The Rumen

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Prose

poem
[flash fiction]

There was a tree in our yard. It was our yard just as it had been the yard of the couple who planted the tree and propped it up with stakes so that if it stooped, it wouldn’t stoop too low and die there, leaning sadly toward the grass and its roots.


poem
[short story]

We wore masks when we had sex for the camera, but there were things apparently that could give you away.


poem
[short story]

Uncle is half-into one of his things again: ‘...ten cents every dollar I make goes to agriculture. But look around, you think there’s farms out here? The soil is dead, the soil is ice...'


poem
[flash fiction]

“Barbie and Ken should moan a bit. I think adults make a lot of noise when they’re doing it,” Dee says to Jennifer, as they smoosh their Barbie and Ken dolls together.


poem
[short story]

One week ago, the news arrived: Grandpa had passed away.



Poetry

These days, it's all too easy to transfigure.
[free verse]

These days, it's all too easy to transfigure.


the cosmos has a sadistic appetite
[free verse]

the cosmos has a sadistic appetite


before bone and shape // before bolt, breech and chamber
[free verse]

before bone and shape // before bolt, breech and chamber



About Us

The Rumen is a collaboration between writers, poets, and artists from a variety of demographics and backgrounds. Like the guts of an ungulate, we want The Rumen to be a space for ideas and experiences to digest, ferment, and transform.

We are especially interested in publishing contributors from historically underrepresented people groups.

About Us

Social Media

Support

Want to help The Rumen grow? Share us on social media, tell your friends, or buy us a coffee!

Articles

Our pediatric hospice team’s new patient was staying in a motel on the west side of the city.


[memoir]

Morning practices were always hard to stomach. Somewhat slowly, I made my way up to the big field at Parson’s. The sun, weak and silver, seemed to have gotten stuck about a quarter of the way up the flypaper sky.


I know the aging process is well underway when I go, in the space of what seems like a few weeks, from being the hippy, the youngest one on the block, to being the one who has been there the longest; to receiving offers for grave sites “pre-need;” to watching those my age gradually display gender convergence due to God-knows-what hormonal shift.


[memoir]

When I listen to Liars’ 2012 album WIXIW especially the trancey musings of “Octagon,” its hyper electronic drums, plodding keyboard bass, Angus Andrew’s murmurings of “I thought, I’ll live, I always thought you” or whatever it is he’s saying, I feel that a hole has been ripped in time...


These days, it's all too easy to transfigure.
[free verse]

These days, it's all too easy to transfigure.


Our pediatric hospice team’s new patient was staying in a motel on the west side of the city.

Our pediatric hospice team’s new patient was staying in a motel on the west side of the city.


There was a tree in our yard. It was our yard just as it had been the yard of the couple who planted the tree and propped it up with stakes so that if it stooped, it wouldn’t stoop too low and die there, leaning sadly toward the grass and its roots.
[flash fiction]

There was a tree in our yard. It was our yard just as it had been the yard of the couple who planted the tree and propped it up with stakes so that if it stooped, it wouldn’t stoop too low and die there, leaning sadly toward the grass and its roots.


the cosmos has a sadistic appetite
[free verse]

the cosmos has a sadistic appetite


before bone and shape // before bolt, breech and chamber
[free verse]

before bone and shape // before bolt, breech and chamber


It’s a joke, I know, to take myself so seriously
[free verse]

It’s a joke, I know, to take myself so seriously


Morning practices were always hard to stomach. Somewhat slowly, I made my way up to the big field at Parson’s. The sun, weak and silver, seemed to have gotten stuck about a quarter of the way up the flypaper sky.
[memoir]

Morning practices were always hard to stomach. Somewhat slowly, I made my way up to the big field at Parson’s. The sun, weak and silver, seemed to have gotten stuck about a quarter of the way up the flypaper sky.


About Us

The Rumen is a collaboration between writers, poets, and artists from a variety of demographics and backgrounds. Like the guts of an ungulate, we want The Rumen to be a space for ideas and experiences to digest, ferment, and transform.

We are especially interested in publishing contributors from historically underrepresented people groups.

About Us

Social Media

Support

Want to help The Rumen grow? Share us on social media, tell your friends, or buy us a coffee!

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