Summer 2019

“Birdie doesn’t talk anymore, but Roscoe can still hear her. After fifty years together her voice finds him, escaping through the cracks of her fiberglass box and traveling up those feet of dirt and over the soil horizon to whisper advice and recollections and perturbed admonishments into the white-tufted privacy of his cochlea.” Read More

SPRING 2019

“The restaurant faces Central Park and we choose to sit outside in the warm fall evening. Potted banana trees are placed to afford each table an illusion of privacy. Joan is laughing at something I said when the shooting starts.” Read More

Winter 2019

“I left a stone on my grandfather’s grave today.

It would have been common practice if not for
His grave being the Danube, icy river,
And the marker a pair of shoes and a plaque” Read More

New Year’s Writing Contest

In celebration of our second year publishing, we are bringing back the New Year’s Writing Contest! Submissions are open now through January 15th.

Accepted Genres: short fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry
First prize: $100, as well as publication in our Winter 2019 issue, and a mystery prize(???)!

All contest submissions will also be considered for publication in our Winter 2019 issue.

See our submissions page for info on how to enter.

FAQs:

Q: Is there a winner for every genre?
No – submissions from all genres are welcome, but only one overall winner will be chosen.

Q: When will the winner be announced?
The first prize winner and two finalists will be announced in early February.

Q: Will runners up be published in Rumble Fish Quarterly?
Runners up will be considered for publication in the Winter 2018 issue, but only the first prize winner will receive automatic publication.

Q: What’s the mystery prize?
Okay, you got us. We didn’t tell you last year, but the jig is up. Everybody knows the mystery prize is [classified].

Fall 2018: Double-Dealers

“His name was John, a strong name though not remarkable. When they found him he weighed less than his Christmas tree. It was February and even the most festive souls had taken down their bunting, but not John. In his window the lights kept blinking through the net curtains, all hours of the day, all hours of the night. Every time I peered from my window I’d see them flashing on the tree, brittle limbs silhouetted by the glow of his standard lamp.” Read More