Unexpected things happened in this last issue of the first volume of Club Plum–mainly, horror and hybrids. Horror, because one playfully creepy submission landed in my inbox and ignited my desire to put out a call for more. Hybrids–or hybrids of hybrids one might say–because we were presented with pieces that seemed to contain more prose than poem or more poem than prose, and ultimately, I couldn’t peacefully place these pieces in one section or the other, so there it is. Of course, a prose poem is already a hybrid, and flash fiction, though well-established now, once seemed a bit naughty, as if the authors were getting away with something, writing these short things, these quasi-stories. Today, no one argues.
And then there is the genre question: Why pigeonhole a piece of writing at all? Why call it literary fiction? Why call it horror? When putting out a call, we decided on asking for literary horror for two reasons: One, I love the sound of those two words together; they cry out to be defied. Two, I wanted to be sure to receive your dark or strange or seasonal tales as the leaves fall, as the light is cut short. I wanted your horror more than ever. I wanted the strange tale and the thick socks and the roomy sweaters as we hunker down apart from one another during one of the scariest times in our living history.
But this issue is not total darkness. There is plenty of shine, albeit melancholy–nostalgic even. We have regrets. We see when things aren’t right. We pity. We know.
Grab a warm beverage. Wrap an afghan around your ankles. Enjoy the sights and sounds.
Yours in words and art,