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I don’t remember exactly how or when it happened, but at some point last year, I became aware that Wendy C.
Midnight Breakfast is a free online literary magazine publishing a diverse selection of fiction, nonfiction, interviews, and visual art that we hope will spark conversation.
A careful pursing of lips and the tap of one black boot on the floor: I punctuated English class often until the day Mr. Ortiz, copyright 2014 by Future Tense Books, used with permission from the author and Future Tense Books. My friend and former co-editor Zoe Ruiz had worked with her on a few interviews, and then subsequently forwarded me some pitches, all of which mentioned that Wendy had directed them towards The Rumpus. Whether charting the disintegration of a marriage or naming the reasons why having one child is enough, she gives herself permission to be honest and doesn’t shy away from accountability or exposure. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, The Nervous Breakdown, Vol.

It’s an investigation of the sexual relationship Wendy had with her eighth grade teacher over the course of five years, but it’s also an unapologetic exploration of what it means to be a teenage girl — of what happens when our desires become our focal point, and how we harness sex and allow it to harness us. The book is at once harrowing and beautiful, and Wendy’s language is crisp and shakes you to your core. A few clicks later, and I was on her personal website, and a few clicks after that and I had read a portion of her work (which is, quite thankfully, available online).
I’m so glad Future Tense Books (which, let it be said, is a powerhouse of its own) gave Excavation a home, and I’m absolutely thrilled to bring you this excerpt from one of the best books I’ve read in the last five years.Enjoy! I tugged a little on the long-sleeved white collared shirt wrapped around my waist, its arms embracing my hips, the buttons just touching my thighs. A small sea of papers moved to the front of the class, their surfaces whispering softly against one another. Ivers collected the papers from the students in the front row, walked back to his desk, and leaned against the edge to read each paper to himself.There was a titter, then a hush, as we watched him relax into his lean, reading, flipping to the subsequent pages rather swiftly.

He grunted, occasionally glancing up to say, “Yeah, right!” looking a bashful student in the eye, or “What the…?” directed at another.
There was a strange, bouncy feeling in the air, as if we were forgiven for writing poorly, as if he was amused by our adolescent boredom and our confusion and our young, silly way of life.When he got to my paper, my throat clenched. I think), and asked in a low voice, as if we were the only ones in the room, “Wendy, can I read this out loud?”My head tilted, nodded softly. They listened as he read each word slowly, words that formed an image of a fire that charged violently down a hillside to ravage the basin below.When he finished, he looked up and shook his head.

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