snow
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Rumpus Original Fiction: White Ash
My wife, Ritu, a receptionist at a motel, works four nights a week. In the morning, I pick her up in our used Honda and drive her home. After she showers, I bring her a cup of fresh ginger and…
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Repel the Wind
Why would I ask for my sanity from the Devil as I sleep walk, only to give it up again to the Holy Spirit?
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Echoes of Winter: Revisiting Inside Llewyn Davis
The tale of the self-made man is as much a myth as that of a cat having nine lives.
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The Saturday Rumpus Essay: Such a Thing
The future perfect tense indicates an action that is certain to occur. But when the future is not perfect or certain, the conditional “would” is more appropriate.
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The Life Jacket
How later you learned grief and love are partners too. How love held you through grief’s fire.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: The Pale of Vermont
But to become a writer I needed at least to learn about my own superstitions. I needed space in the house to sketch with words. I needed to commit heresies. And those acts had to feel pleasurable.
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Properly Blootered
The New Republic has taken the task of dissecting our collective drunkenness; or at least the words we’ve used to describe it: There seems to be a universal trend to avoid stating the obvious. To describe someone as simply drunk, in…
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Boy, Snow, Bird by Helen Oyeyemi
Anita Felicelli reviews BOY, SNOW, BIRD by Helen Oyeyemi today in The Rumpus Book Reviews.
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Art as Ephemera?
David Ulin writes about Shelley Jackson’s new project at the Los Angeles Times. If you didn’t hear about her previous project, Skin, now is a good time to do so. Her new project is similar. The story is told one…
