Rumpus Original Fiction: Good Little Animals
“No remedy will undo your bad choices, or your addiction to sugar. And you can’t afford my prices anyway.”
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Funny Women: Personal Statement for Creative Writing MFA Applications
Dear MFA Faculty at Private University,
Rumpus Original Poetry: 3 Poems by Katie Farris
Why bother closing a door / when everyone demands it open?
RUMPUS POETRY BOOK CLUB EXCERPT: UPWARD MOBILITY by José Olivarez
An excerpt from The Rumpus Poetry Book Club's February selection, PROMISES OF GOLD by José Olivarez
From the Archive: Rumpus Original Fiction: Three Flash Fictions by Niyah Morris
The lasso was a gaping mouth that opened wide enough, we hoped, to swallow the cloud.
Voices on Addiction: There is No Escape
. . .this house is not the right place for children either and yet, here you are day after day.
The Sense of Words: Reverse Engineer by Kate Colby
. . . language is duplicitous. To be broken is perhaps to be part of a process (or a metaphor for life), where to bend (and survive) also leads to being broken. In this context, the word “broken” in “Reverse Engineer” might well point to a hard-won success.
From the Archive: Rumpus Original Fiction: No Good
The sounds that she would expect here are entirely absent. There are no cries, no weeping. Just soothing, muffled tones.
Rumpus Original Fiction: The Turning of Celestial Bodies
When I start running, I want you to keep your eyes on it, because you’ll notice something that may seem strange. You will find that no matter where I run, or how long, or how far, you will not see this moon move an inch in the sky.
A World Where We Are Known and Loved: Shelley Wong’s As She Appears
to be seen is not the same thing as being known
Rumpus Original Fiction: On the Farm
On the farm, I understand exactly the degree to which I have come to depend on alcohol, since in the first three weeks I think about it frequently and get worried and even look for it twice in the farmer’s house, and on the fourth week I am less interested, and on the fifth week I do other things.
ENOUGH: Landlines
Before my father killed her, my mother spent her evenings telling me the story of how she came to America. Every night, the way she started was with something new.