In the Tall Grass

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WHO SWALLOWED A BAG FULLA SEEDS!” the girl trilled, her voice vibrato with barely controlled laughter. He did not scream. He made a kind of doglike bark, a woofing grunt, and wrenched her hard to one side, trying to yank her off her feet. His forearms were sunburnt and peeling. Close up she could see his nose was peeling too, badly, the bridge of his nose sizzling with sunburn. He grimaced, showing teeth stained pink and green. Cal, as always, spoke as if he had a direct line to her private thoughts. “Aren’t you the little Mother Mary? Wonder when the wise men will show up! Wonder what gifts they’ll have for us!” Oh whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad, she thought—no idea where it had come from, something else from Freshman Lit maybe, but one thing she did know was that he could say he wasn’t moving but he was, he was getting farther away all the time. Her vision cleared. She saw, right in front of her, on a flattened bit of grass, a woman’s straw purse, the contents dumped out, and amid the mess, a little pair of manicuring scissors—they almost looked more like pliers than scissors. The blades were gummy with blood. She didn’t want to think how Ross Humbolt of Poughkeepsie might have used that tool, or how she herself might now use it.

No pude evitar pensar en Jeepers Creepers durante las primeras paginas. Por el hecho de ser dos hermanos en la carretera, por la locación, la iglesia. Y tras eso es inevitable no pensar en "los chicos del maíz", entre algunas otras historias de S.K. Y sospecho que hay detalles y referencias que solo pueden apreciar los que hayan leído toda la saga de la Torre Oscura Are you thirsty? Bet you are. Here. Take this. Put it in your mouth.” He pushed a soaked, cold twist of his T-shirt into her mouth. He had saturated it with water and rolled it up into a rope. He had crossed a few dozen feet of the dirt parking lot and then hesitated by what looked like a first-generation Prius. It was filmed with a pale coat of road dust, almost completely obscuring the windshield. Cal hunched slightly, shielded his eyes with one hand, and squinted through the side window at something in the passenger seat. Frowning to himself for a moment, and then flinching, as if from a horsefly. Now the kid was on Cal’s right, and he sounded quite a lot deeper in the grass than before. How could that be? He sounded close enough to grab.

Her brother was holding a doll’s leg in one hand, filthy from the mud. He stared at her with a bright, stupid fascination, while he chewed on it. It was a lifelike thing, chubby and plump looking, but a little small, and also a funny pale-blue color, like almost frozen milk. Cal, you can’t eat plastic, she thought of saying, but it was just too much work. He got more water, this time forgetting to filter it and swallowing more grit. Also something that wriggled. A bug, or maybe a small worm. Well, so what? It was protein, right? This short story asks the question "What would you do if you heard a child calling for help?" Would you stop and help? Would you stop and call for help? What if a child is calling for help but his Mother is warning you against helping? He visualized a river of burning grass, sparks and shreds of toasted weed drifting into the air. It was such a strong mental image, he could close his eyes and almost smell it, the somehow wholesome late-summer reek of burning green.

Her second thought was of a weak swimmer, caught in a retreating tide, pulled farther and farther from shore, not understanding how much trouble she was in until she began to scream, and discovered no one on the beach could hear her. Aquí dentro es más fácil encontrar las cosas cuando están muertas. El prado no mueve por ahí las cosas muertas. —Sus ojos brillaron en la oscuridad y miró el cuervo destrozado que sostenía Cal—. Creo que la mayoría de los pájaros se mantienen alejados de la hierba. Creo que lo saben y se lo cuentan entre ellos. Pero algunos no hacen caso. Los cuervos son los que menos caso hacen, supongo, porque aquí dentro hay bastantes de ellos muertos" The shouts seemed to be coming from the far side of the field, where the grass was high. Hadn’t she already looked there? Hadn’t she tramped all through the grass, trying to find her? Hadn’t she got a little lost in the grass herself? The DeMuths enter the grass, only to become immediately and inevitably separated in the seven foot foliage. Panic, coupled with prolonged exposure to the burning sun begins to drain the pair mentally and physically as it gradually dawns on them that leaving this overgrown field is not going to be as easy as previously thought.

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The stone wasn’t hot at all. It was cool. It was blessedly cool and he laid his face upon it, a weary pilgrim who has finally arrived at his destination, and can rest at last. Ah, Christ, now she was fading again. He was so scared that the truth popped out with absolutely no trouble at all, and at top volume. Cal said, “Tobin, did you lure us in here? Tell me. I won’t be mad. Your father made you do it, I bet.” And Cal was there, in the ashy light of dawn, looking down at her. His own eyes were sharp and avid. In the Tall Grass is a horror novella by American writers Stephen King and his son Joe Hill. It was originally published in two parts in the June/July and August 2012 issues of Esquire magazine. This is King and Hill's second collaboration, following 2009's Throttle. [1] [2] On October 9, 2012, In the Tall Grass was released in e-book and audiobook formats, the latter read by Stephen Lang. [3] It has also been published in Full Throttle, a 2019 collection of short fiction by Hill.

Into the red-orange moonlight she raised the child of her body, thinking, It’s all right, women all over the world give birth in fields. Obviously I can’t tell you what lies beyond the “tall grass,” but I can tell you that it’s easily the most disturbing short I’ve ever (or probably will ever read) and it’s not for the timid . . . or the weak-stomached. It made Michael’s little “experience” with the worms and maggots in one of my faves look like child’s play . . . He gulped at the air. His heart galloped. He waited for the buzzing in his head to pass, then realized it wasn’t in his head after all. They really were flies. He could see them shooting in and out through the grass, a swarm of them around something through the shifting curtain of yellow-green, just ahead of him. An unspecified amount of time later, an RV full of hippies pulls into the parking lot of an abandoned church across the road from the field to have a barbecue. They hear Tobin's calls for rescue, and the whole group walks into the tall grass to help.He was naked from the waist up, kneeling beside her. His scrawny chest was very pale in the dove-colored half-light. His face was sunburned—badly, a blister right on the end of his nose—but aside from that he looked rested and well. No, more than that: He looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.