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Rumpus Original Fiction: To Go
Love can feel muddled, vast, diffuse; so little to do with the singular volatility of a firework. I hunger for that kind of crystalline precision, though. That clarity. To scream myself across the sky just once—consuming everything in my wake—and then vanish from view.
Rumpus Original Fiction: Only Humans
Hearing old people’s memories is like watching a once-in-three-generations downpour. In the past, they lived in abundance and air conditioning. So many details go over Salwa’s head. She doesn’t know how to transcribe all the words.
ENOUGH: ’Til Death
Rape stories are like weddings—everyone thinks theirs is remarkable, but they are usually disarmingly, eye-glazingly indistinguishable.
From the Archive: Rumpus Original Fiction: Forty-Six
Waiting to turn forty-six is like standing in the unrelenting sunshine.
RUMPUS POETRY BOOK CLUB EXCERPT: Jealous of Children By Jill McDonough
An excerpt from The Rumpus Poetry Book Club‘s October selection, American Treasure by Jill McDonough forthcoming from Alice James Books on November 8, 2022 Subscribe by September 15 to the…
Rumpus Original Fiction: Mycomorphosis
“Everything looks good,” the neurologist said. The hairs on his head, she couldn’t help noticing, resembled plump white beansprouts—they stood from his scalp as if fat with water. His fingers too. “The only thing is that you have extra fungus in your head.”
Voices On Addiction: SALVE CAPUT
I wished I knew a word for the green of moss right when it starts up freshly in spring. I would lie down on it and roll around. I would pray to it. I would sing its name.
RUMPUS BOOK CLUB EXCERPT: SUZUKI IN LIMBO BY LUKE DANI BLUE
An excerpt from The Rumpus Book Club‘s October selection, Pretend It’s My Body by Luke Dani Blue published by Feminist Press October 18, 2022 Subscribe by September 15 to the…
“I Was Born to This Poetry”: The Book of Mirrors by Yun Wang
I hear the gossip of flowers / insatiable in their lust / Consider the cages that are our bodies
Rumpus Original Fiction: Breaking Through
I read somewhere that sounds don’t stop, they keep going all the way into deep space, reflecting off whatever might be in the way and speeding infinitely on. My head feels like deep space, and those voices haven’t even begun to wind down in there.
From the Archive: Rumpus Original Poetry: Three Poems by Morgan Parker
I am only as lonely / as anybody else, I say / at lunch downtown, examining / my worth.