Posts Tagged: army
Objectivity Is My Enemy: A Conversation with Dave Cullen
Dave Cullen discusses his new book, PARKLAND: BIRTH OF A MOVEMENT.
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War Games: Kill Class by Nomi Stone
What happens when we play along with something not real—does it become real?
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Voices on Addiction: Flight Patterns
There was no map, no compass. Just me, the needle, and heroin.
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ENOUGH: Whose Shame Is It, Anyway?
A Rumpus series of work by women and non-binary writers that engages with rape culture, sexual assault, and domestic violence.
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Scars of War: Watching Battle of the Sexes
Until recently, coming out was almost always dangerous—not only to our careers and our relationships but also to our bodies. And so hiding was (and sometimes still is) a necessity.
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Wisdom Is a Double-Edged Sword: Talking with Jay Baron Nicorvo
Jay Baron Nicorvo discusses his debut novel, The Standard Grand, how easy it is for civilians to forget about soldiers and veterans, and his longstanding love of animals.
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Rumpus Original Fiction: The Barbecue
Up close, the beach was disgusting and tragic. A million tiny pieces of plastic were heaped on the shore like confetti from a hundred parades, or like the real sand on the beach threw up.
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Womanly Arts
This is the hearth. This is the knot. This is home. The woman bent over a sewing machine, the steady hum of the motor, the needle rising and sinking.
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Sand Becoming Glass
You can call a soldier a hero or a murderer. You can call them a warrior or a monster. You can call them savior or Satan. You could call them Brother. Maybe even mother.
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The Saturday Rumpus Essay: Wa
It’s about greed; it’s about taking only the best part of things, the cream off the top, the fat. And this taking of the fat has reached a crisis point in America—a critical mass, if you will.
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Rumpus Original Fiction: Rhino Girl
But these were not men, she realized. They were a cackle of spotted hyena, bright-toothed in the dark, and they were laughing at her.
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A Letter to My Father That He Will Never Read
What would I even say if I was to answer that long-awaited phone call? Would the light of forgiveness carry me fearlessly into tomorrow?
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Notes from Freedom County
I am trying to make sense of myself as much as the place. It is so easy to conflate ‘where I was from’ with ‘who I was there.’
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