Nothing for a long time—long enough for his heart to abandon his chest and rise into his throat. Then, incredibly distant: “Here! Cal, what should we do? We’re lost!” Una historia bastante trepidante, en el que no te gustaría estar en los zapatos de los protagonistas. 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. He took another step forward—he couldn’t help himself—leaning in to see. His palms were raised before him, in a kind of go-no-further gesture, but he could not feel them beginning to blister from whatever was radiating from the stone. Not yet!” Cal shouted, thinking it really had been a while since they had heard from her. Not that she was his main concern just then.

This time the look they exchanged was full of alarmed understanding. The grass was incredibly tall. (For such an expanse of grass to be over six feet high this early in the season was an anomaly that wouldn’t occur to them until later.) Some little kid had wandered into it, probably while exploring, almost certainly from one of the houses down the road. He had become disoriented and wandered in even deeper. He sounded about eight, which would make him far too short to leap up and find his bearings that way. Shut up and listen. I’m going to count to three. On three, you put your hands over your head like a ref signaling the field goal’s good and jump just as high as you can. I’ll do the same. You won’t need to get much air for me to see your hands, ’kay? And I’ll come to you.” From reading In The Tall Grass it immediately becomes clear that although the book is a collaborative effort, it is quite difficult to distinguish where one author’s voice begins and the other ends. With both authors writing in a similar way they are able to produce a coherent yet unique meld of their writing voices that keeps the story moving at a satisfying pace. Cal said, “Tobin, did you lure us in here? Tell me. I won’t be mad. Your father made you do it, I bet.” We keep calling,” he said, moving toward where her voice had come from. “We keep calling until we’re together again.”Ahora bien: tres cuartos del relato son atrapantes, con un gran poderío descriptivo, con situaciones y acontecimientos que te apabullan y mucha crudeza.

As much as we hate it, getting lost is pretty much a universal human experience. It's probably happened to all of us at one time or another, even if it was for a very short period of time in a new city or on a short hike in a national park. King and Hill take that germ of an idea and run with it like mad lunatics in an asylum. This is a supernatural horror story, so if you like realism and stories that "could really happen" this might not be your thing. I wasn't entirely satisfied with the explanation of what is really going on in the tall grass, but enjoyed the first half of the story so much I'm willing to overlook that here. Plus, the story is just so well-written. It's tightly coiled prose with some great phrasing and sentence structure. These guys know what they're doing, okay? In the few that I've read of Stephen King, I have become his fan, though each of his stories have a few elements(at least)that I could have done without. Take for instance The Ritual of Chüd in It. Still, disturbing as it is, it can be neglected in terms of the brilliance (and also the length) of the rest of the tale. But I finished this one last night. And I'm still nauseated. Seriously. It is a good idea,” she said. “It’s going on for five thirty, and I bet they’re really hungry. Who’s going to stay and set up the barbecue?”No,” Cal said. “I don’t think it is. I’d rather stay lost.” Maybe it was just his imagination, but the buzzing seemed to be getting louder. He tittered. “Right idea. Wrong conclusion. I was just going to hook up with my boy. Already found my wife. Want to meet her?”

She didn’t, but followed just the same. At what she hoped was a safe distance. “You have no idea where you’re going.” Cuando tocas la roca (o la abrazas, da igual), puedes ver. Sabes un montón de cosas más. Pero también te da más hambre. 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.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? What?” Faint. Jesus Christ, what was the kid doing? Lighting out for Nebraska? “Are you coming? You have to keep coming! I can’t find you!” She was about to descend the embankment, to the edge of the grass, when there came a second voice, a woman’s—hoarse and confused. She had the groggy rasp of someone who has just come awake and needs a drink of water. Badly.

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. When she next found herself awake, she was over Cal’s shoulder, and she was moving. Her head bobbed and her stomach heaved with each step.Or vicey-versa,” Mr. DeMuth said—also with a sigh. (Sometimes married couples are also Irish Twins.)