This is the one-hundred-twenty-fifth issue of the magazine Eirik Gumeny and Monica Rodriguez founded in 2009, and their coffee rings and home-fry fingerprints linger on every page like indelible diner marginalia. Jersey Devil Press was created as a haunted hotel for misfit stories and castaway poop jokes, and as successive caretakers (our production editor Sam Snoek-Brown, my predecessor Mike Sweeney, and me) have moved into the gloriously strange edifice they built, we’ve done our best to keep it that way.
As some of you may already know, Eirik died on July 8 from complications related to cystic fibrosis. And even that didn’t stop him from being awesome—as a recipient of upcycled lungs himself, he chose to be an organ donor with a full understanding of what a difference it would make to a handful of people he would never meet. So at least some material parts of him are still out there knocking around in the world. And we have his words, which are immortal. Eirik’s stories and essays showcase his exceptional talent for both broad and subtle comedy, but they also have a tendency to deal roundhouse kicks straight to the feelings when you least expect it. If you haven’t read his stuff, you have been missing out and should treat yourself as soon as possible.
As a way of channeling a little of the grief of losing my friend into something meaningful, here are some specific things I believe Eirik would have enjoyed about this issue:
Sam’s cover art, which combines his own night sky photograph with a nod to Eirik as he might appear in a galaxy far, far away . . .
The humorously painful possibilities of the second line in Azzam Alkadhi’s “Grace.”
The irreverently casual voice of Betsy Streeter’s “Genesis 1 Chapter 1 H1C1.”
The resonance of the sound and movement in John Repp’s haiku.
The wonderfully absurd (yet profound) premise of Merri Andrew’s “On the Job at IBIS.”
The generous use of expressive adverbs in Toni Artuso’s “Along the Banks of the Charles River.”
The presence of Godzilla and Michael Crichton in Rob Tyler’s “Retroscopy,” as well as the way it evokes wistful longing without lapsing into sentimentality.
I miss you, Eirik. Wherever you are now, I hope you have a great view of the cosmos.
Six months ago, Thor, the former Norse God of Thunder – along with the motley crew of political clones and cyborgs and psychic squirrels he calls his friends – saved the world. And, in a wholly unprecedented move, this time the world stayed saved.