{"id":1489,"date":"2014-12-22T20:01:04","date_gmt":"2014-12-22T20:01:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/stoneskin.wpengine.com\/?p=1489"},"modified":"2014-12-22T20:04:31","modified_gmt":"2014-12-22T20:04:31","slug":"teasers-to-lovecraft-paul-tremblay","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.stoneskinpress.com\/index.php\/teasers-to-lovecraft-paul-tremblay\/","title":{"rendered":"Teasers to Lovecraft: Paul Tremblay"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Letters to Lovecraft<\/em><\/a> is our newest genre-blending anthology of original fiction, and as a holiday treat to our readers we\u2019ll be posting excerpts from each of the stories. Today we bring you “______” by Paul Tremblay, which starts out as a literal day at the beach before the arrival of an attractive and overly-familiar stranger casts a pall over the afternoon. Tremblay brilliantly conveys how sometimes the scariest thing in the world isn’t an alien horror or a bloody-handed maniac or even losing control over our own bodies, it’s how eagerly we sometimes stick our hands into a bees nest, even when we really ought to know better…<\/p>\n

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I say, \u201cI\u2019m going to ignore that creepy but accurate remark. And I can honestly say I do not wish to be eighteen ever again.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, me neither.\u201d She steps confidently in front of my chair and sits to my right, on Michael and Olivia\u2019s beach blanket. The blanket is pink and, when folded up, looks like a piece of sliced watermelon. It\u2019s such a clever blanket. She looks around at all the beachgoers and says, \u201cYou really are the only guy, the only dad, on the whole beach. Lucky you. But come on, wearing those mirrored sunglasses outs you as a total perv. Or a narc.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/em>My face fills with blood and heat, and I sputter into what\u2019s supposed to be self-deprecating laughter but probably sounds like emphysema. Christ, I\u2019m melting into my chair like I\u2019m a bowl of ice cream. I\u2019m embarrassed not because it\u2019s clear she knows I\u2019ve been\u2026 shall we say\u2026 ogling the teen lifeguards and beach Moms, but because my patheticness is so predictable and obvious. <\/em><\/p>\n

Mortally wounded, I say, \u201cNo one says narc anymore. You\u2019re so not hip. And sunglasses are the windows to the soul.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

She reaches across my lap and tickles my knee playfully. Her hand and forearm is soft and she smells like plums, or a sweat tea, or those purple flowers that used to grow along the fence at my grandparents\u2019 house. I don\u2019t remember the flowers\u2019 real name, but Grammy called them her garden mums. And I don\u2019t know why I\u2019m thinking about Grammy\u2019s flowers when I should be simultaneously enraptured and terrified by the not-so-innocent touch of a strange woman.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cMy hubby, the dirty old man.\u201d She holds her hands out and nearly shouts to the rest of the beach, \u201cStand back, ladies! He\u2019s all mine!\u201d She laughs at her own joke.<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/em>The Moms sharing the beach in our vicinity: they pretend to watch their toddlers running amuck on other people\u2019s blankets and throwing sand (that fucking kid with the sharks on his bathing suit is such a pain in the ass, I seriously considered tripping him on the sly yesterday); or they bury their faces in magazines and beat-up paperbacks they bought at the grocery store; or they look at the pond pretending to be intently watching their kids ignore and give attitude to the swimming instructor; or they blankly look up at the blue sky for the clouds that will one day approach. I\u2019m not being paranoid (okay, I am), but they don\u2019t look at me and certainly don\u2019t look at the woman. I swear they\u2019re actively avoiding looking at us. I feel them not looking at me, which of course means they are judging me, saying in their heads we don\u2019t know you, and we may not have ever met her, but we know she\u2019s not your wife. I know better, but, goddamn me, it\u2019s not an entirely unpleasant feeling…<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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For the rest, get Letters to Lovecraft<\/em> from Stone Skin Press<\/a>.<\/div>\n
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Paul Tremblay<\/strong> \"\"is the author of the novels The Little Sleep<\/em>, No\u00a0Sleep Till Wonderland<\/em>, Swallowing a Donkey\u2019s Eye<\/em>, the cowritten YA novel Floating Boy and the Girl Who Couldn\u2019t Fly<\/em> (with Stephen Graham Jones) and the short story collection In the Mean Time<\/em>. His essays and short fiction have appeared in the Los Angeles Times<\/em>, FiveChapters.com and Best American Fantasy 3<\/em>. He is the coeditor of four anthologies, including Creatures: Thirty Years of Monsters<\/em> (with John Langan). Paul is the president of the board of directors for the Shirley Jackson Awards. He lives outside of Boston, Massachusetts, has a master\u2019s degree in mathematics, has no uvula, loves his friends, and hates his many enemies.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Letters to Lovecraft is our newest genre-blending anthology of original fiction, and as a holiday treat to our readers we\u2019ll be posting excerpts from each of the stories. Today we bring you “______” by Paul Tremblay, which starts out as…<\/span><\/p>\n

Read more ›<\/a><\/div>\n

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