New Genre #7

NewGenre7_cover_03_frontFrom The State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations comes the latest edition of the distingué horror & sci fi quarterly New Genre now — in a brave experiment — newly available in exchange for whatever you’d care to pay. Take advantage. Previous issues sold for $10 and they were underpriced. As I have with every number since the first, I devoured it the first chance I got. It’s not just good in the way people plug things online (“the regge taco festival in Vancouver was amazing this year” etc.) It’s the real thing.

Jennifer Claus’ opener is a great example. “The Room Is Fire” is the kind of worthy thing New Genre actively seeks — who else looks for stories like this? It makes an artful and disturbing dream out of a vanishing park bench, a teenaged trauma, and the last candy shop you’d ever want to wander into. It shouldn’t work but it should. That last sentence is typical of the tautologies I arrived at in making sense of it. I didn’t know whether to set it down reassured or heartbroken. She lands moves she shouldn’t be able to land,

This remarkable story — the author’s first in print — is followed by Geordie Williams Flantz’ “Parents of the Apocalypse,”: The Road for those who who’d cut to the chase. Zombie fiction has been hip for some time (two decades? more?) but “Parents of the Apocalypse” stands out. It shows us a whole broken world in a few perfect snapshots. Stars melt on your tongue.

“Work Planet Welt Space” by Matthew Pendleton is the most Sci-Fi of the stories in NG 7 but it persistently lapses into a kind of modernist poetry. Every time you have a foothold, it’s deliberately yanked from you. This isn’t a recommendation so much as an awestruck remembrance. Like with something by Pynchon, I remember not the story itself, but its primeval motions.

“After the Storm” is by me. It’s a quiet story, not entirely at home here. My grandfather swore he saw a ghost in his hallway one night and I made a story of it.

Then, lastly, uneasy laughter: G. Carl Purcell’s “The Middle-Managers of Påchnout” reads like a complex dessert, the kind that steals the meal — how? Visitors land and the’ve come for our prog rock. It all spins out like an unusually smart and haunting Futurama episode, thoughtful fun. The same author’s poems can be fun in the same way. “The Middle-Managers of Påchnout” is like that, but I can’t think of a smarter or a more droll & otherworldly invasion story entirely set in a boutique record store. I can’t think of many.

I have a box of copies of NG 7  so please message or write. john [at] johncotter [dot] net

Or, if we have a history, send the pubisher, Adam Golaski, a note for your copy here: (bug him in the comments field). Or email adamgolaski [at] gmail [dot] com)

I’m hugely proud to be a part of this. It’s a magazine you’ll keep.


Adam Golaski (right) vending NG 7 in the quad on Brown St.

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