Recent posts
Rumpus Articles
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Forms of Narrowing: Julie Otsuka’s The Swimmers
After the memorials, the funerals, the endless influx of flowers and casserole dishes and well-meaning texts, the collective retreats back into their lives and all that is left is the individual, grieving for months and years and perhaps even the…
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Rumpus Original Fiction: Bloom
The bloom would not open until we arrived, but it was not waiting for us. It was a matter of timing. Each year in mid-March, the petals uncurled from their fetal sleeping positions, stretched out to face the sun.
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A General Truth Through a Particular Lie: An Interview with the Creators of the Podcast Penknife
I personally find this myth of authenticity extremely insidious and damaging, because it often leads to purity tests and the constant need to prove one’s cred . . . rather than leading to constructive thought and action—
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What to Read When In Search of Eastern European Myths
because there’s more than Dostoyevsky and Chekhov . . .
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Voice On Addiction: Another Thing to Chase
She’s still somehow always thirsty . . . At least none of these drinks will kill her, even if the hunt for mood and mind-altering, for distraction, for something out there to help, may follow her to the grave.
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From the Archive: Rumpus Original Poetry: Four Poems by Maggie Smith
What do we do? We birth the new citizens / & answer their bodies with our bodies. // We rock the new citizens to sleep. / We clothe them with skin & stamp // their passports with milk.
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From the Archive: We Are More: New Country, Old Bones
What did you hope to build in the / New country?
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August Spotlight: Letters in the Mail
Chatting with two of August’s Letters in the Mail featured authors about some of their favorite books.
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Make something inexplicable happen: An Interview with Morgan Talty
What’s funnier than somebody having a mental breakdown? We all experienced it, so why can’t we laugh at that?
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Fat Ghost
Only now can I finally see how this had been our pact all along. We’d decided between us, somewhere along the way, and without any real discussion, that my mother would be the flower and I would be the wax…
