking only the axe. Maybe the next town, he thought, would be more welcoming.

From Guest Contributor E. M. Foster

E. M. is a fiction writer from Florida. She is currently preparing for a Master’s of Studies at the University of Cambridge, St. Edmund’s. She is a reader for Farside Review and Sepia Journal and a writer for Coffee House Writers. Her work has been published in The Aurora Journal, Sledgehammer Lit, and others.

The unbalanced hostage-taker suddenly meekly surrendered to his Jewish hostages. A delegation of angels in a tree outside the synagogue hooted in derision and then rose into the sky and flapped away, leaving mysterious future gaps in the fossil record. In that instant, I became convinced of the essential stupidity of strictly adhering to any particular plan. And don’t think I didn’t know that, with my droopy face and drab old clothes, I looked like an unassimilable immigrant from a strange country – someplace dark and rainy and governed by contradiction, where there are no clues or, rather, only false ones.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

As a boy, I remember my dad telling me Christmas is about family and spending time together. Secondary, exchanging gifts.

The birth of Jesus Christ is the reason we celebrate the holiday.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

There is a breeze blowing west. At the top of the biggest tree there is a blue jay bracing in the wind. In my peripheral vision I see a black and white figure below me walking towards the bird. As I realize it is my tuxedo cat, I hear the sound of an engine struggling to drive up towards us. I look to the East and see a truck, I look to the North and see my cat. Then there is blood on my face. As I wipe it off to make myself recognizable, my cat is no longer recognizable.

From Guest Contributor Ina Rose

Ina is a student with a passion for writing.

Run.
Feet crush the leaves; waves of terror crawl your spine.
Slide.
A tree – a savior! Red drops drip down from your ears to the ground.
Crack!
Terror returns like an old friend. It seems now is your end.
Look.
A challenge beckons you. Leaning around the bark, you peak into the clearing.
Empty?
Before you can contemplate, a hand wraps around your throat.
“Missed me?”
The version of yourself you keep locked away smirks at you.
“I’m afraid of the dark.”
The clearing dissipates as you are released.
Clink!
Chains now hold you down.
“I don’t want to disappear.”

From Guest Contributor Sydney Clark

“Tree looks unwell,” stated Dad.

“Grandpa would’ve loved this tree,” said Robbie.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, stuffed animals and many friends.