By Emilie DeOreo
Samantha Edmonds’s newest short-story collection A Preponderance of Starry Beings tackles the tensions between childhood egocentrism and the vastness of the worlds—both literal and metaphorical—beyond us. As children, the egocentrism stage is pivotal for our development, shaping how we understand our place in the world through our own limited perceptions. Yet the suggestion that something might exist beyond our physical planet allows some children to grasp, however faintly, that the world extends far past their immediate experiences and the boundaries of their own bodies. In space, they are merely singular specks of dust among the ever-expanding cosmos. A Preponderance of Starry Beings gives its readers a chance to realize how deeply connected we all are to the boundless unknown of the universe, and Edmonds’s characters, whether on Earth or elsewhere, act as a bridge between the ordinary and the extraordinary, showing how even mundane experiences can carry an otherworldly resonance that links us to the larger cosmos.
Some of Edmonds’s stories are explicit in their relationship between normal everyday domesticity and galactic happenings, such as “The Adventures of Starboy and Earthgirl,” which follows two girls in the late 90s, their passion for all things Spock and Captain Kirk, and their love for each other. Other stories are more subtle about the cosmos connection, such as the impressively linked pieces that feature Ruth Emerson, a late-adolescent character Edmonds returns to multiple times, whose eyes are pointed toward heaven, but whose faith in a larger purpose is tested. Edmonds’s collection as a whole transforms the infinite landscape of space into a mirror for human emotion, demonstrating that no matter how small or isolated we may feel, our identities and experiences are inextricably linked. Whether her stories are about queer coming-of-age or spiritual unraveling, Edmonds shows us that connection (like starlight) travels faster than we could ever imagine, seeming to reach even those who believe they are completely alone.
“The Adventures of Earthgirl and Starboy” launches the collection as Earthgirl and Starboy, Jules and Jeanie, respectively, adopt superhero alter egos through their shared fascination with science fiction and the idea of a future beyond their small Ohio town. Their friendship, charged with curiosity, queerness, and quiet rebellion, becomes its own kind of cosmic orbit; it’s a space where they can imagine themselves as limitless beings unbound by gender or expectation. Starboy, who resists definition, finds freedom in the belief that she, too, is made of stardust, while Earthgirl remains tethered by the familiar pull of the world below and its stigmas. Edmonds captures adolescence as a kind of interstellar travel as her characters take those first leaps toward identity, as thrilling as they are isolating. When the relationship fractures under the weight of misunderstanding and societal pressure, the story ends not with closure but with the haunting image of Starboy alone beneath the night sky, searching for something larger than herself. In that moment, Edmonds defines what much of the collection will return to: the ache of reaching, and the beauty of believing that the universe might reach back.
If “The Adventures of Earthgirl and Starboy” portrays an awakening (the first awareness of being both extraordinary and small), then the recurring character of Ruth Emerson represents what happens when that awareness is tested by adulthood. One of the stories she appears in, “Samson Collapsing, or What I Lost Falling in Love,” is written in a mythic, biblical rhythm that mirrors the cadence of the Old Testament. Ruth, the daughter of a Baptist preacher, falls for her father’s new assistant pastor, Tom, and her narration blurs between a sort of scripture and her unadulterated confessions about faith and desire. With Ruth’s narrative, Edmonds spins the biblical story of Samson and Delilah into a modern take on faith and longing, showing how the search for divine meaning underscores the human need to find something larger than oneself. Ruth’s belief in God becomes inseparable from her love for a man, and when that love collapses, she loses not just him but her sense of the divine. Heaven, which once represented transcendence and purpose, begins to feel as distant and indifferent as the stars. The story opens, “Nine months from now, when he leaves her, Ruth Emerson will break, and not even God will notice.” In that sentence, Edmonds redefines the scale of heartbreak: it can feel as monumental as the collapse of a star, or a simple prayer gone unanswered.
While the earlier space-themed tales look outward toward the cosmos, Ruth’s story looks inward, toward the spiritual voids that open within us. She is, in many ways, a terrestrial version of Starboy: a person searching for transcendence in a world that keeps her stranded. Edmonds uses her to explore what happens when belief—whether in God, in love, or in another person—fails to sustain us. Yet even in her despair, Ruth becomes part of Edmonds’s constellation of connection; her struggle is that of every character who has looked up and wondered whether the stars are listening.
By the time the collection reaches its final story, “Star Stuff,” Edmonds draws all her cosmic threads together. The title explicitly references astronomer Carl Sagan’s famous words: “The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.” True to this idea, the story feels like the collection’s emotional exhale. It dissolves the boundaries between human and celestial, physical and metaphysical. While the earlier stories grapple with distance—between lovers, between Earth and sky—“Star Stuff” offers reconciliation. The characters, both literal and spiritual descendants of those who came before in the collection, recognize that the universe they’ve been searching for has always existed within them. Beyond that, Edmonds doesn’t end with grand revelation or closure; instead, she gives us a sense of quiet awe, suggesting that connection doesn’t require understanding, only recognition. “Star Stuff” suggests that identity becomes clearest in moments of its absence, and that its return is all the more meaningful. By recognizing themselves as part of the universe they longed for, the characters rediscover not just connection with the world around them but a clearer sense of who they are within it.
Across seventeen stories, Edmonds constructs a literary galaxy where science fiction and spirituality intertwine. Her writing oscillates between realism and myth, humor and heartbreak, giving equal weight to the sacred and the strange. The result is a collection that feels both expansive and deeply personal as each story burns with its own light; yet together the stories form a constellation that reflects the human desire to find meaning in our individuality. As Edmonds writes, life is “a sky full of almost, maybe, what if”; a space where possibility and wonder coexist. What lingers after the final page is not certainty but astonishment, and the quiet realization that our identities, and our hurts an our hopes, are stellar in their own right. At the end, with an epiphany-like finale, readers are reminded that to search the universe is, ultimately, to search within ourselves for the stars that are just beginning to burn.
Emilie DeOreo is a NOR intern studying English creative writing with minors in journalism and psychology.
New Ohio Review 