Alexander Lumans: World-Conjuring, Apocalypses, and Inspiration
an appreciation of the author and a story he inspired
I had the honor of attending a writing workshop led by Alexander Lumans and afterwards a reading of his in-progress work. He is a professor at the University of Colorado Denver, and much of his work has been published in various places. Although the unpublished chapter he read from a novel-in-progress at his In Process event is what inspired me the most, I first want to talk about some of his published works I have since read.
The piece I happened to read first when I went on the hunt for Lumans’ work was “Birds of Paradise,” which was published in a 2015 edition of SmokeLong Quarterly. It is a short piece of prose that left me intrigued and curious. It follows the theme of apocalypse from the perspective of a bird. Though never directly stated, through the piece the reader is led to believe that the bird is a vulture with uniquely human qualities. The reader is told that Denver has been nearly wiped out by the “Kravian Flu.” Lumans gives the bird a family and some sense of morals, making the reader care for a bird most would regard as disgusting. We are shown death from a vulture’s perspective, understanding that the birds are simply there to clean up, bring balance back to the area after so much death. This story encourages a respect for vultures rather than a revulsion toward them.
Next I read a work published in 2012 in the journal Booth titled “Phys. Ed. 112 Syllabus: You and Your Apocalypse.” I enjoyed this tremendously because of the inventive format and clever humor. It is presented as a real syllabus which almost fooled me at first; I thought I had clicked on the wrong file. Lumans writes lesson plans, including homework, that a professor could use to teach students how to survive in an apocalypse. It is packed with cultural references, most of which I probably didn’t catch. I did appreciate the reference to an episode of Twilight Zone in Lesson 9. The work has an element of satire and dry wit that must be appreciated. Though the piece is not meant to be taken seriously, it still encourages readers to take a step back and think about the implications of lesson plans for the apocalypse. Though it was written long before our current “unprecedented times,” I find it interesting how this satirical lesson plan has come closer to truth than Lumans may have thought it ever would have.
I then read Lumans’ “There and There and There and There” that was published in Electric Lit in 2019. It was the longest piece and my favorite of the three. Again, we are introduced to an apocalyptic landscape with “the fog” and a timid character trying to survive by herself. I really enjoyed the way he built this apocalyptic world for the reader because he focused on the small things. The narrator’s most pressing worry is a warm blanket. We find out that she slept in and missed out on the best trades. Only one good blanket is left when she reaches “the wall,” and she is willing to give anything for it because she only has a cheap, rough wool blanket. The trader asks for two things in exchange for the blanket: a gun and a piece of art. Art seems out of place in an apocalyptic world, and the narrator wonders about the trader’s desire for art along with the reader. Although the apocalyptic world Lumans presents in this piece is much different from stereotypical ones you might see in movies or read in books, it almost feels more realistic. There is plenty of danger, but the narrator still wanders out by herself to find some art. It isn’t non-stop action. Humans are still worried about blankets and art; they still have time to wonder about abstract things.
Though it isn’t posted anywhere to be read, I have to talk about the chapter Lumans read of his book that he is working on. He was awarded a fellowship to the 2015 Arctic Circle Residency where he sailed around Svalbard, Norway. This book was heavily inspired by his experiences there, specifically, the Polar Guards. Polar Guards worked on the ship he was sailing in, and their job was to protect people from polar bears and polar bears from people. The main character of Lumans’ book is a female Polar Guard. His book was also influenced by what he learned about the Arctic while he was there and how much he fell in love with it. That love was conveyed in the way he wrote about the landscape and his characters’ own adoration for it. It made me want to go to the Arctic. I enjoyed hearing this chapter read aloud, especially after attending his writing workshop. There, he talked a lot about world-conjuring, as opposed to word-building, and what that means for a story. World-building implies info dumps and pages of information that the reader doesn’t actually need. World-conjuring is a way of building a world around your reader in the midst of action and dialogue. I am working on adopting that technique into my own writing.
I have been fortunate enough to travel a lot in my life, and I wanted to try writing about a place I’ve been the way that Lumans was inspired to do. However, I am also no stranger to writing about apocalypses and a lot of Lumans’ work is inspired by that theme. Below, in my own writing, I have created a story inspired by the things that have inspired Alexander Lumans and used some of the techniques he taught at the workshop. I have thoroughly enjoyed taking the time to read, think about, and be inspired by his work.
The City of Death
It has taken years to get here. Years of research, study, preparation. At last, I stand at the feet of stoic, silent, concrete and glass giants that crumble in slow motion around me. I am headed for a specific place, but it won’t hurt to explore as I make my way there.
Usually, a team of professionals would attend to these kinds of things, but not today. Not here, not with the dangers that lie in wait. My team cowers safely in a bunker miles away, supposedly with direct connection to the device in my ear. When they stopped speaking a mile back, I figured we’d lost the connection. I stand completely alone in the center of the City of Death.
After overcoming my awe at finally being here, my mind goes into analysis mode. Of all the ruined cities I’ve seen, this one is the most lifeless. I nearly shout when something runs over my boot, but jumping and looking down, I find that it is simply a cockroach. Those don’t count if you’re looking for life. Settling back into my skin after the scare, I adjust the air filter covering my face, ensuring its security. I trek on.
The concrete and asphalt are riddled with cracks and I hardly avoid tripping over them because I can’t stop looking up. The buildings are so tall, the imprint of a civilization full of ambition and reckless, detrimental, abandon. I can’t even imagine something like this rising from the world I know.
I’ve studied maps of this city for years. I could list street names and buildings and discrepancies in the layout, but it is completely different in person. All I heard as I was growing up were the horrors of what happened here, but as I studied and eventually prepared to make the trip, I unearthed the stories of beauties that happened here too. Records broken and tremendous power and lavish parties and so, so many people. More people on one block than I’ve seen in my entire lifetime.
The Freedom Tower. I know it when I see it. It’s not my destination, but I’m delighted to come upon it. The skyscraper is the tallest in the city. I can hardly conceptualize that it was once home to thousands of offices that people worked in every day. There is significant history to this building, patriotism and loss and hope all at once. I check my watch. I still have several hours. I step inside the building. It is supposedly the most structurally sound skyscraper in the area. Old blueprints say it could withstand a direct plane hit. I climb hundreds of flights of stairs. And once I reach the top, well, if anything can make a ruined land beautiful, it’s a view like this. Up here, above the darkness of the buildings, the sun shines bright upon a lifeless city. I can see the harbor and I can see the layout I have memorized. I can see the Empire State Building that has against all odds failed to topple. I can see the space where my destination is supposed to be, though it’s hard to tell from this distance.
With a deep breath of the fresh air available to me up here, I descend the stairs and head that direction. My research partner will probably tell me how many steps I walked today when I get back, but I don’t bother to look now. People who lived here must have walked thousands of steps every day due to the limited transportation I’ve read about. Many cars are still jammed into the streets, I can almost hear the honking, and I can picture the subway system beneath my feet. Again, my brain finds it impossible to understand how many people there were, how this society worked. They used to call it the city that never sleeps and maybe even now that is accurate. It lived and worked and moved and ran until one day it died.
I’ve seen old photos of my destination, the few surviving images. I know it used to be full of life and color, but that is far from the case now. In the silence of a lifeless city, I begin to hear things. My attention jerks to the left when I think I hear the rush of a subway train through the grates in the concrete. A few blocks up, I’m whipping my head to the right because the ghost of music floats down an alleyway. As more and more of the sounds I know used to be here echo in my ears, I rationalize it away with my knowledge of how the contaminated air can affect the brain. I walk faster.
At a jog with the phantom sounds of a street full of people around me, at last I find myself in the right place. Hauntingly empty and silent billboards stare down at me from high above. Wind pushes trash through the street. I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. Everything matches the images I’ve seen, but in those images everything was life. This is death. I sink my tired body into a rusty red chair at the center of the square. The counterfeit sounds of life had stopped when I entered this place, but now as I look around, my perception of reality changes.
Light dances before my very eyes, neon across the billboards. Music enters my ears and the chatter of people crushes around me. Honking horns and shouting follows, filling me with an underlying sense of dread, but covering it, awe. The city takes up life again all around me, whether I’m hallucinating or seeing it for real, I do not know. My rationalizations about the polluted air are long gone. A scientist and historian remains entranced where she sits, the desperate radio transmissions of her team unable to reach her. Perhaps she never could have researched, studied or prepared enough anyway. The sun sets as the city that never sleeps awakens from the dead.
Sydney Robertson is a student at Middle Tennessee State University pursuing a degree in English. She loves to write sitting in her chair next to the window with her cat curled up in her lap.
