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It happened in early September, the time of year when the city does its damndest to remember what heat was, just one more time before winter rocks on in. A group of homeless fishermen accidentally catch something that MIGHT be a mermaid or it might be something a whole lot worse.Regret lives on and lingers - long after the last tear drop has fallen.
"This story reads as if John Steinbeck got drunk with Manly Wade Wellman and the two of them collaborated on account of a silly bet."
WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT STEVE VERNON
"The genre needs new blood and Steve Vernon is quite a transfusion." –Edward Lee, author of FLESH GOTHIC and CITY INFERNAL
"If Harlan Ellison, Richard Matheson and Robert Bloch had a three-way sex romp in a hot tub, and then a team of scientists came in and filtered out the water and mixed the leftover DNA into a test tube, the resulting genetic experiment would most likely grow up into Steve Vernon." - Bookgasm
"Steve Vernon is something of an anomaly in the world of horror literature. He's one of the freshest new voices in the genre although his career has spanned twenty years. Writing with a rare swagger and confidence, Steve Vernon can lead his readers through an entire gamut of emotions from outright fear and repulsion to pity and laughter." - Cemetery Dance
"Armed with a bizarre sense of humor, a huge amount of originality, a flair for taking risks and a strong grasp of characterization - Steve's got the chops for sure." - Dark Discoveries
"Steve Vernon was born to write. He's the real deal and we're lucky to have him." - Richard Chizmar
Steve's Mom thinks he is pretty cool, too.
Harry’s Mermaid
It happened in early September, the time of year when the city does its damndest to remember what heat was, just one more time before winter rocks on in.
Most days, you could find Harry Moore hanging down by the Halifax Harbor, towards the far end where the tourists don’t usually go. Harry liked it down there. He liked to listen to the wind and the water. He claimed it was washing away his sins, bit by bit in a sort of slow and gentle soul erosion.
Harry and I were sitting and watching old Jarvis Hawlett trying to catch a fish. Old Jarvis hailed from Cape Breton. He’d come to Halifax as a teenager hoping to make some sort of fortune. He hit the skids by the time he was twenty and he hasn’t looked back since.
“No fish in that there river,” Harry said to Jarvis.
“Nothing that I’d eat, anyway,” I added.
Who am I? My name, when I give it, is Easter Noon. My momma named me Easter because I was born on Christmas morning.
Momma always loved to cut to the chase.
I’m down here by the Harbor because it’s as good a place as any. You can feel the ocean air wafting up from the bay up through the stink of sewage and river bottom: a blast of amnesia cheaper than any poured grape I know of.
Jarvis grinned and recast his line. He fished like that all day and sometimes all night. We never saw him catch anything, except that damned Arabian bottle he’d reeled in once.
We had the devil of a time corking that back up.
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Dutch
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Already translated.
Translated by Didier Declercq
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French
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Already translated.
Translated by Noro Mahefa Rakotofiringa
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Greek
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Already translated.
Translated by Olga Tsamoutali
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Italian
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Already translated.
Translated by Carmelo Massimo Tidona
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Author review: A good translator can be as rare as mermaids. Thank the ocean depths that I found Carmelo Massimo Tidona. He is a true professional. |
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Portuguese
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Already translated.
Translated by João Paulo Rocha and Makoto Yamamoto
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Author review: Painstakingly precise, João Paulo Rocha and Makoto Yamamoto make certain that they squeeze every ounce of meaning out of each translated passage, doing their absolute best to ensure that the true meaning is conveyed. |
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Gabriela Miranda
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Author review: Gabriela dives right into her work, swimmingly. |
