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Voices on Addiction: Inheritance
We simply have not treated climate change as the intergenerational curse that it is. We have left it, again and again, for the next generation. We have chosen comfort and familiarity and numbness over a reckoning that might have spared our children.
Rumpus Original Fiction: Dream People
I am embarrassed by how it scares me, getting older. By how the fear has guided every decision. By the math I’m always doing in my head, working back from fifty-two. If I die at the same age my dad died, Brody will be twenty-six, which is old enough.
As with Vigor, As with Pain: A Review of How to Love Everyone and Almost Get Away with It
Egger’s sentences jump from one point to another, perhaps mirroring in her language how the speakers jump from one bed into another—the next temporary stop is wherever desire leads her to be.
Rumpus Original Poetry: Three Poems by Fady Joudah
The bees would not miss us if the entire neighborhood went missing. / The reverse isn’t true. The mind goes to self // as the self comes to mind. / The mind tells the self, I made you, / and the self asks, who gave you that idea?
From the Archives: FUNNY WOMEN #61: My Imaginary Wet Hot American Summer
Shwayder Camp, Idaho Springs, 1997. This summer has been—without rival—the best summer of my life. Life, I am sure, will continue on this trajectory.
Twenty-five Years Unbound: Reading a Book of AIDS
The range of prepositions used here in writing about how to write AIDS is indicative of the range of questions encompassed by the book, the range of the “brutal presence” of the disease.
From the Archives: Rumpus Original Fiction: The Anniversary
There lay her gift, basking in the sunlight. A gray-green lizard the size of a shoe. It stood so still she thought it was fake.
Voices on Addiction: Anchor Point
At first, sobriety feels at once like a death of a best friend, loss of comfort, and a beloved version of one’s self. On some level, it is exactly these things . . .
Rumpus Original Fiction: Fantasyland
Here is a lesson Portia learned years ago—you can get away with being rude and nasty if there’s a twinkle in your eye.
Rumpus Original Poetry: Two Poems by J Brooke
I drew a house / I drew a house with a tire swing / I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass /
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass and a little pond
Confession of Grief: Katie Marya’s Sugar Work
Marya’s work is a slow burn; both sweet and salty, that picks up speed and ferocity as it unfolds.