EDITORIAL REMARKS by M.R. Branwen
DON'T READ THIS ISSUE before bed, kids.
Somehow, through no effort of my own, all of the stories in this issue bear a striking thematic similarity. And the theme, summarily, is Frankenstein’s monster.
Just follow me, here:
Heroin addicts, drowned baby rabbits; lonely and heartbroken people—the fiction in this issue is dark and experimental; kind-souled but god-awful ugly. These stories may be beautifully composed, but uplifting, they are not.
And, for better or worse, it is with that introduction that I present the following newcomers to Slush Pile Magazine: Jon-Michael Frank, Ann Gelder, Ben Schachtman, and Douglas Silver, as well as Joseph Riippi, an old hand. (Catch the Frankenstein reference there? Old hand? Smooth, I know.) And it is my personal feeling is that we couldn’t have found a more suitable artist for such a brooding collection of stories as Allison Evans, even had we tried. Which, as I was saying, we did not.
But anyway, this monster metaphor only applies to half of the issue. The other half are nuggets of gold mined from the Slush Pile Magazine archive in honor of the first ever Slush Pile Magazine event, Sounds Like Slush! happening tonight. So we are joined, physically and electronically, by Slush Pile Magazine Alumni Nic Brown, Kythe Heller, Nadia Herman Colburn, Becky Thompson, & Jonathan Weinert.
I considered writing this Editorial Remarks as though it were already tomorrow, saying how wonderful the event had been and how many people had turned up. Truth be told, I am a ball of nerves. (Is that even an expression, “ball of nerves”?) I have not moved from my kitchen table all day, where I am still sitting in my pajamas, writing this introduction. The event is fewer than two hours away and there are countless things that need doing that have yet to be done. Plus, what will I wear? I have no idea. How will I get the things that need to be at the place to the place? I have no idea.
But I know that it’s going to be wonderful. And so the monster, feeling loved at last, can rest.
— M.R. Branwen