(both were necessary to rescue my cell phone from beneath the deck of an ice cream shop)
Dearest readers,
It is almost Halloween. As we have previously established, it is, objectively, the best holiday of the year. A contributing factor to its "best-ness" is that it occurs in fall, which also happens to be, objectively the best season of the year.
There is a nostalgia to the northern hemisphere's autumn: school starts, the days get shorter, the nights get nippy. As a person who spends a lot of time on college campuses, this nostalgia intensifies as students spend more time outdoors, sprawling across improbable not-actually-a-chair surfaces in pairs and groups.
This afternoon, I sat behind a group of three-four students who were all intently giving dating advice to a blonde wearing a baby-yellow waffle knit. They were all so earnest and gentle. Was that part of everyone's college experience—the group-therapy (more like group-therapist) via a pack of friends? The advice wasn't necessarily good, but it always made me feel better. Till next time,AS |
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Interviews, interviews, interviews! We talk with Robin McLean about her newest short story collection and about the naming of characters, with Talia Lakshmi Kolluri about harnessing our inner wildness, and with Ross Gay (who is our November book club author!) about covers as forms of tribute.
Something new: A dialogue on the poetics of contemporary America and how to (can we?) move beyond the boundaries of the national/nation-state between Paisley Rekdal and Rodrigo Toscano.
New original fiction by Ifeanyichukwu Eze. Opening lines:
4 a.m.
Birnin Zumunci.
Everyone here is new. Everyone has run away from somewhere. Some of us are from Unguwan Gobe Da Nisa where peace lives in the graveyards.
New original fiction by Leon Ríos. Opening lines:
The night my father met my mother, the plaza was drunk with the smell of corundas. Corundas are particular to the state of Michoacán. Wrapped with fresh green corn leaves, their circular shape is about the size of a small fist, depending on who makes them.
Three new poems from Rooja Mohassessy: "Before and After the Iranian Revolution," "Mrs. Farahmand and Mrs. Henderson Share Drinks on the Eve of War," and "The Italian Civil State Office and the Iranian Embassy Deny Your Request for Cremation."
New essay by Anne P. Beatty. Opening lines:
When I was in high school, ambition meant two things: escaping my hometown and becoming a writer. I’d planned to be worldly in a blurred sense that included handbags, passports, and publications. I never planned to move back to my hometown, until at thirty-three I did.
New comic by Claire Gallagher: Dispatches from a Moldovan park.
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Letters in the Mail (from authors)
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Letters in the Mail (for adult readers) upcoming a uthors include: Joe Meno, Ingrid Rojas Contreras, J. Estanislao Lopez, and Bushra Rehman.
📢📢📢LAST CALL FOR LETTERS FOR KIDS📢📢📢Letters in the Mail for Kids (ages ~8-12) will be ending in early 2023, so now is your last chance to sign up for a young reader in your life. Upcoming authors include: Betsy Uhrig, Stacy Nockowitz, Laura Rueckert, and Shawn Peters.
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Every month subscribers get a book in the mail handpicked by The Rumpus staff. We search for titles that we are truly excited about! Sign up by November 15 to receive Concentrate by Courtney Faye Taylor and/or How Far the Light Reaches by Sabrina Imbler. You'll also be invited to an exclusive online discussion with the book's author the last week of the month (we'll send you a pass code to join). These will take place on the Rumpus Crowdcast channel and will remain available to members for 1 month after they take place. |
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This week we're sharing an excerpt from our December Book Club pick HOW FAR THE LIGHT REACHES by Sabrina Imbler. Join the Book Club by November 15to receive a copy of this novel and an invite to our subscriber-only discussion with the author.
"We Swarm"
Two Aprils ago, a humpback whale stranded on Jacob Riis Beach in New York and died belly-up: white fins splayed in the sand like a snow angel, grooved throat mounded as if still holding a gulp of air. Its death made the local papers. The 28-foot-long whale was the year’s first reported stranding in the area. Its body appeared pristine, at least as far as dead whales go. A week later, the whale was buried, and its beachfront burial also made the local papers.
When I read the whale’s brief obituary, I squinted at the photo, trying to figure out where on Jacob Riis it had stranded. I go to Riis Beach often, and I wanted to place the whale somewhere on that landscape. I wanted to know if it had died somewhere I had walked, or, in the future, I wanted to walk across the stretch of sand where it had died. But the picture was placeless, the whale a blip on a stretch of empty sand whose only landmarks were a few distant dunes and a weathered skyline of wood pilings.I have seen many creatures stranded on Riis Beach that were not large or notable enough to garner press coverage. I remember the holographic sheen of a still-inflated man-of-war, shining like a bubble on the sand. The hollow, chestnut husk of a horseshoe crab, a chunk missing from its side and a pristinely reticulated tail that shuddered when I picked it up. A motionless mole crab with a belly full of tiny, sherbet-colored eggs. These animals died as the whale did — carried too close to shore by warm waters or riotous currents — but their strandings would only make the news if they occurred en masse: a parade of men-of-war in the surf, hordes of overturned horseshoe crabs, a mountain of molted mole crab shells gently lapped by waves. In the headlines, these creatures never “stranded”; rather, they “washed up.” Why was that? Perhaps stranding suggested the creature was worth noticing, was worth saving.(keep reading here . . . ) |
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