Granta 117: Horror (Granta: The Magazine of New Writing)

Granta 117: Horror (Granta: The Magazine of New Writing)

John Freeman

Language: English

Pages: 256

ISBN: 1905881363

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


It haunts us; it stalks us; it shapes us. It creeps into our dreams and, if we allow it, can plague our ponderings of the future. The same ‘monsters’ that lived under our childhood beds can reappear, alive and toothsome, in our adult lives. And perhaps most frightening of all: without reason or apology, one person’s fancy is another person’s torment. Granta 117 takes a stab at understanding the phenomenon that is horror.

With award-winning writing, Granta has illuminated the most complex issues of modern life. In 117, Stephen King writes of a retired judge who pays repeated visits to a patch of sand capable of predicting human mortality. Don DeLillo climbs into the head a moviegoer-turned-stalker. Joy Williams writes of a father with a grown son even stranger and less stable than he suspects. Rajesh Parameswaran presents us with a tiger who narrates its own escape from a zoo and its subsequent terrorizing of a neighborhood, while Daniel Alarcon explores the phenomenon of staged, high-camp blood baths. And Mark Doty ruminates on a close encounter between Walt Whitman and Bram Stoker. Also new work by Paul Auster, Will Self, and Julie Otsuka.

Come along. Hold tight. Get scared…

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was always the end of the day. The days had no names and this should not have mattered. But there was something unsettling in the anonymous week, not a sense of elemental time but of time emptied out. He walked up the stairs, near midnight, and it was here and now, night after night, that he became intensely conscious of the moment, approaching the third floor, slowing his pace, wary of rousing the neighbour’s rat-faced barking dog. Another end of another day. The previous day had just ended, it

wasn’t facing him directly, he was in her sightline. What would happen if she looked at him straight on, eye to eye? Is this the contact she feared, the look that triggers the action? Neither person moved, he thought. He nodded to her, absurdly. Her face and hands were still wet. She stood with one arm bent in front of her but it didn’t seem defensive to him. She was not fending, staving off. She was just caught in mid-motion, the other arm at her side, palm of hand flat against the wall. He

juice or essence of Lethe, only the siphoning of my deathly blood. I listened to what the consultant said about red cell counts and white cell counts and platelets but these were only so many cubic nylon bags jumbled in the corridors of my mind; I heard her when she said the venesections – the beginning of a lifetime on the needle – needed to begin right away, that morning, at once. Now. In the Day Unit the dark vinyl chairs tip back at the press of a button and small footrests simultaneously

appears again with her lips (the whole of her face, actually) smeared with blood, holding the Mexican’s head in one hand. Which makes the other Mexican crazy; he pulls out a pistol, goes up and empties it into the girl, but of course the bullets don’t harm her at all, and Julie laughs contentedly before grabbing the guy’s shirt, pulling him towards her and tearing his throat open with a single bite. Young Reynolds and the black guy, who has recovered consciousness, are gaping at the scene. The

every room to purify the house. She remembers that they never spoke of him again. She does not remember asking your father, when he comes home from the pharmacy, what took him so long, or whom he talked to, or whether or not the pharmacist was pretty. She does not always remember his name. She remembers graduating from high school with high honours in Latin. She remembers how to say, ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’ Veni, vidi, vici. She remembers how to say, ‘I have lost the day.’ Diem

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