The match went out the moment he touched it to the wet grass, the stems heavy with a dew that never dried, and dense with juice. And Cal was there, in the ashy light of dawn, looking down at her. His own eyes were sharp and avid.

Una historia bastante trepidante, en el que no te gustaría estar en los zapatos de los protagonistas. At first she didn’t know where she was going. It was hard to think past the pain in her abdomen, which came in waves. Sometimes it was a dull throb, the soreness of overworked muscles; other times it would intensify without warning into a sharp, somehow watery pain that lanced her through the bowels, and burned in her crotch. Her face was hot and feverish and even driving with the windows down didn’t cool her off. 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 said, “Tobin, did you lure us in here? Tell me. I won’t be mad. Your father made you do it, I bet.”Thanks, doc, I’ll—” Nothing. Then she began screaming. “Get away from me! Get away! DON’T TOUCH ME!” He reached to the side and lifted up a bundle wrapped in someone else’s T-shirt. She saw a little snub of bluish nose protruding from the shroud. No; not a shroud. Shrouds were for dead bodies. It was swaddling. She had delivered a child here, out in the high grass, and hadn’t even needed the shelter of a manger. 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. The story-telling is just as good as any other horror tale, for, obviously it's King writing this. Undeniably unique, too; it was Vincenzo Natali who said: "Who would think that grass could be frightening? Trust Stephen King and Joe Hill to find a way. They have transformed an otherwise innocuous Kansas field into a stage for some of the most disturbing horror fiction I have ever read." However, you can't deny it's entirely flawless, not justified character development, to speak of one. Also, to speak of the truth, it's really way too gory, at particularly one instance for my taste. I don't mind anything that's spine-chilling or demands to stay awake a few nights( good frightening tales make me sleep better actually) but this one is what can be called "redundant gore".

You need to eat,” he said, and put a string of something cold and salty in her mouth. His fingers had blood on them.

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Cal had a brief period, about five minutes later, when he lost it a little. It happened after he tried an experiment. He jumped and looked at the road and landed and waited and then after he had counted to thirty, he jumped and looked again. He was our Golden. Did great Frisbee catches. Just like a dog on TV. It’s easier to find things in here once they’re dead. The field doesn’t move dead things around.” His eyes gleamed in the fading light, and he looked at the mangled crow, which Cal was still holding. “I think most birds steer clear of the grass. I think they know, and tell each other. But some don’t listen. Crows don’t listen the most, I guess, because there are quite a few dead ones in here. Wander around for a while and you find them.” Cuando tocas la roca (o la abrazas, da igual), puedes ver. Sabes un montón de cosas más. Pero también te da más hambre.

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. 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. Just when Cal was beginning to think they hadn’t, after all, heard anything—it wouldn’t be the first time they had imagined something together—the cry came again. By that point Cal had been hysterical, running and jumping and screaming for her. He shouted and ran for a longtime before he finally got himself under control, forced himself to stop and listen. He had bent over, clutching his knees and panting, his throat achy with thirst, and had turned his attention to the silence. Cal’s head jerked around. A little boy in mud-spattered clothes was standing there. His face was pinched and filthy. In one hand he held a dead crow by one yellow leg.

by Denise Fleming

Just lately the twenty-first-century Pranksters had been in Cawker City, paying homage to the World’s Largest Ball of Twine. Since leaving, they had busted mega-amounts of dope, and all of them were hungry. 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. There is no morning or night here, Cal thought, only eternal afternoon. But even as this idea occurred to him, he saw that the blue of the sky was deepening and the squelchy ground beneath his sodden feet was growing dim. Drops of dew burned in the grass, a hundred miniature magnifying glasses refracting and intensifying the light.